The John Fante Reader by John Fante
I gathered some of the wounded into a pool and had a military conference and decided to court-martial them. I drew them out of the pool one at a time, sitting each over the mouth of the rifle and pulling the trigger. There was one crab, bright colored and full of life who reminded me of a woman: doubtless a princess among the renegades, a brave crabess seriously injured, one of her legs shot away, an arm dangling pitifully. It broke my heart. I had another conference and decided that, due to the extreme urgency of the situation, there must not be any sexual discrimination. Even the princess had to die. It was unpleasant but it had to be done.
With a sad heart I knelt among the dead and dying and invoked God in a prayer, asking that he forgive me for this most beastly of the crimes of a superman—the execution of a woman. And yet, after all, duty was duty, the old order must be preserved, revolution must be stamped out, the regime had to go on, the renegades must perish. For some time I talked to the princess in private, formally extending to her the apologies of the Bandini government, and abiding by her last request—it was that I permit her to hear La Paloma—I whistled it to her with great feeling so that I was crying when finished. I raised my gun to her beautiful face and pulled the trigger. She died instantly, gloriously, a flaming mass of shell and yellowed blood.
Out of sheer reverence and admiration I ordered a stone placed where she had fallen, this ravishing heroine of one of the world’s unforgettable revolutions, who had perished during the bloody June days of the Bandini government. History was written that day. I made the sign of the cross over the stone, kissed it reverently, even with a touch of passion, and held my head low in a momentary cessation of attack. It was an ironic moment. For in a flash I realized I had loved that woman. But, on Bandini! The attack began again. Shortly after, I shot down another woman. She was not so seriously injured, she suffered from shock. Taken prisoner, she offered herself to me body and soul. She begged me to spare her life. I laughed fiendishly She was an exquisite creature, reddish and pink, and only a foregone conclusion as to my destiny made me accept her touching offer. There beneath the bridge in the darkness I ravaged her while she pleaded for mercy. Still laughing I took her out and shot her to pieces, apologizing for my brutality.
The slaughter finally stopped when my head ached from eye strain. Before leaving I took another last look around. The miniature cliffs were smeared with blood. It was a triumph, a very great victory for me. I went among the dead and spoke to them consolingly, for even though they were my enemies I was for all that a man of nobility and I respected them and admired them for the valiant struggle they had offered my legions. “Death has arrived for you,” I said. “Goodbye, dear enemies. You were brave in fighting and braver in death, and Fuhrer Bandini has not forgotten. He overtly praises, even in death.” To others I said, “Goodbye, thou coward. I spit on thee in disgust. Thy cowardice is repugnant to the Fuhrer. He hateth cowards as he hateth the plague. He will not be reconciled. May the tides of the sea wash thy cowardly crime from the earth, thou knave.”
I climbed back to the road just as the six o’clock whistles were blowing, and started for home. There were some kids playing ball in an empty lot up the street, and I gave them the gun and ammunition in exchange for a pocket knife which one kid claimed was worth three dollars, but he didn’t fool me, because I knew the knife wasn’t worth more than fifty cents. I wanted to get rid of the gun though, so I made the deal. The kids figured I was a sap, but I let them.
—The Road to Los Angeles
ONE NIGHT MY UNCLE DROPPED IN. He gave my mother some money. He could only stay a moment. He said he had good news for me. I wanted to know what he meant. A job, he said. At last he had found me a job. I told him this was not good news, necessarily, because I didn’t know what kind of a job he got me. To this he told me to shut up, and then he told me about the job.
He said, “Take this down and tell him I sent you.”
He handed me the note he had already written.
“I talked to him today,” he said. “Everything is set. Do what you’re told, keep your fool mouth shut, and he’ll keep you on steady.”
“He ought to,” I said. “Any paranoiac can do cannery work.”
“We’ll see about that,” my uncle said.
Next morning I took the bus for the harbor. It was only seven blocks from our house, but since I was going to work I thought it best not to tire myself by walking too much. The Soyo Fish Company bulged from the channel like a black dead whale. Steam spouted from pipes and windows.
At the front office sat a girl. This was a strange office. At a desk with no papers or pencils upon it, sat this girl. She was an ugly girl with a hook nose who wore glasses and a yellow skirt. She sat at the desk doing absolutely nothing, no telephone, not even a pencil before her.
“Hello,” I said.
“That’s not necessary,” she said. “Who do you want?”
I told her I wanted to see a man named Shorty Naylor. I had a note for him. She wanted to know what the note was about. I gave it to her and she read it. “For pity’s sakes,” she said. Then she told me to wait a minute. She got up and went out. At the door she turned around and said, “Don’t touch anything, please.” I told her I wouldn’t. But when I looked about I saw nothing to touch. In the corner on the floor was a full tin of sardines, unopened. It was all I could see in the room, except for the desk and chair. She’s a maniac, I thought; she’s dementia praecox.
As I waited I could feel something. A stench in the air all at once began to suck at my stomach. It pulled my stomach toward my throat. Leaning back, I felt the sucking. I began to feel afraid. It was like an elevator going down too fast.
Then the girl returned. She was alone. But no—she wasn’t alone. Behind her, and unseen until she stepped out of the way, was a little man. This man was Shorty Naylor. He was much smaller than I was. He was very thin. His collarbones stuck out. He had no teeth worth mentioning in his mouth, only one or two which were worse than nothing. His eyes were like aged oysters on a sheet of newspaper. Tobacco juice caked the corners of his mouth like dry chocolate. His was the look of a rat in waiting. It seemed he had never been out in the sun, his face was so grey. He didn’t look at my face but at my belly. I wondered what he saw there. I looked down. There was nothing, merely a belly, no larger than ever and not worth observation. He took the note from my hands. His fingernails were gnawed to stumps. He read the note bitterly, much annoyed, crushed it, and stuck it in his pocket.
“The pay is twenty-five cents an hour,” he said.
“That’s preposterous and nefarious.”
“Anyway, that’s what it is.”
The girl was sitting on the desk watching us. She was smiling at Shorty. It was as if there was some joke. I couldn’t see anything funny. I lifted my shoulders. Shorty was ready to go back through the door from which he had come.
“The pay is of little consequence,” I said. “The facts in the case make the matter different. I am a writer. I interpret the American scene. My purpose here is not the gathering of money but the gathering of material for my forthcoming book on California fisheries. My income of course is much larger than what I shall make here. But that, I suppose, is a matter of no great consequence at the moment, none at all.”
“No,” he said. “The pay is twenty-five cents an hour.”
“It doesn’t matter. Five cents or twenty-five. Under the circumstances, it doesn’t matter in the least. Not at all. I am, as I say, a writer. I interpret the American scene. I am here to gather material for my new work.”
“Oh for Christ’s sake!” the girl said, turning her back. “For the love of God get him out of here.”
“I don’t like Americans in my crew,” Shorty said. “They don’t work hard like the other boys.”
“Ah,” I said. “That’s where you’re wrong, sir. My patriotism is universal. I swear allegiance to no flag.”
“Jesus,” the girl said.
But she was ugly. Nothing she could possibly say wo
“Americans can’t stand the pace,” Shorty said. “Soon as they get a bellyful they quit.”
“Interesting, Mr. Naylor.” I folded my arms and settled back on my heels. “Extremely interesting what you say there. A fascinating sociological aspect of the canning situation. My book will go into that with great detail and footnotes. I’ll quote you there. Yes, indeed.”
The girl said something unprintable. Shorty scraped a bit of pocket sediment from a plug of tobacco and bit off a hunk. It was a large bite, filling his mouth. He was scarcely listening to me, I could tell by the scrupulous way he chewed the tobacco. The girl had seated herself at the desk, her hands folded before her. We both turned and looked at one another. She put her fingers to her nose and pressed them. But the gesture didn’t disturb me. She was far too ugly.
“Do you want the job?” Shorty said.
“Yes, under the circumstances. Yes.’
“Remember: the work is hard, and don’t expect no favors from me either. If it wasn’t for your uncle I wouldn’t hire you, but that’s as far as it goes. I don’t like you Americans. You’re lazy. When you get tired you quit. You fool around too much.”
“I agree with you perfectly, Mr. Naylor. I agree with you thoroughly. Laziness, if I may be permitted to make an aside, laziness is the outstanding characteristic of the American scene. Do you follow me?”
“You don’t have to call me Mister. Call me Shorty. That’s my name.”
“Certainly, sir! But by all means, certainly! And Shorty, I would say, is a most colorful sobriquet—a typical Americanism. We writers are constantly coming upon it.”
This failed to please him or impress him. His lip curled. At the desk the girl was mumbling. “Don’t call me sir, neither,” Shorty said. “I don’t like none of that high-toned crap.”
“Take him out of here,” the girl said.
But I was not in the least disturbed by the remarks from one so ugly. It amused me. What an ugly face she had! It was too amusing for words. I laughed and patted Shorty on the back. I was short, but I towered over this small man. I felt great—like a giant.
“Very amusing, Shorty. I love your native sense of humor. Very amusing. Very amusing indeed.” And I laughed again. “Very amusing. Ho, ho, ho. How very amusing.”
“I don’t see nothing funny,” he said.
“But it is! If you follow me.”
“The hell with it. You follow me.”
“Oh, I follow you, all right. I follow.”
“No,” he said. “I mean, you follow me now. I’ll put you in the labeling crew.”
As we walked through the back door the girl turned to watch us go. “And stay out of here!” she said. But I paid no attention at all. She was far too ugly.
We were inside the cannery works. The corrugated iron building was like a dark hot dungeon. Water dripped from the girders. Lumps of brown and white steam hung bloated in the air. The green floor was slippery from fish oil. We walked across a long room where Mexican and Japanese women stood before tables gutting mackerel with fish knives. The women were wrapped in heavy oil-skins, their feet cased in rubber boots ankle-deep in fish guts.
The stench was too much. All at once I was sick like the sickness from hot water and mustard. Another ten steps across the room and I felt it coming up, my breakfast, and I bent over to let it go. My insides rushed out in a chunk. Shorty laughed. He pounded my back and roared. Then the others started. The boss was laughing at something, and so did they. I hated it. The women looked up from their work to see, and they laughed. What fun! On company time, too! See the boss laughing! Something must be taking place. Then we will laugh too. Work was stopped in the cutting room. Everybody was laughing. Everybody but Arturo Bandini.
Arturo Bandini was not laughing. He was puking his guts out on the floor. I hated every one of them, and I vowed revenge, staggering away, wanting to be out of sight somewhere. Shorty took me by the arm and led me toward another door. I leaned against the wall and got my breath. But the stench charged again. The walls spun, the women laughed, and Shorty laughed, and Arturo Bandini the great writer was heaving again. How he heaved! The women would go home tonight and talk about it at their houses. That new fellow! You should have seen him! And I hated them and even stopped heaving for a moment to pause and delight over the fact that this was the greatest hatred of all my life.
“Feel better?” Shorty said.
“Of course,” I said. “It was nothing. The idiosyncrasies of an artistic stomach. A mere nothing. Something I ate, if you will.”
“That’s right!”
We walked into the room beyond. The women were still laughing on company time. At the door Shorty Naylor turned around and put a scowl on his face. Nothing more. He merely scowled. All the women stopped laughing. The show was over. They went back to work.
Now we were in the room where the cans were labeled. The crew was made up of Mexican and Filipino boys. They fed the machines from flat conveyor lines. Twenty or more of them, my age and more, all of them pausing to see who I was and realizing that a new man was about to go to work.
“You stand and watch,” Shorty said. “Pitch in when you see how they do it.”
“It looks very simple,” I said. “I’m ready right now.”
“No. Wait a few minutes.”
And he left.
I stood watching. This was very simple. But my stomach would have nothing to do with it. In a moment I was letting go again. Again the laughter. But these boys weren’t like the women. They really thought it was funny to see Arturo Bandini having such a time of it.
That first morning had no beginning and no end. Between vomitings I stood at the can dump and convulsed. And I told them who I was. Arturo Bandini, the writer. Haven’t you heard of me? You will! Don’t worry. You will! My book on California fisheries. It is going to be the standard work on the subject. I spoke fast, between vomitings.
“I’m not here permanently. I’m gathering material for a book on California Fisheries. I’m Bandini, the writer. This isn’t essential, this job. I may give my wages to charity: the Salvation Army.”
And I heaved again. Now there was nothing in my stomach except that which never came out. I bent over and choked, a famous writer with my arms around my waist, squirming and choking. But nothing would come. Somebody stopped laughing long enough to yell that I should drink water. Hey writer! Dreenk water! So I found a hydrant and drank water. It came out in a stream while I raced for the door. And they laughed. Oh that writer! What a writer he was! See him write!
“You get over it,” they laughed.
“Go home,” they said. “Go write book. You writer. You too good for feesh cannery. Go home and write book about puke.”
Shrieks of laughter.
I walked outside and stretched out on a pile of fish nets hot in the sun between two buildings away from the main road that skirted the channel. Over the hum from the machinery I could hear them laughing. I didn’t care, not all. I felt like sleeping. But the fish nets were bad, rich with the smell of mackerel and salt. In a moment the flies discovered me. That made it worse. Soon all the flies in Los Angeles Harbor had got news of me. I crawled off the nets to a patch of sand. It was wonderful. I stretched my arms and let my fingers find cool spots in the sand. Nothing ever felt so good. Even little particles of sand my breath blew were sweet in my nose and mouth. A tiny sandbug stopped on a hill to investigate the commotion. Ordinarily I would have killed him without hesitating. He looked into my eyes, paused, and came forward. He began to climb my chin.
“Go ahead,” I said. “I don’t mind. You can go into my mouth if you want to.”
He passed my chin and I felt him tickle my lips. I had to look at him cross-eyed to see him.
“Come ahead,” I said. “I’m not going to hurt you. This is a holiday.”
He climbed toward my nostrils. Then I went to sleep.
A whistle woke me up. It was twelve o’clock, noon. The workers
It had got all over the cannery by this time that a great personality was in their midst, none other than that immortal Arturo Bandini, the writer, and there he lay, no doubt composing something for the ages, this great writer who made fish his specialty, who worked for a mere twenty-five cents an hour because he was so democratic, that great writer. So great he was indeed, that—well, there he sprawled, flat on his belly in the sun, puking his guts out, too sick to stand the smell he was going to write a book about. A book on California fisheries! Oh, what a writer! A book on California puke! Oh, what a writer he is!
Laughter.
Thirty minutes passed. The whistle blew again. They streamed back from the lunch counters. I rolled over and saw them pass, blurred in shape, a bilious dream. The bright sun was sickening. I buried my face in my arm. They were still enjoying it, but not so much as before, because the great writer was beginning to bore them. Lifting my head I saw them out of sticky eyes as the stream moved by. They were munching apples, licking ice-cream bars, eating chocolate covered candy from noisy packages. The nausea returned. My stomach grumbled, kicked, rebelled.
Hey writer! Hey writer! Hey writer!
I heard them gather around me, the laughter and the cackling. Hey writer! The voices were shattered echoes. The dust from their feet rolled in lazy clouds. Then louder than ever a mouth against my ear, and a shout. Heeey writer! Arms grabbed me, lifted me up and turned me over. Before it happened I knew what they were going to do. This was their idea of a really funny episode. They were going to stick a fish down my waist. I knew it without even seeing the fish. I lay on my back. The mid-day sun smeared my face. I felt fingers at my shirt and the rip of cloth. Of course! just as I thought! They were going to stick that fish down my waist. But I never even saw the fish. I kept my eyes closed. Then something cold and clammy pressed my chest and was pushed down to my belt: that fish! The fools. I knew it a long time before they did it. I just knew they were going to do that. But I didn’t feel like caring. One fish more or less didn’t matter now.