"Чарльз Буковски. Бутерброд с дерьмом (engl)" - читать интересную книгу автора

slapped the palms of our hands with a ruler when she thought we were being
disobedient. I don't think she ever went to the bathroom. I hated her.


Each afternoon after school there would be a fight between two of the
older boys. It was always out by the back fence where there was never a
teacher about. And the fights were never even; it was always a larger boy
against a smaller boy and the larger boy would beat the smaller boy with his
fists, backing him into the fence. The smaller boy would attempt to fight
hack but it was useless. Soon his face was bloody, the blood running down
into his shirt. The smaller boys took their beatings wordlessly, never
begging, never asking mercy. Finally, the larger boy would hack off and it
would be over and all the other boys would walk home with the winner. I'd
walk home quickly, alone, after holding my shit all through school and all
through the fight. Usually by the time I got home I would have lost the urge
to relieve myself. I used to worry about that.

6
I didn't have any friends at school, didn't want any. I felt better
being alone. I sat on a bench and watched the others play and they looked
foolish to me. During lunch one day I was approached by a new boy. He wore
knickers, was cross-eyed and pigeon-toed. I didn't like him, he didn't look
good. He sat on the bench next to me.
"Hello, my name's David."
I didn't answer.
He opened his lunch bag. "I've got peanut butter sandwiches,"
he said. "What do you have?"
"Peanut butter sandwiches."
"I've got a banana, too. And some potato chips. Want some potato
chips?"
I took some. He had plenty, they were crisp and salty, the sun shone
right through them. They were good.
"Can I have some more?"
"All right."
I took some more. He even had jelly on his peanut butter sandwiches. It
dripped out and ran over his fingers. David didn't seem to notice,
"Where do you live?" he asked.
"Virginia Road."
"I live on Pickford. We can walk home together after school. Take some
more potato chips. Who's your teacher?"
"Mrs. Columbine."
"I have Mrs. Reed. I'll see you after class, we'll walk home together."

Why did he wear those knickers? What did he want? I really didn't like
him. I took some more of his potato chips.


That afternoon, after school, he found me and began walking along
beside me. "You never told me your name," he said.
"Henry," I answered.