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

"Listen," said the boy, "we have our own garage. We can take it down
there, maybe fix it today. If not, we'll write you up and give you a call at
first opportunity."
Right there I visualized my car at their garage for a week. To be told
that I needed a new camshaft. Or my cylinder heads ground.
"Tow me to Acura," I said.
"Wait," said the boy, "I gotta call my boss first."
I waited. He came back.
"He said to jump start you."
"What?"
"Jump start."
"All right, let's do it."
I got in my car let it roll to the back of his truck. He got out the
snakes and it started right up. I signed the papers and he drove off and I
drove off...
Then I decided to drop the car off at the corner garage. "We know you.
You been coming here for years," said the manager.
"Good," I said, then smiled, "so don't screw me."
He just looked at me.
"Give us 45 minutes."
"All right."
"You need a ride?"
"Sure."
He pointed. "He'll take you."
Nice boy standing there. We walked to his car. I gave him the
directions. We drove up the hill.
"You still making movies?" he asked me.
I was a celebrity, you see.
"No," I said, "fuck Hollywood."
He didn't understand that.
"Stop here," I said.
"Oh, that's a big house."
"I just work there," I said.
It was true.
I got out. Gave him 2 dollars. He prostested but took them.
I walked up the driveway. The cats were sprawled about, pooped. In my
next life I want to be a cat. To sleep 20 hours a day and wait to be fed. To
sit around licking my ass. Humans are too miserable and angry and single-
minded.
I walked up and sat at the computer. It's my new consoler. My writing
has doubled in power and output since I have gotten it. It's a magic thing.
I sit in front of it like most people sit in front of their tv sets.
"It's only a glorified typewriter," my son-in-law told me once.
But he isn't a writer. He doesn't know what it is when words bite into
space, flash into light, when the thoughts that come into the head can be
followed at once by words, which encourages more thoughts and more words to
follow. With a typewriter it's like walking through mud. With a computer,
it's ice skating. It's a blazing blast. Of course, if there's nothing inside
you, it doesn't matter. And then there's the clean-up work, the corrections.
Hell, I used to have to write everyhing twice. The first time to get it down