Then it was my turn.
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Henry Chinaski,” the principal said over the microphone. And I walkedforward. There was no applause. Then one kindly soul in the audiencegave two or three claps. There were rows of seats set up on the stage for the graduating class. Wesat there and waited. The principal gave his speech about opportunity andsuccess in America. Then it was all over. The band struck up the Mt. Justinschool song. The students and their parents and friends rose and mingledtogether. I walked around, looking. My parents weren’t there. I made sure.I walked around and gave it a good look-see. It was just as well. A tough guy didn’t need that. I took off my ancientcap and gown and handed it to the guy at the end of the aisle—the janitor.He folded the pieces up for the next time. I walked outside. The first one out. But where could I go? I had elevencents in my pocket. I walked back to where I lived. 124 29 That summer, July 1934, they gunned down John Dillinger outside themovie house in Chicago. He never had a chance. The Lady in Red hadfingered him. More than a year earlier the banks had collapsed. Prohibitionwas repealed and my father drank Eastside beer again. But the worst thingwas Dillinger getting it. A lot of people admired Dillinger and it madeeverybody feel terrible. Roosevelt was President. He gave Fireside Chatsover the radio and everybody listened. He could really talk. And he beganto enact programs to put people to work. But things were still very bad.And my boils got worse, they were unbelievably large. That September I was scheduled to go to Woodhaven High but myfather insisted I go to Chelsey High. “Look,” I told him, “Chelsey is out of this district. It’s too far away.” “You'll do as I tell you. You'll register at Chelsey High.” I knew why he wanted me to go to Chelsey. The rich kids went there.My father was crazy. He still thought about being rich. When Baldy foundout I was going to Chelsey he decided to go there too. I couldn’t get rid ofhim or my boils. The first day we rode our bikes to Chelsey and parked them. It was aterrible feeling. Most of those kids, at least all the older ones, had their ownautomobiles, many of them new convertibles, and they weren’t black ordark blue like most cars, they were bright yellow, green, orange and red.The guys sat in them outside of the school and the girls gathered aroundand went for rides. Everybody was nicely dressed, the guys and the girls,they had pullover 125 sweaters, wrist watches and the latest in shoes. They seemed very adultand poised and superior. And there I was in my homemade shirt, my oneragged pair of pants, my rundown shoes, and I was covered with boils.The guys with the cars didn’t worry about acne. They were very handsome,they were tall and clean with bright teeth and they didn’t wash their hairwith hand soap. They seemed to know something I didn’t know. I was atthe bottom again. Since all the guys had cars Baldy and I were ashamed of our bicycles.We left them home and walked to school and back, two-and-one-half mileseach way. We carried brown bag lunches. But most of the other studentsdidn’t even eat in the school cafeteria. They drove to malt shops with thegirls, played the juke boxes and laughed. They were on their way to U.S.C. I was ashamed of my boils. At Chelsey you had a choice between gymand R.O.T.C. I took R.O.T.C. because then I didn’t have to wear a gym suitand nobody could see the boils on my body. But I hated the uniform. Theshirt was made of wool and it irritated my boils. The uniform was wornfrom Monday to Thursday. On Friday we were allowed to wear regularclothes. We studied the Manual of Arms. It was about warfare and shit like that.We had to pass exams. We marched around the field. We practiced theManual of Arms. Handling the rifle during various drills was bad for me.[had boils on my shoulders. Sometimes when I slammed the rifle againstmy shoulder a boil would break and leak through my shirt. The bloodwould come through but because the shirt was thick and made of wool thespot wasn’t obvious and didn’t look like blood. I told my mother what was happening. She lined the shoulders of myshirts with white patches of cloth, but it only helped a little. Once an officer came through on inspection. He grabbed the rifle out ofmy hands and held it up, peering through the barrel, for dust in the bore.He slammed the rifle back at me, then looked at a blood spot on my rightshoulder. “Chinaski!” he snapped, “your rifle is leaking oil!” “Yes, sir.” 126 I got through the term but the boils got worse and worse. They were aslarge as walnuts and covered my face. I was very ashamed. Sometimes athome I would stand before the bathroom mirror and break one of the boils.Yellow pus would spurt and splatter on the mirror. And little white hardpits. In a horrible way it was fascinating that all that stuff was in there. ButI knew how hard it was for other people to look at me. The school must have advised my father. At the end of that term I waswithdrawn from school. I went to bed and my parents covered me withointments. There was a brown salve that stank. My father preferred thatone for me. It burned. He insisted that I keep it on longer, much longerthan the instructions advised. One night he insisted that I leave it on forhours. I began screaming. I ran to the tub, filled it with water and washedthe salve off, with difficulty. I was burned, on my face, my back and chest.That night I sat on the edge of the bed. I couldn’t lay down.
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