Ham On Rye: A Book Review

Early in his career, the novelist William Kennedy was a journalist whose writing included book reviews. In an essay collected in Riding The Yellow Trolley Car he describes how he hated writing bad reviews – probably because, as a fledgling author himself, he knew how hard the discipline is.

I find myself recalling this now as I begin my review of Ham On Rye, Charles Bukowski’s offensively ill-written novel from 1982.

I’ve never read anything by Charles Bukowski before, and maybe this novel isn’t the best way to ease into the work of someone I’d always thought of as a poet. I understand that he is highly regarded by many people; that he is viewed as a sort of poet-laureate of the Outsider. Maybe that’s why my expectations, in terms of literary merit, were so high.

There just isn’t much redeeming value to Ham On Rye, an autobiographical coming-of-age story. Bukowski had a crappy childhood. I get that. He grew up poor during the Great Depression, with an abusive father and almost no nurturing or encouragement. That much comes across. The novel’s big flaw is that its main character Henry Chinaski (Bukowski’s alter-ego) is nearly devoid of introspection, and is almost entirely unsympathetic.

As I see it, Chinaski/Bukowski decided very early on to more or less devote his life to excessive drinking, and to life on the outside. An unanswered question is, why?

In Chapter 22 (there are 58 chapters in all, many of them quite short, in this ordinary-length book) he describes his first encounter with alcohol. He’s around twelve years old when a friend shows him his dad’s stash of homemade wine, and goads him into trying some. After a few glugs, Henry says, “I like this stuff.”

It was magic. Why hadn’t someone told me? With this, life was great, a man was perfect, nothing could touch him.

This may be Ham On Rye’s most worthy detail, even without accompanying exploration: Bukowski’s immediate reaction to, and affection for, alcohol. By now science may have answered the question of why some people are so drawn to alcohol, while others can take it or leave it. Bukowski’s recollection is a kind of case study, presented with elegant simplicity.

The novel ends in Chinaski’s young adulthood. On one hand, he seems to want to better himself – his education and station in life. On the other, he is critical of aiming too high, and happily devoted to self-destructive behavior. His greatest passion seems to be drinking. It may have been a choice, or it may have been surrendering to addiction. To me, it seems like a waste. Illustrating this may be Ham On Rye’s greatest value.

Dream State

Quite recently, I had very minor surgery to correct a potentially serious condition. I was in the OR, sedated and oblivious, for only a couple of hours.

With most surgical procedures, even minor ones like mine, there is a void afterward, a gap in your memory. One moment you’re on a gurney with an IV in your arm. The next someone says, “We’re starting the sedation now,” and you’re invited to count down from one hundred. Few get below 95.

Then comes the void – an indeterminate period of time. Long, short, who can tell? The surgeon tinkers on you. But at some point the void passes. You become aware, only vaguely, that it’s over, that you are creeping back; that you have more or less reached a semi-conscious dream state.

I reached this state the other day, and drifted passively along. Then some dusty back room in my brain began to supply a weird mix of images. Most of them evaporated quickly. But one stayed with me: the vivid sense of having my son’s dog Gizmo in my lap. Gizmo (pictured) lives in Arizona. But I swear he was with me; surely it happened!

The dream state fades, though, and the next post-op phase begins. It involves gradually, groggily, becoming semi-alert. I realized I was gradually, groggily, becoming semi-alert. My brain beckoned. This made me think of the Mose Allison song, “My Brain.”

Before long a nurse named Bonnie came into my curtained off area. “How are we doing?”

This groggy, semi-alert phase includes a near-total lack of judgment and inhibition. “Listen to this,” I slurred. “I’m going to sing you part of a song.”

My brain is always workin, my brain.

My brain is always workin, my brain.

My brain is always workin – long as you keep that coffee perkin

My brain, cool little cluster that’s my brain.

Bonnie clapped lightly and laughed. “How nice! I’ve never had a patient sing to me before. Do you want coffee?”

I didn’t, so she offered me apple juice and applesauce. These I accepted, in spite of the stitches in my mouth. Powerful anesthetic residue coursed within me but mental clarity crept closer. An hour or so later I was discharged.

Mose Allison – My Brain

Leaving the House (eventually)

We expect to be in our house for a couple more years. But with the kidlets now graduated, grown and gone, the house is too big. There is too much room. Thus our time here grows short.

I love this place. I’ve always liked it, but my affection has really grown. Le spouse and I sometimes dismiss it as a cheap tract house, which it is. But I love the floor plan, and a series of remodeling projects (for which le spouse gets 100% credit) have improved many of its shortcomings.

It is also, of course, where our kids grew into adults.

We survived two natural disasters here: a flood and a wildfire. We have also lived through lesser catastrophes, such as hailstorms, snowstorms, and the like.

But leaving this house behind is inevitable. It will be sad, but is utterly pragmatic – and at some point, the right thing to do.

•

When I was in high school one of the guys in my immediate circle of friends had to move to a distant city. All of us in that circle were disappointed, to put it mildly. We were, after all, becoming young adults learning to determine our own destinies – but this move involved parental maneuvering beyond our control.

And then: a reprieve! Or so it seemed. According to eyewitness accounts, the friend’s dad was seen walking around their back yard, fondly taking it all in. Surely, we convinced ourselves, he was having second thoughts about leaving.

Now, approximately one ice age later, I understand what was happening. The dad was, indeed, fondly taking it all in. That’s where little Billy used to play cops and robbers, he must have thought. There’s the tree he fell out of, and broke his arm. And right over there, we had a great birthday party.

There was no reprieve.

I’ll miss this place.