"Alan Dean Foster - Glory Lane" - читать интересную книгу автора (Foster Alan Dean)

"Can we come?" shouted one of the girls.

He just shook his head and gritted his teeth. He had to get out of this
town! New York, yeah, or even L.A. Los Angeles was closer anyway. That's
where he belonged. For the first time all night something made him feel
good. You could bounce from club to club to club without seeing the same
band twice. Find people who'd hire you without looking like they were going
to throw up. Pay you some honest bucks so long as you did your job and
wouldn't hassle you no matter what you looked like. Nobody com-ing down
on you because of your hair. Even the cops wouldn't look twice at you. You
could exist as an indepen-dent human being.

That was really why he'd gone punk and dropped out. It wasn't even for the
music, though that was part of the whole scene. It was because after some
painful introspec-tion he'd discovered he really was antisocial. Sure, you
could be antisocial in jeans and Nikes, but that marked you as a bum
instead of a true rebel. Besides, he really liked the way he looked—and the
way it outraged the straights.

All his life he'd been ignored, overlooked, teased. No-body overlooked him
now, nobody ignored him. Except his parents, but then they'd always
ignored him. No loss there. He was himself, his own man, a distinct
individual. That was what mattered. To stand out, to make a physical
statement, to be able to linger on a street corner with your whole being
screaming I am not of the crowd, I am not of the herd!

As he debated what to do next, he found himself angling toward the
university. He'd just about decided to give up, to go back to the Hole and
crash, hoping tomorrow would be better, when he found himself passing the
Apache Bowlarama. It was dominated by a huge, ugly neon sign that
depicted a stereotyped Indian bowling. Every few seconds the Indian would
release a neon ball that would move five feet before knocking over a trio of
neon cacti.

What the hell, he thought, smiling to himself. The parking lot was still
pretty full and he was desperate. Some kind of league night. Be a shot to
watch the reactions when he sauntered in. Wouldn't be as dangerous as the
university. No linemen in here. Just ex-linemen carrying an extra twenty
years and thirty pounds of beer flab. He could dance circles around them.
Maybe he could get a few of them chasing him around the snack bar and, if
he was lucky, the police would be called. They'd calm his would-be
attackers and he could grin at them and watch their complexions darken.

"Why were you chasing that boy, Mr. Johnson?"

"Because—because, I mean, officer, just look at him!"

And Seeth would stand there running a hand through his mohawk and
grinning while the cop patiently said, "I know, but that's not a crime, Mr.
Johnson."