Free The Road to Los Angeles by John Fante Page A

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 filed out of the buildings, Mexicans, Filipinos, and Japanese. The Japanese were too busy to look anywhere other than straight ahead. They hurried by. But the Mexicans and Filipinos saw me stretched out, and they laughed again, for there he was, that great writer, all flattened out like a drunkard.

    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.

     
    Chapter Ten

    TIME PASSED. MAYBE a half hour. I reached into my shirt and felt the fish against my skin. I ran my fingers along the surface, feeling his fins and tail. Now I felt better. I pulled the fish out, held him up, and looked at him. A mackerel, a foot long. I held my breath so I would not smell him. Then I put him in my mouth and bit off his head. I was sorry he was already dead. I threw him aside and got to my feet. There were some big flies making a feast of my face and the wet