"Thomas_M._Disch_-_After_Pottsville" - читать интересную книгу автора (Disch Thomas M)

"Remember him?"

George nodded. He remembered him all right. They had been best friends in high school until the kid had revealed his sick secret.

"Jesus," said George. "What made you think of him? He’s been dead since...since when?"

"Nineteen seventy-eight. The year Sharon Gates moved to Chicago. Who knows why you suddenly remember anyone from a long time ago. You were a friend of his, maybe that’s why."

"A friend? Not really."

Terry Goren had blown his brains out with a shotgun in the Gorens’ garage. No one ever knew why, officially, though George had a good idea.

"Such a crazy thing to do," said Deborah. "I could never understand it. He must of been unhappy with Postville."

"Uh-huh."

"Some people don’t fit in."

"Right."

"But he could of gone to Chicago, like Sharon Gates. She’s got a good job there now, better than any you could get in Postville."

George nodded vigorously and swallowed the last of his pie. It was time to be getting back to the feed store.

"I don’t understand how someone could do that."

"Uh-huh." George took three bills from his wallet and laid them on the counter. Then a quarter on top, his tip.

"I can understand someone leaving Postville for a better job. Unless you work for the Jews there’s no jobs here. Unless, maybe, a teacher. But I don’t see myself as a teacher. I don’t have the patience."

"The Jews aren’t the problem," said George. "The Mexicans are the problem. This whole state is going to become another goddamn Mexico."

"Language," chided Deborah.

"A Mexico with snow."

"Well, just be glad you don’t have kids. They’re the ones that will bear the brunt."

"I do have kids."

"Well, yeah. But not in Postville. Not anymore."

George pushed himself up from the counter and reached inside his pants to adjust his boxer shorts.

"Hey," said Deborah. "The men’s room is over there."

George had no comeback. He just let his gut sag back in place and headed for the screen door. Outside a gust of wind lifted up a yellow plastic carrier bag and danced it around the void of Main Street. The Mexicans outside Cucina Linda gave him a dirty look and then, with more deliberate discourtesy, looked away. It was their way of telling him that he did not exist.