Читать книгу The Pleasures of the Damned - Charles Bukowski - Страница 40

a time to remember

at North Avenue 21 drunk tank you slept on the floor and at night

there was always some guy who would step on your face on his

way to the crapper

and then you would curse him good, set him straight, so that

he would know enough to either be more careful or to

just lay there and hold it.

there was a large hill in back dense with foliage

you could see it through the barred window

and a few of the guys after being released would not go back to

skid row, they’d just walk up into that green hill where

they lived like animals.

part of it was a campground and some lived out of the

trash cans while others trekked back to skid row for meals but then

returned

and they all sold their blood each week for

wine.

there must have been 18 or 20 of them up there and

they were more or less just as happy as corporate lawyers

stockbrokers or airline

pilots.

civilization is divided into parts, like an orange, and when you

peel the skin off, pull the sections apart, chew it, the

final result is a mouthful of pale pulp which you can either

swallow or spit

out.

some just swallow it

like the guys down at North Avenue

21.