Ham on Rye
Every morning, my commute to work is a strategic one. I rush to the very edge of the platform, shoving aside tourists who aimlessly congregate in the center. New York City subway platforms are middle-heavy. The person-to-cart ratio is like a parabola—the two opposite ends have less exasperated humans competing for empty seats in their section. If I’m getting on a subway car, I’m getting a goddamn seat. I thoroughly enjoy my subway-reading ritual, and I cannot fully become engrossed in a book if a stranger’s armpit looms five inches away from my face. Plus, I am lazy.
On this particular morning, as I’m embarking on a new novel-journey with Charles Bukowski’s Ham on Rye, some brilliant fellow passenger decides it would be acceptable to engage in small talk with me. Am I the only one who thinks that reading a book is the visual equivalent of having headphones in your ears and listening to music? Don’t speak to me. You are being rude while pretending to be nice, which makes you even more ill-mannered. The exception to this rule is if you are Jake Gyllenhaal and you happen to be sitting next to me, in which case you can do whatever you please. ~Jake Gyllenhaal and the subway~
Thankfully, the monster got off on the next stop and I began reading this beautiful book. I personally prefer pastrami on rye but to each his own. Bukowski’s extensive list of literary publications ranges from short poems to full-blown novels, and his semi-autobiographical pieces often portray him in a loner light. This novel is no exception. Using the pseudonym Henry Chinaski, it is an unapologetic account of his blighted path from childhood to young adulthood, growing up in Los Angeles during the Great Depression. Fun times! Often the brunt of physical fights and the poster-boy for athletic disappointment, Chinaski is denounced by the majority of his peers as a renegade from the “mainstream”. In fact, he enjoys being alone; when boys do latch themselves on to him, their company is unwelcome. For instance, in response to an English class assignment on “The Value of Friendship”, he writes an essay titled “The Value of No Friendship At All”, which triumphantly receives a “D” (Bukowski, 161). He simply prefers to operate independently, and this brutally honest preference contributes to the misconstrual of his character.
The novel centers on violence and bitterness, directed towards both his classmates and family. His dad is a dick and I hate him. As he ages, Chinaski’s antisocial tendencies amplify. He obsesses over possessing a “badness” that he associates with being male. Chinaski embodied “toxic masculinity” before it was a thing people talked about.
To cope with life, Chinaski finds solace in reading and writing…and that’s pretty much it. There’s not enough therapy in the world for this dude, but he looks up to authors for guidance, reassurance, and relatability. He states, “To me, these men who had come into my life from nowhere were my only chance. They were the only voices that spoke to me” (Bukowski, 152). He appreciates books that don’t bullshit (and then he turns around and writes some non-bullshitting books himself).
Speaking of bullshit, Chinaski thinks people are full of it. Ham on Rye is a coming-of-age novel set in a hardship-ridden time when you wouldn’t want to be any age at all. He believes that finding a job is essentially a forced choice between the lesser of multiple evils. Ruminating on this dilemma, he admits, “I had no interest in anything. I had no idea how I was going to escape… But there was no place to go. Suicide? Jesus Christ, just more work. I felt like sleeping for five years but they wouldn’t let me” (Bukowski, 175). Yet as he delves deeper into this desire for nothingness in a meaningless world, he discovers an obscure sense of superiority. “The life of the sane, average man was dull, worse than death” and he’d rather reason realistically than pretend that everything is fine (Bukowski, 274). Life is not always Chili’s and rainbows, unfortunately, but better to face the facts.
This novel is a good book to throw open when you feel bad about yourself and don’t want a fake, hearty slap on the back or a bogus encouragement that things will get better. Instead, you want someone to sit down next to you at the bar, hand you a drink, and wittily agree that things suck. Overall, Ham on Rye receives 4 out of 5 flames. The content is entertaining and genuine, but there are moments when Bukowski’s unrestrained vulgarity is a tad bit overboard for my taste.
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