"Bukowski, Charles - Ham On Rye" - читать интересную книгу автора (Bukowski Charles)

I didn't answer. Mr. Knox slid the letter opener back and forth. The phone rang. He picked it up.
"Hello? Oh, Mrs. Kirby? He what? What? Listen, can't you administer the discipline? I'm busy now. All right, I'll phone you when I'm done with this one . . ."
He hung up. He brushed his fine white hair back out of his eyes with one hand and looked at me.
"Why do you cause me all this trouble?"
I didn't answer him.
"You think you're tough, huh?"
I kept silent.
"Tough kid, huh?"
There was a fly circling Mr. Knox's desk. It hovered over his green ink bottle. Then it landed on the black cap of the ink bottle and sat there rubbing its wings.
"O.K., kid, you're tough and I'm tough. Let's shake hands on that."
I didn't think I was tough so I didn't give him my hand.
"Come on, give me your hand."
I stretched my hand out and he took it and began shaking it. Then he stopped shaking it and looked at me. He had blue clear eyes lighter than the blue of his bow tie. His eyes were almost beautiful. He kept looking at me and holding my hand. His grip began to tighten.
"I want to congratulate you for being a tough guy."


His grip tightened some more.
"Do you think I'm a tough guy?"


I didn't answer.
He crushed the bones of my fingers together. I could feel the bone of each finger cutting like a blade into the flesh of the finger next to it. Shots of red flashed before my eyes.
"Do you think I'm a tough guy?" he asked.
"I'll kill you," I said.
"You'll what?"

Mr. Knox tightened his grip. He had a hand like a vise. I could see every pore in his face.
"Tough guys don't scream, do they?"
I couldn't look at his face anymore. I put my face down on the desk.
"Am I a tough guy?" asked Mr. Knox.
He squeezed harder. I had to scream, but I kept it as quiet as possible so no one in the classes could hear me.
"Now, am I a tough guy?"


I waited. I hated to say it. Then I said, "Yes."
Mr. Knox let go of my hand. I was afraid to look at it. I let it hang by my side. I noticed that the fly was gone and I thought, it's not so bad to be a fly. Mr. Knox was writing on a piece of paper.
"Now, Henry, I'm writing a little note to your parents and I want you to deliver it to them. And you will deliver it to them, won't you?"
"Yes."
He folded the note into an envelope and handed it to me. The envelope was sealed and I had no desire to open it.

8
I took the envelope home to my mother and handed it to her and walked into the bedroom. My bedroom. The best thing about the bedroom was the bed. I liked to stay in bed for hours, even during the day with the covers pulled up to my chin. It was good in there, nothing ever occurred in there, no people, nothing. My mother often found me in bed in the daytime.
"Henry, get up! It's not good for a young boy to lay in bed all day! Now, get up! Do something!"
But there was nothing to do.
I didn't go to bed that day. My mother was reading the note. Soon I heard her crying. Then she was wailing. "Oh, my god! You've disgraced your father and myself! It's a disgrace! Suppose the neighbors find out? What will the neighbors think?"
They never spoke to their neighbors.
Then the door opened and my mother came running into the room: "How could you have done this to your mother?"
The tears were running down her face. I felt guilty.
"Wait until your father gets home!'"
She slammed the bedroom door and I sat in the chair and waited. Somehow I felt guilty . . .