"Dick,_Philip_K._Confessions of a Crap Artist" - читать интересную книгу автора (Dick Phillip K)

He thought, How can she make me do it? Buy her Tampax for her.
"What do we have to get at the store?" Elsie chanted.
"Tampax," he said. "And your gum." He spoke with such fury that the baby turned to peer fearfully up at him.
"W-what?" she murmured, shrinking away to lean against the door.
"She's embarrassed to buy it," he said, "so I have to buy it for her. She makes me walk in and buy it." And he thought, I'm going to kill her.
Of course, she had a good excuse. He had had the car -- had been at friends', down in Olema... she phoned, said would he pick it up on his drive back. And the Mayfair closed in an hour or so; it closed either at five or six, he could not remember exactly. Sometimes one time, some days --weekdays -- another.
What happens? he wondered, if she doesn't get it? Do they bleed to death? Tampax a stopper, like a cork. Or -- he tried to imagine it. But he did not know where the blood came from. One of those regions. Hell, I'm not supposed to know about that. That's her business.
But, he thought, when they need it they need it. They have to get hold of it.
Buildings with signs appeared. He entered Point Reyes Station by crossing the bridge over Paper Mill Creek. Then the marsh lands to his left... the road swung to the left, past Cheda's Garage and Harold's Market. Then the old abandoned hotel.
In the dirt field that was the Mayfair's parking lot he parked next to an empty hay truck.
"Come on," he said to Elsie, holding the door open for her. She did not stir and he grabbed her by the arm and swung her from the seat and down; she stumbled and he kept his grip on her, leading her away from the car, toward the street.
I can buy a lot of stuff, he thought. Get a whole basketful and then they won't notice.
In the entrance of the Mayfair, fright overcame him; he stopped and bent down, pretending to tie his shoe.
"Is your shoe untied?" Elsie asked.
He said, "You know god damn well it is." He untied the lace and retied it.
"Don't forget to buy the Tampax," Elsie told him.
"Shut up," he said with fury.
"You're a bad boy," Elsie said, beginning to cry. Her voice wailed. "Go away." She began to slap at him; he straightened up and she retreated, still slapping.
Taking hold of her arm he propelled her into the store, past the wooden counters, to the shelves of canned food. "Listen, god damn you," he said to her, bending down. "You keep still and stick close to me, or when we get back to the car I'm going to whale you good; you hear me? You understand? If you keep quiet I'll get you your gum. You want your gum? You want the gum?" He led her to the candy rack by the door. Reaching down he gave her two packages of Black Jack gum. "Now keep quiet," he said, "so I can think. I have to think." He added, "I have to remember what I'm supposed to get."
He put bread and a head of lettuce and a package of cereal into a cart; he bought several things that he knew were always needed, frozen orange juice and a carton of Pall Malls. And then he went by the counter where the Tampax was. Nobody was around. He put a box of the Tampax into the cart, down with the other items. "Okay," he said to Elsie. "We're through." Without slowing he pushed the cart toward the check stand.
At the check stand two of the women clerks, in their blue smocks, stood bending over a snapshot. A woman customer, an older lady, had handed it to them; the three of them discussed the snapshot. And, directly across from the check stand, a young woman examined the different wines. So he wheeled the cart back to the rear of the store and began unloading the different items from it. But then he realized that the clerks had seen him pushing the cart, so he could not empty it; he had to buy something, or they would think it was strange, him filling a cart and then a little later walking out without buying anything. They might think he was sore. So he put only the Tampax box back; the rest he kept in the cart. He wheeled the cart back to the check stand and got in line.
"What about the Tampax?" Elsie asked, in a voice so overlain with caution that, had he not known what word was meant, he would not have been able to understand her.
"Forget it," he said.
After he had paid the clerk he carried the bag of groceries across the street to the pick-up truck. Now what? he asked himself, feeling desperate. I have to get it. And if I go back I'll be more conspicuous than ever. Maybe I can drive down to Fairfax and get it, at one of those big new drugstores.
Standing there, he could not decide. Then he caught sight of the Western Bar. What the hell, he thought. I'm going to sit in there and decide. He took hold of Elsie's hand and led her down the street to the bar. But, on the brick steps, he realized that with the child along he could not get in.
"You're going to have to stay in the car," he told her, starting back. At once she began to cry and drag against his weight. "For a couple of seconds -- you know they won't let you in the bar."
"No!" the child screamed, as he dragged her back across the street. "I don't want to sit in the car. I want to go with you!"
He put her into the cab of the truck and locked the doors.

God damn people, he thought. Both of them. They're driving me out of my cottonplucking mind.
At the bar he drank a Gin Buck. No one else was there, so he felt relaxed and able to think. The bar was as always dark, spacious.
I could go into the hardware store, he thought, and buy her some kind of a present. A bowl or something. A kitchen gadget.
And then the intention to kill her returned. I'll go home and run into the house and beat the shit out of her, he thought. I'll beat her; I will.
He had a second Gin Buck.
"What time is it? he asked the bartender.
"Five fifteen," the bartender said. Several other men had wandered in and were drinking beer.
"Do you know what time the Mayfair closes?" he asked the bartender. One of the men said he thought it closed at six. An argument began between him and the bartender.
"Forget it," Charley Hume said.
After he had drunk down a third Gin Buck he decided to go back to the Mayfair and get the Tampax. He paid for his drinks and left the bar. Presently he found himself back in the Mayfair, roaming around among the shelves, past the canned soups and packages of spaghetti.
In addition to the Tampax he bought a jar of smoked oysters, a favorite of Fay's. Then he returned to the pick-up truck. Elsie had fallen asleep, resting against the door. He pulled on the door for a moment, trying to open it, and then he remembered that he had locked it. Where the hell was the key? Putting down his paper bag he groped in his pockets. Not in the ignition switch... he put his face to the doorwindow. God in heaven, it wasn't there either. So where could it be? He rapped on the glass and called,
"Hey, wake up. Will you?" Again he rapped. At last Elsie sat up and became aware of him. He pointed to the glove compartment. "See if the key's in there," he yelled. "Pull up the button," he yelled, pointing to the lock-button on the inside of the door. "Pull it up so I can get in."
Finally she unlocked the door. "What did you get?" she asked, reaching for the paper bag. "Anything for me?"
There was a spare key under the floormat; he kept it there all the time. Using it, he started up the car. Never find out where it went, he decided. Have to get a duplicate made. Once more he searched his coat pockets... and there it was, in his pocket, where it was supposed to be. Where he had put it. Christ, he thought. I must really be stoned. Backing from the lot, he drove up highway One, in the direction that he had come.
When he reached the house, and had parked in the garage beside Fay's Buick, he gathered together the two bags of groceries and started along the path to the front door. The door was open, and classical music could be heard. He could see Fay, through the glass side of the house; at the dish drier she scraped plates, her back to him. Their collie Bing got up from the mat in front of the door to greet him and Elsie. Its feathery tail brushed against him and it lunged with pleasure, nearly upsetting him and causing him to drop one of the bags. With the side of his foot he pushed the dog out of his way and edged through the front door, into the living room. Elsie departed along the path to the rear patio, leaving him by himself.
"Hi," Fay called from the other part of the house, her voice obscured by the music. He failed, for a moment, to grasp that it was her voice he heard; for a moment it seemed only a noise, an impediment in the music. Then she appeared, gliding at him with her springy, padding walk, meanwhile drying her hands on a dishtowel. At her waist she had tied a sash into a bow; she wore tight pants and sandals, and her hair was uncombed. God, how pretty she looks, he thought. That marvelous alert walk of hers... ready to whip around in the opposite direction. Always conscious of the ground under her.
As he opened the bags of groceries he gazed down at her legs, seeing in his mind the high span that she reached, in the mornings, during her exercises. One leg up as she crouched on the floor, fastening her fingers about her ankle, while she bent to one side. What strong leg-muscles she has, he thought. Enough to cut a man in half. Bisect him, desex him. Part of that learned from the horse... from riding bareback and clutching that damn animal's sides.
"Look what I got for you," he said, holding out the jar of smoked oysters.
Fay said, "Oh--" And took the jar, accepting it with the manner that meant she understood that he had gotten it for her with such deep purpose, some desire to express his feelings. Of all the people in the world, she was the best at accepting a gift. Understanding how he felt, or how the children or neighbors or anyone felt. Never said too much, never overdid it, and always pointed out the important traits of the gift, why it was so valuable to her. She looked up at him and her mouth moved into the quick, grimace-like smile -- tilting her head on one side she regarded him.
"And this," he said, getting out the Tampax.
"Thanks," she said, accepting it from him. As she took the box he drew back, and, hearing himself give a gasp, he hit her in the chest. She flew backwards, away from him, dropping the bottle of smoked oysters; at that he ran at her -- she was sliding down against the side of the table, knocking the lamp off as she tried to catch herself -- and hit her again, this time sending her glasses flying from her face. At once she rolled over, with stuff from the table clattering down on her.