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 was really terrible. I was the worst case in town. I had pimples and boils
all over my face, back, neck, and some on my chest. It happened just as I was beginning to be accepted as a tough guy and a leader. I was still tough but it wasn’t the same. I had to withdraw. I watched people from afar, it
was like 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. The
girls were further away than ever. Some of them were truly beautiful—
their dresses, their hair, their eyes, the way they stood around. Just to
walk down the street during an afternoon with one, you know, talking about everything and anything, I think that would have made me feel very good. Also, there was still something about me that continually got me into trouble. Most teachers didn’t trust or like me, especially the lady
teachers. I never 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 “voice tone.” I was usually accused of
“sneering” although I wasn’t conscious of it. I was often made to stand outside in the hall during class or I was sent to the principal’s office.
The principal always did the same thing. He had a phone booth in his office.
He made me stand in the phone booth with the door closed. I spent many hours in that phone booth. The only reading material in there was the Ladies
Home Journal. It was deliberate torture. I read the Ladies Home
Journal anyhow. I got to read each new issue. I hoped that maybe I could
learn something about women.
I must have had 5,000 demerits by graduation time but it didn’t seem to
matter. They wanted to get rid of me. I was standing outside in the line
that was filing into the auditorium one by one. We each had on our cheap
little cap and gown that had been passed down again and again to the next graduating group. We could hear each person’s name as they walked across the stage. They were making one big god-damned deal out of graduating from Jr. high. The band played our school song:
Oh, Mt. Justin,
Oh, Mt. Justin
We will be true,
Our hearts are singing wildly All our skies are blue . . .
We stood in line, each of us waiting to march across the stage. In the audience were our parents and friends.
“I’m about to puke,” said one of the guys.
“We only go from crap to more crap,” said another, The girls seemed to
be more serious about it. That’s why I didn’t really trust them. They seemed to be part of the wrong things. They and the school seemed to have the same song.
“This stuff brings me down,” said one of the guys. “I wish I had a
smoke.”
“Here you are . . .”
Another of the guys handed him a cigarette. We passed it around between four or five of us. I took a hit and exhaled through my nostrils. Then I saw Curly Wagner walking in.
“Ditch it!” I said. “Here comes vomit-head!”
Wagner walked right up to me. He was dressed in his grey gym suit, including sweatshirt, just as he had been the first time I saw him and all
the other times afterward. He stood in front of me.
“Listen,” he said, “you think you’re getting away from me because
you’re getting out of here, but you’re not! I’m going to follow you the rest
of your life. I’m going to follow you to the ends of the earth and I’m going
to get you!”
I just glanced at him without comment and he walked off. Wagner’s
little graduation speech only made me that much bigger with the guys. They thought I must have done some big goddamned thing to rile him. But it wasn’t true. Wagner was just simple-crazy.
We got nearer and nearer to the doorway of the auditorium. Not only
could we hear each name being announced, and the applause, but we could see the audience. Then it was my turn.
“Henry Chinaski,” the principal said over the microphone. And I walked
forward. There was no applause. Then one kindly soul in the audience gave
two or three claps.
There were rows of seats set up on the stage for the graduating class.
We sat there and waited. The principal gave his speech about opportunity and success in America. Then it was all over. The band struck up the Mt. Justin school song. The students and their parents and friends rose and mingled together. 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
ancient cap 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 eleven cents in my pocket. I walked back to where I lived.