"Barry Longyear - Dark Corners" - читать интересную книгу автора (Longyear Barry)

“Oh, yeah,” sneered Johnny. “Find your center, work the process, get in touch with your feelings. How
does Dennis make you feel?”

“Okay,” said Mark, “So how does Dennis make you angry?”

The bus lurched, found an opening in the traffic, and moved into it. Through the bus’ windshield Mark
could see the top of the Lincoln Memorial, the barest outline of white against the falling snow. Johnny
Nolan was frowning and glowering at his own fists. “Damned Dennis. His war lasted a hundred damned
hours and he needs his head screwed back on, not because of all the friends he saw killed, but because
of all the Iraqis he thinks he might have killed. What a load of crap.” Johnny faced Mark, his eyes
glistening. “They’re still throwing parties and putting on parades for the bastards! Christ, I even saw a
damned Bart Simpson doll wearing desert camouflage!”

“So, what I hear you saying, Johnny, is that you’re jealous.”

“You’re god damned right I’m jealous!” Johnny glanced up at all of the faces in the bus that were looking
back at him. He slumped back in his seat, sighed, and nodded. Embarrassed once again, he glared at his
knees. “Yeah. Jealous. Who wouldn’t be? A parade isn’t much, but it’s better than having people spit on
you.”

The air brakes squealed as the bus pulled up at the stop on the circle in front of the Lincoln Memorial.
Mark grabbed the back of the seat in front of him and pulled himself to his feet. Once he was standing he
looked down at Johnny. “This is our stop. Are you coming?”

Johnny looked around. “I don’t see it.”

Mark pointed. “It’s up there, a couple hundred yards north off Bacon Drive.”

“I don’t know. It’s just a damned list of names.”

“Come on, Johnny. It’s part of the treatment.”

“Treatment,” muttered Johnny as he angrily shot to his feet and shouldered his way past Mark out of the
bus, Mark following in his wake.

They walked the snow covered sidewalks in silence until the black gash of the memorial’s east wall
leaped out from the dull white that covered Constitution Gardens. The wall was an enormous horizontal
splinter pointing toward the Washington Monument. They stood, looking at the memorial from a distance.

Said Johnny at last, “Did you ever hear what that one brass hat said back when they were trying to get
this thing built? He said, ‘Why build a memorial to losers?’”

“He’s an asshole, Johnny. The world’s full of them. Let’s go.”

The path was difficult to see in the diffused light, and Johnny followed in Mark’s footsteps until they
reached the eighteen inch high end of the memorial’s west wall. The west wall pointed directly at the
Lincoln Memorial. Half buried in the snow at the foot of the wall were tiny American flags, bits of paper,
toys, photos, and other mementos. Here and there, their stems thrust into the cracks between the black
granite slabs, were flowers. A bright yellow carnation, a withered rose. An elderly woman glanced at