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

you."
"Would it be just for me?"
"He wasn't sure."
"Can I have his phone number?"
"Sure."
And that was it.
When I came in after the track the next day Linda said, "Harry Dane
phoned. We talked about the tv thing. He asked if we needed money. I told
him we didn't."
"Is he still coming by?"
"Yes."
I came in a little early from the track the following day. I decided to
hit the Jacuzzi. Linda was out, probably buying libations for the meeting.
I, myself, was getting a little scared about the tv series. They could
really fuck me over. Old writer does this. Old writer does that. Laugh
track. Old writer gets drunk, misses poetry meeting. Well, that wouldn't be
so bad. But I wouldn't want to write he crap, so writing wouldn't be that
good. Here I had written for decades in small rooms, sleeping on park
benches, sitting in bars, working all the stupid jobs, meanwhile writing
exactly as I wanted to and felt I had to. My work was finally getting
recognized. And I was still writing the way I wanted to and felt that I had
to. I was still writing to keep from going crazy, I was still writing,
trying to explain this god-damned life to myself. And here I was being
talked into a tv series on commecial tv. All I had fought so hard for could
be laughed off the boards by some sitcom series with a laugh track. Jesus,
Jesus.
I got undressed and stepped outside to the Jacuzzi. I was thinking
about the tv series, my past life, now and everything else. I wasn't too
aware. I stepped into the Jacuzzi at the wrong end.
I realized it the moment I stepped in. There weren't any steps at that
end. It happened quickly. There was a small platform further in built to sit
on. My right foot caught that, slipped off, and I was thrown off balance.
You're going to hit your head against the edge of the Jacuzzi, went
through my mind.
I concetrated on pushing my head forward as I fell, letting all the
rest go to hell. My right leg took the brunt of the fall, I twisted it but
managed to keep my head from hitting the edge. Then I just floated in the
bubbling water feeling the shots of pain in my right leg. I'd ben having leg
pains there anyhow, now it was really torn up. I felt foolish about it all.
I could have knocked myself out. I could have drowned. Linda would have come
back to find me floating and dead.
FAMOUS WRITER, FORMER SKID ROW POET AND DRUNK
FOUND DEAD IN HIS JACUZZI. HE HAD JUST SIGNED
CONTRACT FOR A SITCOM BASED UPON HIS LIFE.
That's not even a ignoble ending. That is just being shit on entirely
by the gods.
I managed to get out of Jacuzzi and make my way into the house. I could
barely walk. Each step on the right leg brought a mighty pain up the let
from the ankle to the knee. I hobbled toward the refrigerator and pulled out
a beer...