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.dog fight 1990he draws up to my rear bumper in the fast lane.I can see his face in the rear view mirror, his eyesare blue and he sucks on a dead cigar.I pull over.he passes, then slows.I don’t likethis.I pull into the fast lane, ridehis rear bumper.we are as a team passing throughCompton.I turn the radio on and light a cigarette.he ups it 5 mph, I do likewise.we are as a teamentering Inglewood.he pulls out of the fast lane and I drive past.then I slow.when I check the rear view mirror he ison my bumper again.he has almost made me miss my turnoff at Century Blvd.I hit the blinker and fire across 3 lanes oftraffic, just make the off-ramp,cutting in front of an inflammable tanker.blue eyes comes from behind the tanker andwe veer down the ramp in separate lanes to the signal.we sit there side by side, not looking at eachother.I am caught behind an empty school bus as he idlesbehind a Mercedes.the signal switches and he is gone.I cut to theinside lane behind him.then I see the parkinglane open and I flash by to the right of him and theMercedes, turn up the radio, make the green light as theMercedes and blue eyes run the yellow turning into red.they make it as I switch back ahead ofthem in order to miss a parked vegetabletruck.now we are running 1-2-3, not a cop in sight.we aremoving through a 1990 California July.we are driving with skillful nonchalance.we are moving in perfect formation.we are as a teamapproaching L.A.airport.1-2-32-3-13-2-1.I used to feel sorry for Henry Millerwhen he got old he stopped writing, dabbled withpaints and put ads in the UCLA paper forsecretarial help.Henry preferred Oriental ladies, youngonesand they came by and did little things forhimand he fell in love with them,even though there was no sex.he wrote them letters, all his writing went intolove letters.and the ladies were flattered but simply wentonteasing him.he liked having them around.maybe he felt that they held death back alittleor maybe they stopped him from thinkingabout it too muchor maybe the old boy was simplyhorny.I remember a young lady who came tosee me who said,“I was going to fuck Henry Miller before hedied but now it’s too late so I came to seeyou.”“forget it, baby,” I told her.I liked the way Henry Miller looked in hislast years, like a wise Buddhabut he didn’t act like one.I only wish he had gone out in adifferent way,not begging for it,using his name.I would have preferred to see himcontinue to write booksuntil the end,right into the faceof death.but since he couldn’t do itwell, maybe somebody elsecan.there’s some old fartsomewhere,I’m surewho can.if he doesn’t diddle his brainsaway at theracetrack.locked inmorning,it touches the nervesquicklyas if we were already inthe hunter’s sights.the body yawns and stretches in thelight.the pilgrimageis about tobegin.padding to the bathroomto eliminate thepoisons.behind the curtains istheir world.wash hands, neck, face,brush the remaining teethfor the remainingdays.clothe thyself.not that shirt!it’s depressing…get something green, somethingyellow.there, look.smile.shoes, damned shoes.shoes look so sad.you can’t hide facts fromshoes.forget the shoes,put on your stupid shorts.your fat buttery pants.now, the shoes.you forgot your hair.comb your hair.you look crazy with your hairuncombed.you’re not crazy, areyou?your wife is still asleep.you’re lucky.she’s lucky.smile.you’re not crazy, areyou?you go downstairs.the animals wait for you.the plants look at youwhile the termites eat the wood.the ant army beneath,the poisoned air above.your car outside.your intestines, your belly,your heart, your brain, youretc.inside.you’re sane,you’re normal.you make sensibledecisions?only there’s a limit.that’s the catch.you’re the catch.caught.is it better to be a termite?an ocelot?a metronome?a park bench?or East Kansas City?I feed the animals.for that moment, that is whatI do.I feed the animals.it’seasy.wastedtoo often the people complain that they havedone nothing with theirlivesand then they wait for somebody to tell themthat this isn’t so.look, you’ve done this and that and you’vedone that and that’ssomething.you really think so?of course.butthey had it right.they’ve done nothing.shown no courage.no inventiveness.they did what they were taught todo.they did what they were told todo.they had no resistance, no thoughtsof their own.they were pushed and shovedand went obediently.they had no heart.they were cowardly.they stank in life.they stank up life.and now they want to be told thatthey didn’t fail.you’ve met them.they’re everywhere.the spiritless.the dead-before-death gang.be kind?lie to them?tell them what they want to hear?tell them anything they want to hear?people with courage made them what theyaren’t.and if they ask me, I’ll tell them what theydon’t want to hear.it’s better youkeep them away from me, orthey’ll tell you I’m a cruel man.it’s better that they conferwith you.I want to be free ofthat.Sunday lunch at the Holy Missionhe got knifed in broad daylight, came up the streetholding his hands over his gut, dripping redon the pavement.nobody waiting in line left their place to help him.he made it to the Mission doorway, collapsed in thelobby where the desk clerk screamed, “hey, youson-of-a-bitch, what are you doing?”then he called an ambulance but the man was deadwhen they got there.the police came and circled the spots of bloodon the pavementwith white chalkphotographed everythingthen asked the men waiting for their Sunday mealif they had seen anythingif they knew anything.they all said “no” to both.while the police strutted in their uniformsthe others finally loaded the body into an ambulance.afterwards the homeless men rolled cigarettesas they waited for their mealtalking about the actionblowing farts and smokeenjoying the sunfeeling quite likecelebrities.slaughterthe first seven rows were roped off for the Counselorsof Exceptional Children, the Frequent Flyers Club, and theGerman Society.it was Saturday at the track and they were all talkingat once, standing up, sitting down, waving, laughing.when the winner of the first race came in, most of themleaped up and down screaming and some of them huggedone another.it was difficult to believe that they had all bet on the samehorse [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]