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

Anyhow, after Marie left I sat in the kitchen and drank 3 cans of beer
I found in the refrigerator. I never cared much for food. I'd heard of
people's love for food. But food only bored me. Liquid was o.k. but bulk was
a dragdown. I liked shit, I liked to shit, I liked turds but it was such
terrible work creating them.
After the 3 cans of beer I noticed this purse on the seat next to me.
Of course, Marie had taken another purse to work. Would she be foolish
enough or kind enough to leave money? I opened the purse. There at the
bottom was a ten dollar bill.
Well, Marie was testing me and I'd prove worthy of her test.
I took the ten, walked back to my bedroom and dressed. I felt good.
After all, what did a man need to survive? Nothing. It was true. And I even
had the key to the place.
So I stepped outside and locked the door to keep out the thieves,
hahaha, and there I was out on the streets, the French Quarter, and what a
stupid place that was, but I had to make it do. Everything had to serve me,
that's the way it went. So-oh yes, I was walking down the street, and the
trouble with the French Quarter was that there just weren't any liquor
stores around like in other decent parts of the world. Maybe it was
deliberate. One had to guess that it helped those horrible shit holes on
every corner that were called bars. The first thing I ever thought of when
walking into one of those "quaint" French Quarter bars was vomiting. And I
usually did, running back to some urine-stinking pisspot and letting go --
tons and tons of fried eggs and half-cooked greasy potatoes. And walking
back in, after heaving, and looking upon them: the only thing more lonely
and inane than the patrons was the bartender, especially if he also owned
the place. O.k., so I walked around, knowing that the bars were the lie, and
you know where I found my 3 six packs? A little grocery with stale bread and
all about it, even peeling into the paint, this half-sex smile of loneliness-
help me, help me, help me-terrible, yes, and they can't even light the place
up, electricity costs money, and here I was, the first guy to buy three six
packs in 18 years, and my god, she almost came across the top of the cash
register-It was too much. I grabbed my change and 18 tall cans of beer and
ran out into the stupid French Quarter sunlight-

I placed the remainder of the change back in the purse in the
breakfastnook and then left the purse open so Marie could see it. Then I sat
down and opened a beer.
It was good being alone. Yet, I wasn't alone. Each time I had to piss
I'd see that spider and I thought, well, spider, you've got to go, soon. I
just don't like your looks in that dark corner, catching bugs and slies and
sucking the blood out of them. You see, you're bad, Mr. Spider. And I'm o.k.
At least, that's the way I like to see it. You're nothing but a frigging
dark brainless wart of death, that's what you are. Suck shit. You've had it.
I found a broom in the backporch and came back in there and I crashed
him out of his web and brought him his own death. All right, that was all
right, he was out there ahead of me, somewhere, I couldn't help that. But
how could Marie put her big ass down on the rims of that lid and shit and
look at that thing? Did she even see it? Perhaps not.
I went back in the kitchen and had some more beer. Then I turned on the