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

"Sorry, Marie, I was just kidding."
"Well, I don't like that kind of kidding."
"Sure, I understand. You got any whiskey?"
"Scotch."
"Scotch is fine."
She brought out an almost full fifth. 2 waterglasses. We had ourselves
some scotch and water. That woman had been around. That was obvious. She's
probably been around ten years longer than I. Well, age wasn't any crime. It
was only that most people aged badly.
"You're just like Marty," she said again.
"And you're not like anybody I've ever seen," I said.
"Do you like me?" she asked.
"I've got to," I said, and she didn't give me any snot over that one.
We drank another hour or two,. Mostly beer but with a bit of scotch here and
there, and then she took me down to my bed. And on the way down we passed a
place and she was sure to say, "That's my bed." It was quite wide. My bed
was next to another one. Very strange. But it didn't mean anything. "You can
sleep in either bed," said Marie, "or both of them."
There was something about that that felt like a putdown-
Well, sure, I had a head in the morning and I heard her rattling in the
kitchen but I ignored it as any wise man would, and I heard her turn on the
tv for the morning news, she had the tv on the breakfast nook table, and I
heard the coffee perking, it smelled rather good but the smell of bacon and
eggs and potatoes I didn't like, and the sound of the morning news I didn't
like, and I felt like pissing and I was thirsty, but I didn't want Marie to
know that I was awake, so I waited, mildly pissed (haha, yes), but wanting
to be alone, wanting to own the place alone and she kept fucking around
fucking around and finally I heard her running past my bed-
"Gotta go, " she said, "I'm late."
"Bye, Marie," I said.
When the door slammed I got up and walked to the crapper and I sat
there and I pissed and I crapped and I sat there in New Orleans, far from
home, wherever my home was, and then I saw a spider sitting in a web in the
corner, looking at me. Now that spider had been there a long time, I knew
that. Much longer than I had. First, I thought of killing him. But he was so
fat and happy and ugly, he owned the joint. I'd have to wait some time,
until it was proper. I got up and wiped my ass and flushed. As I left the
crapper, the spider winked at me.

I didn't want to play with what was left of the 5th, so I sat in the
kitchen, naked, wondering, how can people trust me so? Who was I? People
were crazy, people were simple. That gave me and edge. Hell ys, it did. I'd
lived for ten years without a trade. People gave me money, food, places to
stay. Whether they thought I was an idiot or a genius, that didn't matter. I
knew what I was. I was neither. What made people give me gifts didn't
concern me. I took the gifts and I took them without a feeling of victory
or/and coercion. My only premise was that I couldn't ask for anything. On
top of it all, I rather had this little phonograph record spinning around on
top of my brain and it kept playing the same tune: don't try don't try. It
seemed like and all right idea.