"Чарльз Буковски. Дневник последних лет жизни (engl)" - читать интересную книгу автора

I went by instinct. I went into the post office, took a stairway down
and there in a dark corner, all alone and unannounced was a telephone. A
sticky dirty dark telephone. There was not another within two miles. I knew
how to work a telephone. Maybe. Information. The operator's voice came
through and I felt saved. It was a calm and boring voice and asked what city
I wanted. I named the city and the Auto Club. (You have to know how to do
all the little things and you have to do them over and over again or you are
dead. Dead in the streets. Unattended, unwanted.) The lady gave me a number
but it was a wrong number. For the business office. Then I got he garage. A
macho voice, cool, weary yet combative. Wonderful I gave him the info. "30
minutes," he said.
I went back to the car, opened a letter. It was a poem. Christ. It was
about me. And him. We had met, it seemed, twice, about 15 years ago. He had
also published me in his magazine. I was a great poet, he said, but I drank.
And had lived a miserable down-and-out life. Now yong poets were drinking
and living miserable and down-and-out because they thought that was the way
to make it. Also, I had attacked other people in my poems, including him.
And I had imagined that he had written unflattering poems about me. Not
true. He was really a nice person, he said he had published many other poets
in his magazine for 15 years. And I was not a nice person. I was a great
writer but not a nice person. And he never would have ever "paled" around
with me. That's what he wrote: "paled." And he kept spelling "you're" as
"your." He wasn't a good speller.
It was hot in the car. It was 100 degrees, the hottest Oct. first since
1906.
I wasn't going to respond to his letter. He would write again.
Another letter from an agent, enclosing the work of a writer. I
glanced. Bad stuff. Of course. "If you have any suggestions on his writing
or any publishing leads, we would much appreciate.."
Another letter from a lady thanking me for sending her husband a few
lines and a drawing at ther suggestion, that it made him very happy. But now
they were divorced and she was frelancing it and could she come by and
interview me?
Twice a week I get requests for interviews. There's just not that much
to talk about. There are plenty of things to write about but not to talk
about.
I remember once, in the old days, some German journalist was
interviewing me. I had poured wine into him and had talked for 4 hours.
After that, he had leaned forward drunkenly and said, "I am no interviewer.
I just wanted an excuse to see you.."
I tossed the mail to the side and sat waiting. Then I saw the tow
truck. A young smiling fellow. Nice boy. Sure.
"HEY BABY!" I yelled, "OVER HERE!"
He backed it around and I got out and told him the problem.
"Tow me into the Acura garage," I told him.
"Your warranty still good on that car?" he asked.
He knew damn well it wasn't. It was 1991 and I was driving a 1989.
"Doesn't matter," I said, "tow me to the Acura dealer."
"Take them a long time to fix it, maybe a week."
"Hell no, they are very fast."