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- Чарльз Буковски
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"
I
don
’
t
know
.
Think
back
.
Maybe
there
’
s
something
.
"
"
I
can
’
t
think
of
anything
.
"
"
Move
in
with
me
.
"
"
You
couldn
’
t
stand
the
kid
.
"
"
You
’
re
right
.
"
The
days
passed
.
The
owner
remained
invisible
,
he
didn
’
t
like
to
deal
with
the
tenants
.
The
manager
stood
behind
the
eviction
notice
.
Even
Bobby
became
less
visible
,
ate
t
.
v
.
dinners
,
smoked
his
grass
and
listened
to
his
stereo
.
"
Hey
,
man
,
"
he
told
me
,
"
I
don
’
t
even
like
your
old
lady
!
She
’
s
busting
up
our
friendship
,
man
!
"
"
Right
on
,
Bobby
.
.
.
"
I
drove
to
the
market
and
got
some
empty
cardboard
cartons
.
Then
Tammie
’
s
sister
,
Cathy
,
went
crazy
in
Denver
-
after
losing
a
lover
-
and
Tammie
had
to
go
see
her
,
with
Dancy
.
I
drove
them
down
to
the
train
depot
.
I
put
them
on
the
train
.
That
evening
the
phone
rang
.
It
was
Mercedes
.
I
had
met
her
after
giving
a
poetry
reading
at
Venice
Beach
.
She
was
about
28
,
fair
body
,
pretty
good
legs
,
a
blonde
about
5
~
feet
-
5
,
a
blue
-
eyed
blonde
.
Her
hair
was
long
and
slightly
wavy
and
she
smoked
continuously
.
Her
conversation
was
dull
,
and
her
laugh
was
loud
and
false
,
most
of
the
time
.
I
had
gone
to
her
place
after
the
reading
.
She
lived
off
the
boardwalk
in
an
apartment
.
I
’
d
played
the
piano
and
she
’
d
played
the
bongos
.
There
was
a
jug
of
Red
Mountain
.
There
were
joints
.
I
got
too
drunk
to
leave
.
I
had
slept
there
that
night
and
left
in
the
morning
.
