Читать книгу The Pleasures of the Damned - Charles Bukowski - Страница 20

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fooling Marie (the poem)

he met her at the racetrack, a strawberry

blonde with round hips, well-bosomed, long legs,

turned-up nose, flower mouth, in a pink dress,

wearing white high-heeled shoes.

she began asking him questions about various

horses while looking up at him with her pale blue

eyes.

he suggested the bar and they had a drink, then

watched the next race together.

he hit fifty-win on a sixty-to-one shot and she

jumped up and down.

then she whispered in his ear,

“you’re the magic man! I want to fuck you!”

he grinned and said, “I’d like to, but

Marie … my wife …”

she laughed, “we’ll go to a motel!”

so they cashed the ticket, went to the parking lot,

got into her car. “I’ll drive you back when

we’re finished,” she smiled.

they found a motel about a mile

west. she parked, they got out, checked in, went to

room 302.

they had stopped for a bottle of Jack Daniel’s

on the way. he stood and took the glasses out of the

cellophane. as she undressed he poured two.

she had a marvelous young body. she sat on the edge of

the bed sipping at the Jack Daniel’s as he

undressed. he felt awkward, fat and old

but knew he was lucky: it promised to be his best day

ever.

then he too sat on the edge of the bed with her and

his Jack Daniel’s. she reached over

and grabbed him between the legs, bent over

and went down on him.

he pulled her under the covers and they played some more.

finally, he mounted her and it was great, it was a

miracle, but soon it ended, and when she

went to the bathroom he poured two more drinks

thinking, I’ll shower real good, Marie will never

know.

she came out and they sat in bed

making small talk.

“I’m going to shower now,” he told her,

“I’ll be out soon.”

“o.k., cutie,” she said.

he soaped good in the shower, washing away all the

perfume, the woman-smell.

“hurry up, daddy!” he heard her say.

“I won’t be long, baby!” he yelled from the

shower.

he got out, toweled off, then opened the bathroom

door and stepped out.

the motel room was empty.

she was gone.

on some impulse he ran to the closet, pulled the door

open: nothing there but coat hangers.

then he noticed that his clothes were gone, his underwear,

his shirt, his pants with the car keys and his wallet,

all the money, his shoes, his stockings, everything.

on another impulse he looked under the bed.

nothing.

then he saw the bottle of Jack Daniel’s, half full,

standing on the dresser.

he walked over and poured a drink.

as he did he saw the word scrawled on the dresser

mirror in pink lipstick: SUCKER.

he drank the whiskey, put the glass down and watched himself

in the mirror, very fat, very tired, very old.

he had no idea what to do next.

he carried the whiskey, back to the bed, sat down,

lifted the bottle and sucked at it as the light from the

boulevard came in through the dusty blinds. then he just sat

and looked out and watched the cars, passing back and

forth.

The Pleasures of the Damned

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