The book. Chapter 3

Robert Malecki malecki at
Fri Sep 27 01:15:54 MDT 1996

(unedited version)


That should keep my razor satisfied for a while!

My razor and I wrote that letter in 1995 and sent it out to over
three hundred organisations around the world. The letter describes
the historical situation my razor and I had at this particular point
in history.My razor is really excited about what kind of reaction
the letter will bring to our household. The cat is probably
wondering also how life is going to be after the letter.I told them
both to fuck off and let's wait and see what happens.
The cat is limping today.
Hey, wait a minute, it wasn't my fault! He has been out chasing his
girlfriends.Its spring here in Sweden and Sputnik is a real fucking
machine. However, he stepped on a piece of glass or something and his
paw appears to hurt. I told him it isn't my fucking fault this time.
I mean, don't blame me if you can,t see where the fuck you are going.
Its not my fault Sputnik is trying to fuck every girl cat in the
An Sputnik can not make me believe the American government flew over
this little town with a B-52 and dropped a load of 500 pound bombs on
his fucking paw! Some people he might get away with doing that, but
not with me. I know what a B-52 can do. Not only what a splinter bomb
can do, but napalm bombs also. I told my razor and my cat about this
little girl, a Vietnamese girl, running down the highway in Vietnam.
What she looked like with napalm burning holes in her little body.
The horror and fear on her face, naked running, running away from
death. Oh, how I hope you made it honey.
Oh fuck! I am crying on my fucking computer.
And the American government is trying to tell me I am a fucking
criminal. I will never forgive you fucking creeps for what you did to
that little girl. I will never say I am sorry. Little girl, my razor
and I will never forget you.

We were on your side.

I hope you made it.
My cat Sputnik only thinks about licking his paw and finding some
girl cat to fuck as soon as possible.
My mom had a real tough time raising three kids on the salary she
received for being a telegram typist. Yeah, back in those days there
was still telegrams. That was why my mom probably married Harry.

Harry was an Italian. He worked on the docks in Hoboken New Jersey.
He was a union man. The good thing about Harry was that he brought
home the bananas! Yes he did whole stalks of them, from the boats
he was unloading. He also brought home the pistachio nuts. Whole
sacks of them, unroasted, this was part of the booty "taxes" that
dockworkers got on the side of their paycheck.
Harry was a drunk.
He drank enormous amounts of whiskey and beer. All the guys who
worked on the docks were pretty heavy drinkers. The docks were a
tough place and during the fifties a man working on the docks never
knew if there would be work that day. They would all go down to the
docks and see if there was any work and if there was no work they
went to the bar. There the dockworkers sat all day long.
Another good thing about Harry, I remember, is the time we were
living i in a bungalow on Staten Island. There was this huge storm
and when we woke up in the morning there were boats floating  by the
window of the bungalow!  We had to be evacuated by rowboat. I
remember Harry so well standing in the  back of the boat holding
our cat. I remember seeing peoples furniture floating by as
we rowed away to safety.
Well that was the good stuff about Harry.

However I hated Harry.

He was a
dangerous man when drunk. And especially to us kids Harry was a
danger. And many a night I would in the future have to sleep out
under cars because Harry would come home drunk and proceed to beat
the shit out of us kids. I almost forgot. There was one other good
thing about Harry. Him and  my mom produced Ruth, my little sister.
I heard ten or fifteen years ago that she  is an elementary school
teacher in Florida!
Yeah, I hated Harry. He was as strong as a bull and when he beat us
up it really hurt. I still remember the blue marks from Harry. Harry
had to go sooner or later. Unfortunately for me, a number of years
passed before the opportunity to get rid of Harry presented itself.
Mostly because my brother and I were to small to take on Harry.
So for years we had to put up with Harry's bullshit. But when my
brother was sixteen and I was twelve the time to take care of Harry
came at last....
This particular evening, Harry was down at the bar as usual and
pretty drunk. The night before my brother and I had gotten beaten.
We were in the bathroom talking about shooting rats and Harry thought
we were talking about shooting him. Anyhow Harry called up from the
bar and said that my brother and I were to cook dinner for him. My
mom was working overtime as usual. So my brother told him to go fuck
himself, there ain,t going to be any more dinners for Harry.
The night before my brother had borrowed a rubber batong from our Aunt.
She had it for her job taking care of people in the insane asylum.
It looked like a batong that magicians use, about 15 inches long and
white caps on each end. I ran and got my pumplamp, that I had made in
woodshop in school and my brother and I waited for Harry to come home
for dinner.
When Harry came home my brother was standing on the stairs. Harry
could not see him. So he came charging after me. My brother came up
behind him and whacked Harry over the head a couple of times with
the batong. My brother hit Harry hard and Harry didn't even go down!
Instead he turned and went after my brother. Then I went after Harry
and hit him with the pumplamp. He turned again and came after me and
then my brother went after him again.Harry turned again and I hit him
as hard as I could with the lamp. It smashed into small pieces.

By this time there was a lot of blood everywhere, Harry's blood.
However Harry turned again and came after me and then my brother hit
him again. This time Harry went down to his knees. We stood there my
brother and I looking at Harry. We could see that he was hurt pretty
bad. Harry began to get up and we thought, oh no, Christ. But Harry
went towards the stairs and up them to his room.

We were scared.

My brother called my aunt and told her what happened. She said,

"Go hide the batong"

and that she would ring to the police. There was no noise from
upstairs where Harry was, but we told the police, who had then
arrived on the scene, that there had been a fight and that I had
hit Harry with the lamp. We said that Harry was upstairs and that
we were afraid that Harry was going to kill us. Harry had this
government issue colt 45 he had brought home after the war. The
police went upstairs and in a few minutes came down with Harry.
His whole head was wrapped up in towels. Away the cops went with
Harry. Then my aunt turned up and calmed us down. We started
cleaning up the mess before my mom came home.
A half hour or so passed, by this time it was seven o'clock in the
evening. My mom came home and she began crying. Then the cops came
back and arrested me for assault and battery on Harry.
On Staten Island, in New York City, they had night court. For me,
being arrested when I was twelve years old, was a big adventure.
Not only did I not feel like a criminal, I felt great. Finally,
after all these years of beatings and sleeping out, in and under
cars, I got my revenge. Revenge, especially when you do not
understand the dynamics of the situation, is and was sweet.
I was taken into the courtroom by the police. It was unbelievable!
The courtroom was absolutely full of just about all the misery of
society.Drunks, battered mothers, battered kids, car thieves,
battered people all screaming or crying out their misery at the
same time. My mom and aunt was there. My brother wasn't there, my
aunt thought it best under the circumstances. Harry had not arrived
at night court as of yet. He was at the hospital getting sewed up.
Night court proceeded under its own momentum. Justice was handed out
on a five minute basis. That is about the time each case received
before the judge. Nothing like the O.J. Simpson trial going on today.
Where the public can get the day to day goodies, live, from the
hysterical media teams. Nor did the witnesses in night court get
any safty invitations of large sums of money for their story. No
not at all. Night court was a court for the dregs of New York City.
A public attorney, who took ten or fifteen cases on the spot, is
the only  one who was making any money in night court.Case after
case, the judge dealt out justice. 30 days in jail! Remanded to the
custody of: Sleep it off in the tank. And so on and so.

Finally they called my case. Harry was brought in helped by the
cops. He had bandages all over his head. Then somebody said my
name and I went up to the front of the courtroom.They brought Harry
up to the front of the courtroom as the plaintiff. Then somebody
started reading up the charges of assault and battery against me.
The judge just started laughing. Then the judge said "case dismissed"
and adjourned night court.
That was it!

I think the judge just looked at me and Harry, I was about 50 pounds
and Harry was a good 180 pounds. I walked out a free person. Harry
never returned to the house. About a year later he died. His lever
after all the years of drinking collapsed. Without a functioning lever
you die. Harry weighed about 80 pounds when he died.

Well what can I say, I have no tears for Harry. Still today I have
no tears for Harry. However I understand Harry's situation much
better today then I did then.

He was a dockworker.

He was a union man.
When there was no work he got drunk and beat us kids and my mom.
He took it out on us kids, his frustration, his hate, of the
system that never gives dockworkers a chance. He did not know
that. If Harry had been politically conscious about things it
might have gone another way. But I don't hate Harry any longer,
I hate the system that created Harry.
That system sees working class people as pieces of meat to be
exploited so that the rich can get richer. Harry's politics,
were the politics of despair.

But it hurt!
Oh yeah how it fucking hurt.

Just like blacks who later on in history began with "burn baby
burn" out of despair, which led till a whole lot of blacks getting
thrown in jail.

That was painful also.

However I understand today that Harry was not my enemy.

He was a victim!

Just as many blacks rotting in Americas jails are victims.
My razor thinks I am a nutcase talking about all this shit. I mean
who cares if black people go around burning up the ghettos. Who
cares about how   many drunken dockworkers beat the shit out of
kids. My razor thinks that this has nothing to do with shaving
whiskers, just a lot of sentimental bullshit.

Well it is not!

The terrible thing about it all is that it is not bullshit.

It is a reality today in America.

This stuff is still going on today. Maybe not nightcourt, but
the drunk workers kicking the shit out of their kids. And the cities
will burn again in despair. Fuck, will we ever learn who the real
enemy is?

My razor says stop the sentimental crap and get back to what's
really going on in real life.My razor is curious to see if there
has been any reaction to the letter in Chapter two.


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