pan con xamón

21

     

Then I started attending Mt. Justin Jr. High. About half the guys from elsey Grammar School went there, the biggest and toughest half. Another gang of giants came from other schools. Our 7th grade class was bigger than the 9th grade class. When we lined up for gym it was funny, most of us were bigger than the gym teachers. We would stand there for roll call, slouched, our guts hanging out, heads down, shoulders slumped.

"Jesus Christ," said Wagner, the gym teacher, "pull your shoulders back, stand straight!"

Nobody would change position. We were the way we were, and we didn't want to be anything else. We all came from Depression families and most of us were ill-fed, yet we had grown up to be huge and strong. Most of us, I think, got little love from our families, and we didn't ask for love or kindness from anybody. We were a joke but people were careful not to laugh in front of us. It was as if we had grown up too soon and we were bored with being children. We had no respect for our elders. We were like tigers with the mange. One of the Jewish fellows, Sam Feidman, had a black beard and had to shave every morning. By noon his chin was almost black. And he had a mass of black hair all over his chest and he smelled terrible under the arms. Another guy looked like Jack Dempsey. Another guy, Peter Mangalore, had a cock 10 inches long, soft. And when we got in the shower, I found out I had the biggest balls of anybody.

"Hey! Look at that guy's balls, will ya?" "Holy shit! Not much cock but look at those balls!" "Holy shit!"

I don't know what it was about us but we had something, and we felt it. You could see it in the way we walked and talked. We didn't talk much, we just inferred, and that's what got everybody mad, the way we took things for granted.

The 7th grade team would play touch football after school against the 8th and 9th graders. It was no match. We beat them easy, we knocked them down, we did it with style, almost without effort. In touch football most teams passed on every play, but our team worked in lots of runs. Then we could set up the blocking and our guys would go for the other guys and knock them down. It was just an excuse to be violent, we didn't give a damn about the runner. The other side was always glad when we called a pass play.

The girls stayed after school and watched us. Some of them were already going out with high school guys, they didn't want to mess with jr. High school punks, but they stayed to watch the 7th graders. We were known. The girls stayed after class and watched us and marveled. I wasn't on the team but I stood on the sidelines and sneaked smokes, feeling like a coach or something. We're all going to get fucked, we thought, watching the girls. But most of us only masturbated.

Masturbation. I remember how I learned about it. One morning Eddie scratched on my bedroom window.

"What is it?" I asked Eddie. He held up a test tube and it had something white in the bottom of it. 

"What's that?"

     

"Come," said Eddie, "it's my come." "Yeah?"

      

"Yeah, all you do is spit on your hand and begin rubbing your cock, it feels good and pretty soon this white juice shoots out of the end of your cock. That stuff is called 'come."

"Yeah?" "Yeah."

Eddie walked off with his test tube. I thought about it awhile and then I decided to try it. My cock got hard and it felt real good, it felt better and better, and I kept going and it felt like nothing I had ever felt before. Then juice spurted out of the head of my cock. After that I did it every now and then. It got better if you imagined you were doing it with a girl while you whacked-off.

Ham on rye

Charles Bukowski

Black Sparrow Books, setembro de 1982

traducida ó galego por Eva Almazán

e publicada como:

Pan con xamón

Factoría K de libros, novembro de 2009

21

Entón empecei a secundaria no instituto de secundaria Mount Justin. Algo así como a metade dos rapaces da escola de primaria Desley matriculáronse alí, os máis grandes e os máis duros. Doutras escolas chegou unha manda de mangallóns. Na nosa clase de sétimo a xente era meirande ca os de noveno. Cando nos poñiamos en fileira para a ximnasia era moi chistoso, porque case todos lles comiamos as papas na cabeza aos mestres. Poñiámonos en fileira para pasar lista todos desleixados, a barriga para fóra, a cabeza gacha, os ombros caídos.

-Cago na hostia! -dicía Wagner, o mestre de ximnasia-. Botade os ombros para atrás e poñédevos dereitos!

Ninguén facía nada. Eramos coma eramos, e non queriamos ser outra cousa. Viñamos todos de familias da depresión e case todos estabamos mal mantidos, e aínda así chegaramos a ser enormes e fortes. Á maioría, penso, non nos querían demasiado ben na casa, e non lle pediamos afecto nin amabilidade a ninguén. Eramos de chiste, pero a xente coidábase ben de non se botar a rir diante de nós. Era coma se medrásemos demasiado rápido, coma se xa nos fartásemos de ser nenos pequenos. Non tiñamos respecto ningún polos nosos maiores. Eramos coma tigres con sarna. Un dos compañeiros xudeus, Sam Feldman, tiña unha barba moi negra e afeitábase todas as mañás. Ao mediodía xa se lle vía o queixo case que negro. E tiña unha alfombra negra incrible por todo o peito e cheiraba que fedía polos sobacos. Outro fulano era cuspidiño a Jack Dempsey.

Outro tipo, Peter Mangalore, tiña unha picha de vinte e cinco centímetros (e iso estando frouxa).E cando nos metemos nas duchas, descubrín que os collóns máis grandes os tiña eu.

      

-Ei! Mira para aí que collóns ten ese!

     

-Contra! De carallo non é moita cousa, pero mira que cacho bolangas!

      

-Hai que foderse!

      

Non sei o que, pero algo tiñamos, e sabiámolo. Notábase na nosa maneira de andar e de falar. Non falabamos de moito, máis ca nada empatabamos cabos, e iso era o que poñía a todo cristo do fígado, que désemos as cousas por supostas.

Despois das clases, o equipo de sétimo xogaba ao fútbol ao toque cos de oitavo e noveno. Era de chiste. Gañabámoslles coa pata, metiámoslles unhas malleiras criminais, e iso sen nos despeitar sequera, coma se tal cousa. No fútbol ao toque a maioría dos equipos facía pases en todas as xogadas, pero o que facía o noso era meter unha chea de carreiras. Desa maneira montabamos unha defensa de bloqueo e os nosos podían botarse aos contrarios e abatelos. Era unha escusa para dar leña, simplemente; o contrario que ía facendo a carreira non nos importaba un carallo. O outro equipo sempre daba grazas cando faciamos unha xogada de pase.

As rapazas quedaban despois das clases para vernos. Algunhas xa saían con rapaces dos últimos cursos e non querían saber nada dos cagallóns pequenos, pero logo quedaban igual a ver os de sétimo. Tiñamos sona. As rapazas agardaban despois das clases para vernos e marabillábanse. Eu non estaba no equipo, pero quedaba polas bandas a fumar ás agachadas e sentíame coma o adestrador ou algo así. «Aquí vai mollar todo deus», pensabamos ao ver as rapazas. Pero a maioría mansturbabámonos e grazas.

A masturbación. Lémbrome de como descrubrín o que era. Unha mañá Eddie rabuñoume na fiestra do cuarto.

-Que foi? -pregunteille.

El levantou no aire un tubo de ensaio e vin que no fondo tiña unha cousa branca.

-É corrida -dixo Eddie-. A miña corrida.

-Ai si?

-Si, tes que cuspir na man e empezar a fregar a pirola, dá moito gusto, e ao pouco vai e sáeche un chorro dese leite pola punta. É iso que sae chámase corrida.

      

-Ai si?

     

-Pois si.

      

Eddie marchou co seu tubo de ensaio. Eu mediteino un pouco e ao final decidín probar. O carallo púxoseme duro e deume moitísimo gusto, cada vez máis, e eu seguín a fregar e era distinto a todo o que sentira nunca. Entón saíume o chafariz de leite pola punta. De aí en diante facíao de cando en vez. Gustaba máis se mentres cascabas a palla imaxinabas que estabas a facelo cunha rapaza.