extras din "Septuagenarian Stew: stories and poems"

Charles Bukowski este autorul. Povestirea reprodusa integral mai jos face parte din 'culegerea' numita in titlul postului.

"CAMUS

Larry awakened, got out of the twisted sheets, walked to the window which
overlooked the neighborhood to the east. He saw the garage roofs and the
trees with their barren branches. His hangover was about standard and he
walked to the bathroom to piss, did that, turned to the basin to wash his
hands, then he splashed water on his face. Then he did it: he looked at the
face in the mirror, found it less than enchanting. He let the bathwater run,
thinking, the problem with the History of Man is that it doesn’t lead anywhere
except toward certain death for the individual, and that was drab
and ugly, garbage disposal stuff.

His cat, Hog, walked in. Hog just stared at him, he wanted his cat food.
That animal, thought Larry, is just a walking belly, and if I want to fly back
east for a couple of weeks I’ve either got to board the son of a bitch or shoot
him. Maybe if I want to fly back east I ought to shoot myself; but I don’t
want to shoot myself. Too many men have been shot, I want something
more individual. Like pills? No, pills were too blase, even when they induced
death.

Larry checked his face in the glass again: shave? No.

Larry made it to his 11 a.m. class.
There they were: those young girls, the promise that never lasted, those
young girls, those great momentary decorations, so bright, so fresh. He
liked them. The boys were almost as good as the girls. As the decades rolled
on the boys and the girls were becoming almost one. The boys had a grace
that the boys of his age had never had. They also seemed more kind. One
thing they seemed to lack was courage but maybe their courage was more
sublime, hidden. The Atomic Generation had bred a strange gang, and
Larry had decided long ago that to judge them was only a protective shield
raised to hide his own shortcomings.
Larry looked at them from behind his desk. That desk, the symbol of
power.
“Well, shit…” he said.
Some of them laughed.
“I’ve already shit,” some bright guy said.
“Did you wipe?” Larry asked.
“Probably not enough,” the bright guy responded.
“Which is the answer to almost everything,” Larry suggested.
“Hey,” said a fat boy in a yellow jumpsuit from one of the rear seats, “all
this talk about shit. I thought this was a course in Modern Lit. Is this what
they pay you for?”
“Most men are terribly incompetent in their profession. I might be one
of those. I’m not quite sure. One thing I am quite sure of is that I can kick
your ass. This isn’t really important but somehow it soothes me…”
The kid in the yellow jumpsuit leaped up: “I’ll call you on that!”
“O.K.,” said Larry, “let’s go.”
The class filed slowly outside. They waited for Larry and the boy. They
formed a circle under the oak tree near the library. The warriors arrived.
Larry took off his coat, threw it on the ground. The fat boy in the jumpsuit
inhaled deeply and puffed himself up. He looked like several thousand
frogs. Then he charged.
Larry jabbed him coming in, then dug a right into his gut. The fat boy
let out a little fart, backed off.
Then the fat boy began circling. Larry began circling.
They both circled. They circled and circled.
“Come on!” somebody in the crowd hollered. “Let’s get it on!”
Larry waved the fat boy in: “Come on, I’ll cut you to pieces!”
“You old fuck,” said the fat boy, “I’ll kick your dead ass!”
They kept circling. Some of the students returned to the classroom for
their belongings. Others left for somewhere else.
Then Larry and the boy were alone, circling.
The fat boy said, “I’m gonna get my dad to have you fired!”
“We aren’t going to fight,” said Larry, “we are afraid of each other.”
Larry turned and walked back to the classroom. When he got there about
half the class was waiting.
Then the fat boy walked in and took his seat in the rear. Larry looked at
him: “You’re going to have a tough time getting an ‘A’ out of me.”
“I know,” the boy answered. “That takes tight young pussy.”
“And more than once,” Larry added.
Larry surveyed what was left of the class:
“Now, anybody else who wants the shit kicked out of them, please stand
up!”
One of the boys stood up. Then another. Soon they were all standing.
Then one of the girls stood up. Then another. Soon everybody was standing.
“All right,” said Larry, “sit down. Or I’m going to flunk this whole
fucking class.”
They sat down.
“Power destroys,” Larry told them, “and the lack of it creates a world
of misfits. But I’ll let you off the hook. I won’t flunk you if one of you can
name a fairly good writer for me. His name spelled backwards is ‘s-u-ma-c.’”
“Smack,” said some wise guy.
“No. that’s ‘Kcams,’ the great Hungarian poet and horse thief of the 19th
century. You’ve all just flunked. What do you think about that?”
“What do you think about Capote?” somebody asked.
“I never think about him.”
“Mailer?”
“Just his wives.”
“God?”
“I especially don’t think about God.”
“If you especially don’t,” said somebody, “that means that you especially
do.”
“You mean,” asked Larry, “that if I don’t fuck it means that I do?”
Then the bell rang, tolling for everybody.
That seemed more like 20 minutes, Larry thought. Nothing like a bit of
brisk physical exercise to pass the time.
“When I see you next Wednesday, if I do,” Larry addressed the departing
students, “I’ll expect an essay from each of you, the subject will be ‘Who
Wrote Our National Anthem, and Why?’”
They filed out, grumbling profanities like what has this got to do with
Modern Lit.?
Then they were gone except for one young girl who closed in on Larry’s
desk.
She looked very fine in the noon light. It drove through her thin tight
dress. He sat there. He felt her flank rub against his left shoulder.
“I like you, Jansen,” she said, using his last name, “I don’t know how to
say this, it might sound awkward…”
“Just press your legs together tight and try.”
“Well, I understand why your class is the most popular on campus. It’s
energetic, descriptive, it’s entertaining, it’s got soul…”
“Soul, that’s what we need. Thank you…”
“Denise.”
“Thank you, Denise.”
She pressed her flank against him. “This is a bit easier for me to say: if
you ever want some of that tight young pussy you’re always talking
about…”
“You don’t mean that?” he looked up at her.
“Sure, for that ‘A,’ I mean it.”
Larry kept looking at her. “Jesus Christ, do you think I can be bought
that easily?”
“Yes,” she smiled, “just write your phone number on that note pad there,
rip it off and give it to me. I’ll arrange the rest…”
Larry picked up his pen and wrote his number down, slid it toward her
flank. Her hand came down, picked up the paper, folded it, and then she
was gone.
Larry stood up, put his coat on. He had a 2 p.m. class and then the day
was over.
One thing he knew, though, he was going to flunk that fat son of a bitch
in the yellow jumpsuit. And wasn’t that something? Arthur Koestler and
his wife in a double suicide?
He walked out of the class and was soon upon the campus green. Time
for a quiet lunch at the Blue Moon and a couple of drinks. It was a mile or
so from the university but well worth the drive. A damn good place to
unwind."

Oh, well, just relax...