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

not to press too hard on any particular blister - So that the tourists
(lessening now as the sun starts to go down) can now plainly see that
there's a man on the highway limping under a huge pack and asking for a
ride, but still they're afraid he may be the Hollywood hitch hiker with the
hidden gun and besides he's got a rucksack on his back as tho he'd just
escaped from the war in Cuba... Or's got dismembered bodies in the bag
anyway - But as I say I dont blame them.
The only car that passes that might have given me a ride is going in
the wrong direction, down to Sur, and it's a rattly old car of some kind
with a big bearded "South Coast Is the Lonely Coast" folksinger in it waving
at me but finally a little truck pulls up and waits for me 50 yards ahead
and I limprun that distance on daggers in my feet - It's a guy with a dog
- He'll drive me to the next gas station, then he turns off - But when he
learns about my feet he takes me clear to the bus station in Monterey -
Just as a gesture of kindness - No particular reason, and I've made no
particular plea about my feet, just mentioned it.
I offer to buy him a beer but he's going on home for supper so I go
into the bus station and clean up and change and pack things away, stow the
bag in the locker, buy the bus ticket, and go limping quietly in the blue
fog streets of Monterey evening feeling lights as feather and happy as a
millionaire - The last time I ever hitch hiked - And NO RIDES a sign.


11


The next sign is in Frisco itself where after a night of perfect sleep
in an old skid row hotel room I go to see Monsanto at his City Lights
bookstore and he's smiling and glad to see me, says "We were coming out to
see you next weekend you should have waited, " but there's something else in
his expression - When we're alone he says "Your mother wrote and said your
cat is dead. "
Ordinarily the death of a cat means little to most men, a lot to fewer
men, but to me, and that cat, it was exactly and no lie and sincerely like
the death of my little brother - I loved Tyke with all my heart, he was my
baby who as a kitten just slept in the palm of my hand with his little head
hanging down, or just purring, for hours, just as long as I held him that
way, walking or sitting - He was like a floppy fur wrap around my wrist, I
just twist him around my wrist or drape him and he just purred and purred
and even when he got big I still held him that way, I could even hold this
big cat in both hands with my arms outstretched right over my head and he'd
just purr, he had complete confidence in me - And when I'd left New York to
come to my retreat in the woods I'd carefully kissed him and instructed him
to wait for me, 'Attends pour mue kitigingoo" - But my mother said in the
letter he had died the NIGHT AFTER I LEFT! - But maybe you'll understand me
by seeing for yourself by reading the letter:

"Sunday 20 July 1960, Dear Son, I'm afraid you wont like my letter
because I only have sad news for you right now. I really dont know how to
tell you this but Brace up Honey. I'm going through hell myself. Little Tyke