He had sent me to that rich high school hoping that the ruler’s attitudewould rub off on me as I watched the rich boys screech up in their cream-colored coupes and pick up the girls in bright dresses. Instead I learned thatthe poor usually stay poor. That the young rich smell the stink of the poor andlearn to find it a bit amusing. They had to laugh, otherwise it would be tooterrifying. They’d learned that, through the centuries. I would never forgive the girls for getting into those cream-colored coupes with the laughing boys.They couldn’t help it, of course, yet you always think, maybe…But no, thereweren’t any maybes. Wealth meant victory and victory was the only reality.What woman chooses to live with a dishwasher?Throughout high school I tried not to think too much about how thingsmight eventually turn out for me. It seemed better to delay thinking…Finally it was the day of the Senior Prom. It was held in the girls’ gymwith live music, a real band. I don’t know why but I walked over that night,the two-and-one-half miles from my parents’ place. I stood outside in the darkand I looked in there, through the wire-covered window, and I was astonished.All the girls looked very grown-up, stately, lovely, they were in long dresses,and they all looked beautiful. I almost didn’t recognize them. And the boys intheir tuxes, they looked great, they danced so straight, each of them holding agirl in his arms, their faces pressed against the girl’s hair. They all dancedbeautifully and the music was loud and clear and good, powerful.Then I caught a glimpse of my reflection staring in at them—boils andscars on my face, my ragged shirt. I was like some jungle animal drawn to thelight and looking in. Why had I come? I felt sick. But I kept watching. Thedance ended. There was a pause. Couples spoke easily to each other. It wasnatural and civilized. Where had they learned to converse and to dance? Icouldn’t converse or dance. Everybody knew something I didn’t know. Thegirls looked so good, the boys so handsome. I would be too terrified to evenlook at one of those girls, let alone be close to one. To look into her eyes ordance with her would be beyond me.And yet I knew that what I saw wasn’t as simple and good as it appeared.There was a price to be paid for it all, a general falsity, that could be easilybelieved, and could be the first step down a dead-end street. The band beganto play again and the boys and girls began to dance again and the lightsrevolved overhead throwing shades of gold, then red, then blue, then green,then gold again on the couples. As I watched them I said to myself, somedaymy dance will begin. When that day comes I will have something that theydon’t have.But then it got to be too much for me. I hated them. I hated their beauty,their untroubled youth, and as I watched them dance through the magiccolored pools of light, holding each other, feeling so good, little unscathedchildren, temporarily in luck, I hated them because they had something I had not yet had, and I said to myself, I said to myself again, someday I will be ashappy as any of you, you will see.They kept dancing, and I repeated it to them.Then there was a sound behind me.“Hey! What are you doing?”It was an old man with a flashlight. He had a head like a frog’s head.“I’m watching the dance.”He held the flashlight right up under his nose. His eyes were round andlarge, they gleamed like a cat’s eyes in the moonlight. But his mouth wasshriveled, collapsed, and his head was round. It had a peculiar senselessroundness that reminded me of a pumpkin trying to play pundit.“Get your ass out of here!”He ran the flashlight up and down all over me.“Who are you?” I asked.“I’m the night custodian. Get your ass out of here before I call the cops!”“What for? This is the Senior Prom and I’m a senior.”He flashed his light into my face. The band was playing “Deep Purple.”“Bullshit!” he said. “You’re at least 22 years old!”“I’m in the yearbook, Class of 1939, graduating class, Henry Chinaski.”“Why aren’t you in there dancing?”“Forget it. I’m going home.”“Do that.”I walked off. I kept walking. His flashlight leaped on the path, the lightfollowing me. I walked off campus. It was a nice warm night, almost hot. Ithought I saw some fireflies but I wasn’t sure. - Ham on Rye, Charles Bukowski Title randomly given.

DEATH OF FIREFLIES

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