"Чарльз Буковски. Дневник последних лет жизни (engl)" - читать интересную книгу автора There was another one. His mother bought him his food, his car, his
insurance, his rent and even wrote some of his stuff. Unbelievable. And it had gone on for decades. There was another fellow, he always seemed very calm, well-fed. He taught a poetry workshop at a church every Sunday afternoon. He had a nice apartment. He was a member of the communist party. Let's call him Fred. I asked an older lady who attended his workshop and admired him greatly, "Listen, how does Fred make it?" "Oh," she said, "Fred doesn't want anybody to know because he's very private that way but he makes his money by scrubbing food trucks." "Food trucks?" "Yes, you know those wagons that go about dispensing coffee and sandwiches at break time and lunch time at work places, well, Fred scrubs those food trucks." A couple of years went by and then it was discovered that Fred also owned a couple of apartment houses and that he lived mainly off the rents. When I found this out I got drunk one night and drove over to Fred's apartment. It was located over a little theater. Very arty stuff. I jumped out of my car and rang the bell. He wouldn't answer. I knew he was up there. I had seen his shadow moving behind the curtains. I went back to my car and started honking the horn and yelling, "Hey, Fred, come on out!" I threw a beer bottle at one of his windows. It bounced off. That got him. He came out on his little balcony and peered down at me. "Bukowski, go away!". "Fred, come on down here and I'll kick your ass, you communist land owner!" got the idea that he was calling the police. I had seen enough of them. I got into my car and drove back to my place. Another poet lived in this house down by the waterfront. Nice house. He never had a job. I kept after him, "How do you make it? How do you make it?" Finally, he gave in. "My parents own property and I collect the rents for them. They pay me a salary." He got a damned good salary, I imagine. Anyhow, at least he told me. Some never do. There was this other guy. He wrote fair poetry but very little of it. He always had his nice apartment. Or he was going off to Hawaii or somewhere. He was one of the most relaxed of them all. Always in new and freshly pressed clothing, new shoes. Neved needed a shave, a haircut, had bright flashing teeth. "Come on, baby, how do you make it?" he never let on. He didn't even smile. He just stood there silently. Then there's another type that lives on handouts. I wrote a poem about one of them but never sent it out because I finally felt sorry for him. Here is some of it jammed together: Jack with the hair hanging, Jack demanding money, Jack of the big gut, Jack of the loud, loud voice, Jack of the trade, Jack who prances before the ladies, Jack who thinks he's a genius, Jack who pukes, Jack who badmounts the lucky, Jack getting older and older, Jack still demanding money, Jack sliding down the beanstalk, Jack who talks about it but doesn't do it, Jack who gets away with murder, Jack who jacks, Jack who talks of the old days, Jack who talks and talks, Jack with the hand out, Jack who terrorizes the weak, Jack the embittered, Jack of the coffee shops, Jack screaming for |
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