Читать книгу The Pleasures of the Damned - Charles Bukowski - Страница 18

eulogy

with old cars, especially when you buy them secondhand and drive them for many years

a love affair is inevitable:

you even learn to

accept their little

eccentricities:

the leaking water pump

the failing plugs

the rusted throttle arm

the reluctant carburetor

the oily engine

the dead clock

the frozen speedometer and

other sundry

defects.

you also learn all the tricks to

keep the love affair alive:

how to slam the glove compartment so that

it will stay closed,

how to slap the headlight with an open palm

in order to have

light,

how many times to pump the gas pedal

and how long to wait before

touching the starter,

and you overlook each burn hole in the

upholstery

and each spring

poking through the fabric.

your car has been in and out of

police impounds,

has been ticketed for various

malfunctions:

broken wipers,

no turn signals, missing

brake light, broken tail lights, bad

brakes, excessive

exhaust and so forth

but in spite of everything

you knew you were in good hands,

there was never an accident, the

old car moved you from one place to

another,

faithfully

—the poor man’s miracle.

so when that last breakdown did occur,

when the valves quit,

when the tired pistons

cracked, or the

crankshaft failed and

you sold it for

junk

—you then had to watch it carted

away

hanging there

from the back of the tow truck

wheeled off

as if it had no

soul,

the bald rear tires

the cracked back window and

the twisted license plate

were the last things you

saw, and it

hurt

as if some woman you loved very

much

and lived with

year after year

had died

and now you

would never

again know

her music

her magic

her unbelievable

fidelity.