Rebel Without a Cause (31 page)

There used to be—little bars—with—beans on my high chair. I remember I used to hit them with my spoon. They’d rattle. They’d buzz …

I know we didn’t have a store or anything like that in B——, and I don’t think we owned a car. The furniture looked different, funny, all changed. The dining room, there were candles in it, and a big chandelier over the table, with glass hanging over it. It would shine and sparkle. It was a small dining room. There was old-fashioned furniture in the parlor. We had wall paper on the walls, with flowers on it. All the rooms seemed to have wall paper in them. I don’t know …

Yesterday we were talking about different things we liked to do. Some like to hunt and fish. I haven’t done much of it, only when I was living with my aunt and uncle. Even when I was ten or twelve I liked to fish and hunt. Sometimes I was just, well, just lazy. I just liked to lie around and do nothing …

L: ‘It seems a little difficult, doesn’t it, for you to come in at this hour, Harold.’

Yes. It’s so—different. I don’t know; there are a million things going through my head at once. Maybe it’s because I usually study in the morning. I am trying to force it out of my mind.

L: ‘Instead of forcing it out, just pick any one topic—no matter what it is—anything, and start with that.’

Anything that goes through my mind?

L: ‘Yes; go ahead.’

I don’t know what makes me think of the girl I used to go with, Lila. She knew sometimes when I was flat broke, broke as anything, and she offered me money, tried to force money on me. I wouldn’t take it. She was a funny sort of girl. Lila was straw-haired and she had freckles on her face. Sometimes we used to spend a day or two together. But—I—she—I had a funny dream about two nights ago. I tried to tell myself to forget about it and not to tell you. It was a dirty, filthy thing.

I was dreaming I was buying a car off a person, buying it off a man—he looked like my father—buying it I guess off my father. He wanted to sell me a car. It looked like the old car we had when we were living on B—— Street. It seemed like I was older than I was then, though. Anyway, I was sitting on something, I guess the running board of another car or on the grass, and I was looking up at the car. He wanted forty-eight hundred sixty-nine dollars for it but all I wanted to give him was two thousand dollars. Then this man, whoever he was, probably my father, he started playing with my peter, started committing fellatio on me. I don’t know why I dreamed a thing like that; I never had a dream like that before.

L: ‘Is that all there was, Harold?’

That’s all there was to the dream. That’s all there was to it. I don’t know why I dreamed it. I didn’t try to associate it with anything or anybody. I figured I’d tell you.

I know my father had that car from 1926 to about the end of 1934, then he bought himself a new car. I never drove the ’26. One time my mother was coaxing him to teach me to drive so I could get my license but he said no. I can’t figure the money angle on it. I don’t know about this—this other business. It seems so funny.

L: ‘Suppose you start with buying a car from your father. Just say whatever comes to you in that connection.’

Buying a car? I asked him once to teach me: he said no. I never asked him again. I don’t like to ask people more than once for anything; if they say no the first time I never ask them again. Maybe that’s the reason I didn’t get along very well with my father, because I wouldn’t keep on asking him for things.

L: ‘Why should your father try to sell you a car?’

I don’t know; I can’t understand. Why should he want twice the price I wanted to pay for it? That’s a large amount of money.

L: ‘Did you think it was worth it?’

I don’t think so, not four thousand. I was going to give him two thousand for it.

L: ‘Was there anything else you can think of?’

No. I was sitting in the grass looking up at the car. I saw the front, the fenders and the windows. It reminded me of the old car we used to have. I don’t know why. I took it out once in a while when he was out working somewhere. I guess I was about sixteen or seventeen when I used to take it out. I don’t think he ever knew about it.

L: ‘You don’t know why your father should try to sell you a car?’

No; I don’t.

L: ‘Well, what would be one obvious reason?’

I don’t know. It might be that he had something he was trying to sell me. Maybe I’d have some money and I could buy it, or maybe he could borrow money from me.

L: ‘Well, Harold, isn’t it obvious that one reason he was selling you a car is that you apparently didn’t have one and he thought you wanted one?’

Yes; but he wanted four thousand dollars, I could buy it from someone else cheaper. It might be he wanted money from me. I was a prospect for buying a car from him and he would be receiving some money for it, so it would do him some good.

L: ‘He offered you the car for exactly four thousand eight hundred and sixty-nine dollars?’

Yes. Why just that sum? I don’t know.

L: ‘That’s quite an amount of money. You only offered him two thousand?’

Two thousand. I figured the car was not worth that much to me, it was an old car, run down. I don’t know why I offered him two thousand when the car was probably worth less than two hundred. Perhaps I wanted to give him some money.

L: ‘Now, two thousand dollars is a round figure; four thousand eight hundred and sixty-nine is a complex figure. Is there any significance in that?’

It might be that the smaller amount represented me, as the smaller person, less of a person, placing less value on me; and probably the
larger amount represents a more complex, greater, stronger … Still and all, why should the numbers be as they are? One is twice as great as the other, the father twice as great as the son.

L: ‘Well, what does that mean for you?’

I—can’t think—unless it’s because I was—jealous? I envied his big strength. My father is strong, very very strong. He has big strong arms, a big chest. He used to pick me up and let me drop, let me drop on the floor from about four or five feet. I probably only weighed about a hundred and ten pounds then, but he picked me up like nothing. I hated him for dropping me like that. I fell right on the floor and sometimes when I was down he would take a kick at me. I hated him, hated him for that. I figured nobody has a right to do anything like that even if he was my father. But maybe I wasn’t exactly envious; maybe I just recognized the fact that he was stronger. I guess I put more value on myself than on him. I guess two thousand is a larger amount than four thousand eight hundred and sixty-nine …

L: ‘Why?’

It represents myself. The smaller amount is greater than the four thousand; O, not as a measurement but as a bundle, something all in one.

L: ‘Actually, he was giving you something at a larger price than you were prepared to pay for it?’

I don’t know. It all goes back, O, everything. He wanted me to work and keep looking for a job, and I got sick of looking for work and I didn’t want to work; so I used to stay out at nights and I’d see him only once a week, probably only Sunday mornings.

L: ‘You offered him a round sum and he offered to sell for a complex, larger sum. Is there any meaning for you in this?’

I—don’t know—unless the round sum, the two thousand, represented the—the female—genitals. Could that be? And the complex number the male genitals? Well, here we have a round number; that might represent the female; and the complex number, the small appendages, of course might indicate the male genitals. The figure ‘8’ might represent the testes …

I guess I was always sort of timid and shy with my father. That’s why I kept away from him. He was more—manlier than I—manlier; a man. He was greater in his physical strength than I was. But I
don’t seem to measure anything by physical strength or by people’s bodies. I think a fellow is a fine person if he has a good mind, regardless of his body.

L: ‘Now let’s go to the other part of your dream. Recall as much of that as you can.’

Well, it seems that I was lying on the grass or sitting on the running board of another car. I could see the car he wanted to sell me. The man I was with looked like my father. He started playing with my penis, then later on he—he did fellatio on me. I—there was a—a discharge, I remember, and that’s when I woke up. Just about the time I woke up I can remember I was putting my penis in my trousers again and buttoning them up. I don’t want my father around me so why should I want him to do anything like that?

L: ‘Do you see any reason now why you should have dreamed that?’

Even dreaming about it makes me feel ashamed of myself. I don’t know why but—well—well—it might be—it might represent that I was—changing this—man for Perry.

I don’t know why I should dream a thing like that. It was distasteful to me. I didn’t get along very well with my father all the way back through the years, even when I was a baby. My mother told me things. He didn’t like to hold me, even when I was a baby. That’s what used to prey on my mind. Perhaps the reason why I dislike him is his physical appearance. He is bald-headed and slightly bow-legged, like a gorilla, big-chested, big, powerful arms. He didn’t have well-developed legs though. When we were young he sometimes twisted our arms to show us how strong he was. When I got older I didn’t want to be around home, to be near him. I didn’t care if he
was
my father; I didn’t want him around me.

L: ‘What did your mother tell you about him?’

My mother told me that when I was a few months old she wanted him to hold me and things like that: she wanted my father at least to hold his own baby once in a while. He never seemed to want to. Now my younger sister, he always wanted to pet my younger sister. He spoiled her: he petted her too much. It seems he likes my sisters more than me. Every time he looked at me I’d get a funny feeling. I didn’t want him to look at me. When we had the dog, a female dog, she was a pal of mine, so sometimes he would lock her up in the garage and wouldn’t let her out. So I used to sit around the garage
and wait until he let her out. That may be another reason why I dislike him.

He always seemed to like my sister. I remember when she was in second or third grade in school she’d sit on his knees and recite nursery rhymes. I never did that. One time he wanted me to recite my ABCs and I wouldn’t do it. I said I forgot, so he started calling me a dummy. He couldn’t speak English very well: when he pronounced some words he said them in a low pitch and some other words in a high pitch. It never all seemed to be in one tone; and that’s another thing that used to prey on my mind.

I remember when I was about eight my mother and father were sitting in the kitchen, my sister was sleeping—it was about ten at night—and he wanted me to recite a poem I was going to give in a school play. I told him that I had forgotten most of it. I remember he wanted me to stand in the center of the room and recite this poem. I recited one verse and told him I forgot the rest; so he started calling me names like dummy.

I guess that’s one reason I didn’t like to go out with him, go anywhere with him, in the car. When my mother and sister wanted to go I’d make some excuse and stay at home. Sometimes I’d sit in the back seat and not say a word to anyone, make believe that I was reading the newspaper. Then the car started to bounce up and down and I couldn’t read and I’d get sick. I never did enjoy anything with him. He just didn’t seem like the right sort of a man anyone would have for a friend; he was hard to everybody but himself. He wasn’t a good business man. He was always doing favors for his friends, doing something for somebody; and when something went wrong he’d come home and curse and swear and start an argument with my mother. My mother wouldn’t say anything. She’d just cry.

Before he got the Buick he had an Overland, and one time I threw dirt—dirt all over his car. O, I remember: there was a dog underneath the car and I was trying to get him out so I threw some dirt at him and some of the dirt got all over the car. He came out and looked at it and wanted to know if I threw the dirt; then he hit me, hit me right in the side of the head. Later he told my mother about it. She started telling me why did I do things like that? “bad boy.” I guess I wasn’t paying attention to her very much.

When he used to hit me I could—I imagined I could—hear people singing. It would agitate me more. It seemed to me that people or somebody was singing. It was pleasant to hear, and yet—I know I was crying. I don’t know whether it stopped me from crying.

L: ‘Do you recall—now think carefully, Harold—the same singing when your mother hit you?’

When my mother hit me—yes—I heard it too, but it was a different kind of singing when my mother hit me. When I was about fourteen I heard it once. It was a popular song, very fast, not jazz; it went smoothly. But when we were living on B—— Street one time my father hit me. It sounded like a choir: it seemed more like women singing, choir, a group of women singing when my father hit me. It sounded so soft and sweet, the music was smooth and pleasant to hear. I always used to hear some kind of singing, sometimes it sounded like singing accompanied by music, sometimes like singing alone, but never music alone. The time when I broke his razor I heard sweet music. I remember that time. I don’t know what they were singing but they were singing something sweet. It reminded me of angels singing. Three days later I wanted to cry again so I could hear it again, but I couldn’t force it in my mind: I couldn’t hear it. Soft music and singing. Something used to agitate me so I would cry more. Sometimes I would forget about crying and just listen to the music. Sometimes I’d just sit in the corner and cry, just sit there and hear something. Sometimes I would forget about crying and I’d hear it for as long as fifteen minutes, sometimes as long as an hour, as long as no one disturbed me or I didn’t fall asleep. Sometimes I would sit on the floor and fall asleep and my mother would come and wake me up, call me for supper and dinner, and would destroy everything.