"Джек Керуак. Big Sur (engl)" - читать интересную книгу автора

every time they stop at a roadside dive for bacon and eggs - Every time the
old man's trousers start to get creased a little in the front he's made to
take down a fresh pair of slacks from the back rack and go on, like that,
bleakly, tho he might have secretly wished just a good oldtime fishing trip
alone or with his buddies for this year's vacation - But the PTA has
prevailed over every one of his desires by now, 1960s, it's no time for him
to yearn for Big Two Hearted River and the old sloppy pants and string of
fish in the tent, or the woodfire with Bourbon at night - It's time for
motels, roadside driveins, bringing napkins to the gang in the car, having
the car washed before the return trip - And if he thinks he wants to
explore any of the silent secret roads of America it's no go, the lady in
the sneering dark glasses has now become the navigator and sits there
sneering over her previously printed blue-lined roadmap distributed by happy
executives in neckties to the vacationists of America who would also wear
neckties (after having come along so far) but the vacation fashion is sports
shirts, long visored hats, dark glasses, pressed slacks and baby's first
shoes dipped in gold oil dangling from the dashboard - So here I am
standing in that road with that big woeful rucksack but also probably with
that expression of horror on my face after all those nights sitting in the
seashore under giant black cliffs, they see in me the very apotheosical
opposite of their every vacation dream and of course drive on - That
afternoon I say about five thousand cars or probably three thousand passed
me not one of them ever dreamed of stopping - Which didnt bother me anyway
because at first seeing that gorgeous long coast up to Monterey I thought
"Well I'll just hike right in, it's only fourteen miles, I oughta do that
easy" - And on the way there's all kindsa interesting things to see anyway
like the seals barking on rocks below, or quiet old farms made of logs on
the hills across the highway, or sudden upstretches that go along dreamy
seaside meadows where cows grace and graze in full sight of endless blue
Pacific - But because I'm wearing desert boots with their fairly thin
soles, and the sun is beating hot on the tar road, the heat finally gets
through the soles and I begin to deliver heat blisters inmy sockiboos - I'm
limping along wondering what's the matter with me when I realize I've got
blisters - I sit by the side of the road and look - I take out my first
aid kit from the pack and apply unguents and put on cornpads and carry on -
But the combination of the heavy pack and the heat of the road increases the
pain of the blisters until finally I realize I've got to hitch hike a ride
or never make it to Monterey at all. But the tourists bless their hearts
after all, they couldnt know, only think I'm having a big happy hike with my
rucksack and they drive on, even tho I stick out my thumb
- I'm in despair because I'm really stranded now, and by the time I've
walked seven miles I still have seven to go but I cant go on another step -
I'm also thirsty and there are absolutely no filling stations or anything
along the way
- My feet are ruined and burned, it develops now into a day of
complete torture, from nine o'clock in the morning till four in the
afternoon I negotiate those nine or so miles when I finally have to stop and
sit down and wipe the blood off my feet - And then when I fix the feet and
put the shoes on again, to hike on, I can only do it mincingly with little
twinkletoe steps like Babe Ruth, twisting footsteps every way I can think of