"Spider Robinson - Very Bad Deaths" - читать интересную книгу автора (Robinson Spider)

I gave him ten minutes. But Jesus, it never got any better."
I shrugged. "You do get used to it . . . a little, anyway. And I get a good breeze in there. I bought a fan.
And look, you guys remember what I roomed with last year, right? Anything's an improvement over the
Drink Tank." My freshman year roommate, Brian "Tank" Sherman, had been a major asshole. He'd once
drugged my beer at a clandestine room party so that he and a bunch of his jock friends could cut off my
long hair and beard while I snored. Let's say it strained a relationship which had never been good.
"Fuck all that," Slinky John said. "I want to know how you can stand living with a Stink Tank."
I glanced quickly around the dining hall, then gestured Slinky and Bill closer and lowered my voice.
"Listen, I brought a little something from home. Panama Red."
"Jesus," Slinky said. Bill said nothing, but a broad smile appeared in the midst of his beard. A fair
amount of the time we'd spent together in freshman year had been in fruitless search for a local
connection.
That's how long ago this was. At a medium-size college, there were fewer than a dozen heads, and no
connection. Not even in town; there weren't enough jazz musicians to support one. We had to make do
with whatever we could bring from home. And, we had to be discreet to a degree probably unimaginable
today: pot was considered a narcotic, thenтАФboth legally and culturallyтАФand possession of one joint
could draw you a class A felony indictment if the DA was politically ambitious.
"So what do you say, John?" I went on. "Shall we go to your room and do some up?"
He flinched. "Oh man, not thereтАФare you nuts?"
"Why not? Your roommate's cool, isn't he?"
"LukewarmтАФbut he's not the problem, man, it's everybody else. Even if we put a towel under the door,
sure as hell somebody would rat us out."
"Ah," I said. "We can't burn a bone in your place . . . because people would smell it. Is that the problem?"
"Well, sure they'dтАФ" he said, and broke off.
"So I guess we'll have to go back to my place, then," I said.
Bill's broad smile became a broad grin.
"Holy shit," Slinky John breathed.
So we went back to my place, heaved the sticky window all the way up, and between the isolation of the
room, and the tendency of all passersby to voluntarily stop smelling when near it, we did up a couple of
fatties without attracting the slightest attention. By the time Zandor got back from dinner, Slinky and
Bill were ready to be polite to him.
They didn't get much chance, though. As soon as he saw I had company, he said he had to go right back
out and do some studying at the library.
"Zandor?" I said quickly, before he could make his escape. "Look . . . is it cool with you that we smoked
in here? I figured, the window's open, and . . ." I trailed off, unable to find a diplomatic way to say, and I
thought your stink would mask ours. "It's your house too, man. I won't get high here if you have a
problem with it."
He looked at me without blinking for several seconds. Then he made a little smile and said, "Slim, as
long as you don't leave any of it in my part of the room, I'm just fine with it. I told you that already."
I relaxed slightly. He hadn't just said it; he'd meant it.
"You want some?" Slinky John asked him.

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 - Chapter 3

"Thanks for offering, maybe another time," Smelly said, and fled.
As soon as he was out of earshot, we all broke out in stoned giggles.
Bill, who happened to be holding the roach, relit it, and passed it to me. " 'Slim,' huh?" he said
reflectively, and looked me over carefully. I held my breath. Well, I was already holding it, but you
know what I mean.