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- Чарльз Буковски
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- Стр. 33/501
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I
had
forgotten
where
my
room
was
,
which
floor
it
was
on
.
All
I
wanted
,
finally
,
was
to
get
back
to
my
room
.
I
tried
all
the
doors
again
,
this
time
silently
,
very
conscious
of
my
shorts
and
stockings
.
No
luck
.
"
The
greatest
men
are
the
most
alone
.
"
Back
on
the
third
floor
I
twisted
a
doorknob
and
the
door
opened
.
There
was
my
portfolio
of
poems
.
.
.
the
empty
drinking
glasses
,
ashtrays
full
of
cigarette
stubs
.
.
.
my
pants
,
my
shirt
,
my
shoes
,
my
coat
.
It
was
a
wonderful
sight
.
I
closed
the
door
,
sat
down
on
the
bed
and
finished
the
bottle
of
whiskey
that
I
had
been
carrying
with
me
.
I
awakened
.
It
was
daylight
.
I
was
in
a
strange
clean
place
with
two
beds
,
drapes
,
t
.
v
.
,
bath
.
It
appeared
to
be
a
motel
room
.
I
got
up
and
opened
the
door
.
There
was
snow
and
ice
out
there
.
I
closed
the
door
and
looked
around
.
There
was
no
explanation
.
I
had
no
idea
where
I
was
.
I
was
terribly
hung
over
and
depressed
.
I
reached
for
the
telephone
and
placed
a
long
distance
call
to
Lydia
in
Los
Angeles
.
"
Baby
,
I
don
’
t
know
where
I
am
!
"
"
I
thought
you
went
to
Kansas
City
?
"
"
I
did
.
But
now
I
don
’
t
know
where
I
am
,
you
understand
?
I
opened
the
door
and
looked
and
there
’
s
nothing
but
frozen
roads
,
ice
,
snow
!
"
"
Where
were
you
staying
?
"
"
Last
thing
I
remember
I
had
a
room
in
the
women
’
s
dorm
.
"
"
Well
,
you
probably
made
an
ass
out
of
yourself
and
they
moved
you
to
a
motel
.
Don
’
t
worry
.
Somebody
will
show
up
to
take
care
of
you
.
"
"
Christ
,
don
’
t
you
have
any
sympathy
for
my
situation
?
"
