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- Чарльз Буковски
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Being
there
with
Katherine
felt
strange
.
Human
relationships
were
strange
.
I
mean
,
you
were
with
one
person
a
while
,
eating
and
sleeping
and
living
with
them
,
loving
them
,
talking
to
them
,
going
places
together
,
and
then
it
stopped
.
Then
there
was
a
short
period
when
you
weren
’
t
with
anybody
,
then
another
woman
arrived
,
and
you
ate
with
her
and
fucked
her
,
and
it
all
seemed
so
normal
,
as
if
you
had
been
waiting
just
for
her
and
she
had
been
waiting
for
you
.
I
never
felt
right
being
alone
;
sometimes
it
felt
good
but
it
never
felt
right
.
The
first
fight
was
a
good
one
,
lots
of
blood
and
courage
.
There
was
something
to
be
learned
about
writing
from
watching
boxing
matches
or
going
to
the
racetrack
.
The
message
wasn
’
t
clear
but
it
helped
me
.
That
was
the
important
part
:
the
message
wasn
’
t
clear
.
It
was
wordless
,
like
a
house
burning
,
or
an
earthquake
or
a
flood
,
or
a
woman
getting
out
of
a
car
,
showing
her
legs
.
I
didn
’
t
know
what
other
writers
needed
;
I
didn
’
t
care
,
I
couldn
’
t
read
them
anyway
.
I
was
locked
into
my
own
habits
,
my
own
prejudices
.
It
wasn
’
t
bad
being
dumb
if
the
ignorance
was
all
your
own
.
I
knew
that
some
day
I
would
write
about
Katherine
and
that
it
would
be
hard
.
It
was
easy
to
write
about
whores
,
but
to
write
about
a
good
woman
was
much
more
difficult
.
The
second
fight
was
good
,
too
.
The
crowd
screamed
and
roared
and
swilled
beer
.
They
had
temporarily
escaped
the
factories
,
the
warehouses
,
the
slaughterhouses
,
the
car
washes
-
they
’
d
be
back
in
captivity
the
next
day
but
now
they
were
out
-
they
were
wild
with
freedom
.
They
weren
’
t
thinking
about
the
slavery
of
poverty
.
Or
the
slavery
of
welfare
and
food
stamps
.
The
rest
of
us
would
be
all
right
until
the
poor
learned
how
to
make
atom
bombs
in
their
basements
.
All
the
fights
were
good
.
I
got
up
and
went
to
the
restroom
.
When
I
got
back
Katherine
was
very
still
.
She
looked
more
like
she
should
be
attending
a
ballet
or
a
concert
.
She
looked
so
delicate
and
yet
she
was
such
a
marvelous
fuck
.
I
kept
drinking
and
Katherine
would
grab
one
of
my
hands
when
a
fight
became
exceptionally
brutal
.
The
crowd
loved
knockouts
.
They
screamed
when
one
of
the
fighters
was
on
the
way
out
.
They
were
landing
those
punches
.
Maybe
they
were
punching
out
their
bosses
or
their
wives
.
Who
knew
?
Who
cared
?
More
beer
.
I
suggested
to
Katherine
that
we
leave
before
the
final
bout
.
I
’
d
had
enough
.
"
All
right
,
"
she
said
.
We
walked
up
the
narrow
aisle
,
the
air
blue
with
smoke
.
There
was
no
whistling
,
no
obscene
gestures
.
My
scarred
and
battered
face
was
sometimes
an
asset
.
We
walked
back
to
the
small
parking
lot
under
the
freeway
.
The
’
67
blue
Volks
was
not
there
.
The
’
67
model
was
the
last
good
Volks
-
and
the
young
men
knew
it
.
"
Hepburn
,
they
stole
our
fucking
car
.
"
