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

I needed shirts. I looked at thirts. Couldn't find a damned one. They
looked like they had been designed by half- wit. I passed. Linda needed a
purse. She found one, marked down 50%. It was $395. It just didn't look like
$395. More like $49.50. She passed. There were 2 chairs with elephant heads
on the backs. Nice. But they were thousands. There was a glass bird, nice,
$75 but Linda said we had no plae to put it. Same with the fish with blue
stripes. I was getting tired. Looking at things made me tired. Department
stores wore me down and stamped on me. There was nothing in them. Tons and
tons of crap. If it were free, I wouldn't take it. Don't they ever sell
anything likeable?
We decided maybe another day. We went to a bookstore. I needed a book
on my computer. I needed to know more. Found a book. Went to the clerk. He
tabbed it up. I paid with a card. "Thank you," he said, "would you be good
enough to sign this?" He handed me my lastest book. There, I was famous.
Noticed twice in the same day. Twice was enough. Three times or more and you
were in trouble. The gods were making it just right for me. I asked his
name, wrote it in, scribbled something, my name and a drawing.
We stopped at the computer store on the way in. I needed paper for the
laser printer. They didn't have any. I showed my fist to the clerk. Made me
think of the old days. He recommended a place. We found it on the way in. We
found everything there, cut-rate. I got enough laser pape to last two years
and likewise mailing envelopes, pens, paper clips. Now, all I had to do was
write.
We drove on in. The security man had left. The tile man had come and
gone. He left a note, "I will be back by 4 p.m." We knew the tile man
wouldn't be bak at 4 p.m. He was crazy. Bad childhood. Very confused. But
good with tiles.
I packed the stuff upstairs. I was ready. I was famous. I was a writer.
I sat down and opened the computer. I opened it to STUPID GAMES. Then I
started playing Tao. I was getting better and better at it. I seldom lost to
the computer. It was easier than beating the horses but somehow not as
fulfilling. Well, I'd be back Wednesday. Playing the horses tightened up my
screws. It was part of the scheme. It worked. And I had 5,000 sheets of
laser paper to fill.

10/31/91 12:27 AM
Terrible day at the racetrack, not so much in money lost, I may even
have won a bob, but the feeling out there was horrible. Nothing was
stirring. It was as if I was doing time and you know, I don't have much time
left. The same faces, the same 18 percent take. Sometimes I feel as if we
are all trapped in a movie. We know our lines, where to walk, how to act,
only there is no camera. Yet, we can't break out of the movie. And it's a
bad one. I know each of the mutuel clerks all too well. We sometimes have
small conversation as I bet. It's my wish to find a noncommital clerk, one
who will simply puch out my tickets and say nothing. But, they all get
social, finally. They are bored. And they are on guard too: many of the
horseplayers are somewhat deranged. There are often confrontations with the
clerks, loud buzzers sound and security comes running. By talking to us, the
clerks can feel us out. They feel safer that way. They prefer the friendly
bettor.