My father turned and looked at me.
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Give me a couple more,” I told him, “if it makes you feel any better.” “Don’t you dare talk to me that way!” he said. I looked at him. I saw folds of flesh under his chin and around his neck.I saw sad wrinkles and crevices. His face was tired pink putty. He was inhis undershirt, and his belly sagged, wrinkling his undershirt. The eyeswere no longer fierce. His eyes looked away and couldn’t meet mine.Something had happened. The bath towels knew it, the shower curtainknew it, the mirror knew it, the bathtub and the toilet knew it. My fatherturned and walked out the door. He knew it. It was my last beating. Fromhim. 121 28 Jr. high went by quickly enough. About the 8th grade, going into the 9th,I broke out with acne. Many of the guys had it but not like mine. Mine wasreally terrible. I was the worst case in town. I had pimples and boils allover my face, back, neck, and some on my chest. It happened just as I wasbeginning to be accepted as a tough guy and a leader. I was still tough butit wasn’t the same. I had to withdraw. I watched people from afar, it waslike a stage play. Only they were on stage and I was an audience of one.I’d always had trouble with the girls but with acne it was impossible. Thegirls were further away than ever. Some of them were truly beautiful—theirdresses, their hair, their eyes, the way they stood around. Just to walk downthe street during an afternoon with one, you know, talking about everythingand anything, I think that would have made me feel very good. Also, there was still something about me that continually got me intotrouble. Most teachers didn’t trust or like me, especially the lady teachers.Inever said anything out of the way but they claimed it was my “attitude.”It was something about the way I sat slouched in my seat and my “voicetone.” I was usually accused of “sneering” although I wasn’t conscious ofit. | was often made to stand outside in the hall during class or I was sentto the principal’s office. The principal always did the same thing. He hada phone booth in his office. He made me stand in the phone booth with thedoor closed. I spent many hours in that phone booth. The only readingmaterial in there was the Ladies Home Journal. It was deliberate torture. Iread the Ladies Home Journal anyhow. I got to 122 read each new issue. I hoped that maybe I could learn something aboutwomen. I must have had 5,000 demerits by graduation time but it didn’t seem tomatter. They wanted to get rid of me. I was standing outside in the linethat was filing into the auditorium one by one. We each had on our cheaplittle cap and gown that had been passed down again and again to the nextgraduating group. We could hear each person’s name as they walked acrossthe stage. They were making one big god-damned deal out of graduatingfrom jr. high. The band played our school song: Oh, Mt. Justin, Oh, Mt. JustinWe will be true,
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