"Bukowski, Charles - Short Stories Collection" - читать интересную книгу автора (Bukowski Charles)

liked to walk around and look at things. They didn't go into the cafes. They
didn't even get drunk. Nothing paid anymore. The good times were over.
Nobody gave a shit and nobody had any money and if they had any, they kept
it. It was a new age and not a very interesting one. Everybody kind of
watched the revolutionaries and the pigs rip at each other. That was good
entertainment and it was free and they kept their money in their pockets, if
they had any money.
Blanchard said, "Hello, Marie. Marie, this is Charley Serkin. Charley,
this is Marie."
"Hi," I said.
"Hello," said Marie Glaviano.
"Let us come in a minute, Marie," said Blanchard.
(There are only two things wrong with money: too much or too little.
And there I was down at the "too little" stage again.)
We climbed the steep steps and followed her down one fo those long long
sideways-built places ---I mean all length and no width, and then we were in
the kitchen, sitting at a table. There was a bowl of flowers. Marie broke
open 3 bottles of beer. Sat down.
"Well, Marie," said Blanchard, "Charley's a genius. He's up against the
knife. I'm sure he'll pull out, but meanwhile- meanwhile, he's got no place
to stay."
Marie looked at me. "Are you a genius?"
I took a long drag at the beer. "Well, frankly, it's hard to tell. More
often, I feel like some type of subnormal. Rather like all these great big
white blocks of air in my head."
"He can stay," said Marie.
It was Monday, Marie's only day off and Blanchard got up and left us
there in the kitchen. Then the front door slammed and he was out of there.
"What do you do?" asked Marie.
"Live on my luck," I said.
"You remind me of Marty," she said.
"Marty?" I asked, thinking, my god, here it comes. And it came.
"Well, you're ugly, you know. Well, I don't mean ugly, I mean beat-up,
you know. And you're really beat-up, you're even more beat-up than Marty
was. And he was a fighter. Were you a fighter?"
"That's one of my problems: I could never fight worth a damn."
"Anyhow, you got that same look as Marty. You been beat but you're
kind. I know your type. I know a man when I see a man. I like your face. You
got a good face."
Not being able to say anything about her face, I asked, "You got any
cigarettes, Marie?"
"Why sure, honey," she reached down into that great sheet of a dress
and pulled a full pack out from between her tits. She could have carried a
week's worth of groceries in there. It was kind of funny. She opened me
another beer.
I took a good drain, then told her, "I could probably fuck you until I
made you cry."
"Now look here, Charley," she said, "I won't have you talking that way.
I'm a nice girl. My mother brought me up right. You keep talking that way
and you can't stay."