Читать книгу Dreaming of Babylon - Richard Brautigan - Страница 17

1934

Suddenly I remembered that earlier in the day I was supposed to make a phone call but I didn’t have a nickel then, but now I did, thanks to Sergeant Rink, so I stopped at a telephone booth and made the call.

The person I was supposed to call wasn’t home and the telephone didn’t return my nickel. I hit it a half-a-dozen times with my fist and called it a son-of-a-bitch. That didn’t work either. Then I noticed some mustard on the receiver and I felt a little better.

I’d have to call again later on and my original seventy-five cents was busy wasting away. This could be very funny if it was a laughing matter.

Anyway, I wasn’t hungry, any more.

Got to keep looking at the bright side.

Can’t let it get to me.

If it really gets to me I start thinking about Babylon and then it only gets worse because I’d sooner think about Babylon than anything else and when I start thinking about Babylon I can’t do anything but think about Babylon and my whole life falls to pieces.

Anyway, that’s what it’s been doing for the last eight years, ever since 1934, which was when I started thinking about Babylon.