"Bruce Bethke - The Skanky Soul Of Jimmy Twist" - читать интересную книгу автора (Bethke Bruce)

starboard rail, with nothing behind him but five hundred miles of open sea
and then Norway, was a Jamaican, dredlocks whipping in the breeze. The
start that came with realising we were looking directly into each other's
eyes nearly tipped my chair.
It wasn't as though I'd never seen a rastaman before ­­ I'd partied with
quite a few of them; they always had the best ganja ­­ but this man seemed
a focus of intensity. His eyes were black volcanic glass set in ivory,
binding mine. Standard English deference demands you quickly look away
from a stranger, but I could not. Perhaps I'd been among the sun-starved
Northern Europeans too long, but he seemed darker than black.
Then he ­­ smiled? His lips parted, his cheeks grew taut, he bared his
teeth: I certainly hoped it was a smile. In any event, I flashed my best
Stan Laurel in response, and he threw his head back and laughed hoarsely,
the thin sound streaming away in the breeze. I used the opportunity to
glance away; when I looked back, he was gone. At first I thought he'd
pitched over the rail, but as I looked 'round for someone to report it to
I saw him sauntering aft, singing softly in the same hoarse voice. With
great relief, I went back to soaking my feet in a pool of self-pity.

We ran into a bit of weather in the afternoon, and I moved to a vacant
chair in the ship's salon, where I remained unable to decide what I would
do after the ferry docked. Get my passport reinstated and return to the
continent? Appealing, but impossible. Until I repaid the fine and the
fare, I was stranded in the U.K.
Stay on in Sheerness, then, or Gillingham? In Gillingham?
Seriously...
Hitch to Birmingham and drop in on Mum and Dad? Well, yes, I could, but
either Dad would beat me for losing his brother's guitar, or Mum would
tell me ­­ again ­­ how I was headed to a bad end just like that
ne'er-do-well Lewis.
Still, I was stuck for a better idea and had just resigned myself to
crawling meekly back to Birmingham, when one really nasty thought popped
up and queered the deal. Mum had always treated the guitar as if it were
the first cousin to heroin. Suppose she welcomed me with open arms, for
finally being rid of it?
That left London. London is the sump of the Isles; if you can't make it
anywhere else, you go to London, tell people you're a musician, and live
on the dole. Even in London, though, I knew I was in for a tough hang of
it. Nearly 25, I still wore patched Levi's and long hair, and my taste in
music ran to American Rhythm & Blues, which at that moment was out of
vogue again. (British music fans have no rivals for fickleness, excepting
perhaps this Italian heiress I met on Mallorca.)
But I had some borderline mates I could look up on Fonthill Road, and with
a bit of research...
By the time the ferry docked I had a rough sketch of my future. Clearing
Customs with the usual annoyance, I converted my last few guilders to
pounds and pence, nicked a copy of Time Out from a news-stand, and hung my
thumb out on the motorway. Two days later I resurfaced in London; along
the way I'd traded my least ratty Levi's for some camouflage commando
knickers, borrowed a scissors and done a nasty job on my hair, and changed