in junior high school
Big Max was a problem.
we’d be sitting during lunch hour
eating our peanut butter sandwiches
and potato chips.
he was hairy of nostril
and of eyebrow, his lips
glistened with spittle.
he already wore size ten and a half
shoes. his shirts stretched across a
massive chest. his wrists looked like
two by fours. and he walked up
through the shadows behind the gym
where we sat, my friend Eli and I.
“you guys,” he stood there, “you guys
sit with your shoulders slumped!
you walk around with your shoulders
slumped! how are you ever going to
make it?”
we didn’t answer.
then Max would look at me.
“stand up!”
I’d stand up and he’d walk around
behind me and say, “square your
shoulders like this!”
and he’d snap my shoulders back.
“there! doesn’t that feel better?”
“yeah, Max.”
then he’d walk off and I’d resume a
normal posture.
Big Max was ready for the
world. it made us sick
to look at him.
Other works by Charles Bukowski...
