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Гасри, Вуди - Гасри - Прикосновение к славе (engl)Проза и поэзия >> Переводная проза >> Гасри, Вуди Читать целиком юЪДС фВЗНС. Bound for glory (engl)
First Plume Printing, September, 1983
Copyright 1943 by E. P. Dutton
Renewed copyright 1971 by Marjorie M. Guthrie
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING IN PUBLICATION DATA:
Guthrie, Woody, 1912-1967.
Bound for glory.
Reprint. Originally published: New York: E. P. Dutton, 1943.
Scan, OCR & proofreadin': T.A.G. a.k.a. Copper Kettle, November
2002, Ekaterinburg
лНПЛФНВПСГ ЗЛЯНВКЕКВ. юЗЕ ФНВЙЙВОСАЕЗХСЕ ЛЩСЧХС - ВЮОЛНВ. нСЗЪКХС -
ОЛРЕ.
мНЛЗЫЧВ КЕ СЗМНВЮИГОЫ. кВЗИВРДВУОЕЗЫ - ШОЛ ЛДКВ СЖ ИЪАЩСЯ ХКСФ СЖ ОЕЯ,
АОЛ Г МНЛАЕИ..
SO LONG, WOODY,
IT`S BEEN GOOD TO KNOW YA
Woody Guthrie, 1912-1967
One of Woody Guthrie's last songs, written a year after he entered the
hospital, was titled I Ain't Dead Yet. The doctors told him he had
Huntington's chorea, probably inherited, a progressive degeneration of the
nervous system for which there was no cure known. For thirteen more years he
hung on, refusing to give up. Finally he could no longer walk nor talk nor
focus his eyes nor feed himself, and his great will to live was not enough
and his heart stopped beating.
The news reached me while I was on tour in Japan. All I could think of
at first was, "Woody will never die, as long as there are people who like to
sing his songs." Dozens of these are known by guitar pickers across the
U.S.A., and one of them has become loved by tens of millions of Americans:
This land is your land, this land is my land,
From California to the New York island,
From the redwood forest to the Gulf Stream waters,
This land was made for you and me.
He was a short, wiry guy with a mop of curly hair under a cowboy hat,
as I first saw him. He'd stand with his guitar slung on his back, spinning
out stones like Will Rogers, with a faint, wry grin. Then he'd hitch his
guitar around and sing the longest long outlaw ballad you ever heard, or
some Rabelaisian fantasy he'd concocted the day before and might never sing
again.
His songs are deceptively simple. Only after they have become part of
your life do you realize how great they are. Any damn fool can get
complicated. It takes genius to attain simplicity. Woody's songs for
children are now sung in many languages:
Why can't a dish break a hammer?
Why, oh why, oh why?
Because a hammer's got a pretty hard head.
Goodbye, goodbye, goodbye.
His music stayed rooted in the blues, ballads and breakdowns he'd been
raised on in the Oklahoma Dust Bowl. Like Scotland's Robert Bums and the
Ukraine's Taras Shevchenko, Woody was a national folk poet Like them, he
came of a small-town background, knew poverty, had a burning curiosity to
learn. Like them, his talent brought him to the city, where he was lionized
by the literati but from whom he declared his independence and remained his
own profane, radical, ornery self.
This honesty also eventually estranged him from his old Oklahoma
cronies. Like many an Oklahoma farmer, he had long taken a dim view of
bankers. In the desperate early Depression years he developed a religious
view of Christ the Great Revolutionary. In the cities he threw in his lot
with the labor movement:
There once was a Union maid.
She never was afraid
Of goons and ginks and company finks
And the deputy sheriff that made the raids.
He broadened his feeling to include the working people of all the
world, and it may come as a surprise to some readers to know that the author
of This Land Is Your Land was in 1940 a columnist for the small newspaper he
euphemistically called The Sabbath Employee. It was The Sunday Worker,
weekend edition of the Communist Daily Worker. Woody never argued theory
much, but you can be quite sure that today he would have poured his fiercest
scorn on the criminal fools who sucked America into the Vietnam mess:
Why do your warships sail on my waters?
Why do your bombs drop down from my sky?
Why do you burn my towns and cities?
I want to know why, yes, I want to know why.
But Woody always did more than condemn. His song Pastures of Plenty
described the life of the migrant fruit pickers, but ends on a note of
shining affirmation:
It's always we've rambled, that river and I.
All along your green valley I'll work till I die.
My land I'll defend with my life if it be,
For my Pastures of Plenty must always be free.
A generation of songwriters have learned from him--Bob Dylan, Tom
Paxton, Phil Ochs and I guess many more to come.
As we scatter his ashes over the waters I can hear Woody hollering back
to us, "Take it easy--but take it!"
PETE SEEGER
A TRIBUTE TO WOODY GUTHRIE
The Secretary of the Interior
Washington
April 6, 1966
Dear Mr. Guthrie,
It gives me great pleasure to present you the Department of the
Interior's Conservation Service Award. In conjunction with this award we are
also naming a Bonneville Power Administration substation in your honor. It
will be known hereafter as the Woody Guthrie Substation in recognition of
the fine work you have done to make our people aware of their heritage and
the land.
You sang that "this land belongs to you and me," and you sang from the
heart of America that feels this about its land. You have articulated, in
your songs, the sense of identification that each citizen of our country
feels toward this land and the wonders which it holds. You brought to your
songs a heart as big as all outdoors, and we are fortunate to have music
which expresses the love and affection each of us feels, though we are
unable to express it so eloquently, toward this land . . . "from California
to the New York Island-- from the Redwood Forest to the Gulf Stream waters."
Yours was not a passing comment on the beauties of nature, but a
living, breathing, singing force in our struggle to use our land and save it
too. The greatness of this land is that people such as you, with creative
talent, worked on it and that you told about that work--told about the power
of the Bonneville Dam and the men who harnessed it, about the length of the
Lincoln Highway and the men who laid it out. You have summarized the
struggles and the deeply held convictions of all those who love our land and
fight to protect it.
Sincerely yours,
(Signed)
Stewart L. Udall
Secretary of the Interior
Mr. Woodrow W. Guthrie
Brooklyn State Hospital
681 Clarkson Avenue
Brooklyn, New York
CONTENTS
foreword: "So Long, Woody, It's Been Good To Know Ya" by Pete Seeger
vii
a tribute to woody guthrie by Stewart L. Udall, Secretary of the
Interior
xi
I
soldiers in the dust
19
II
empty snuff cans
37
III
i ain't mad at nobody
57
IV
new kittens
74
V
mister cyclome
82
VI
boomchasers
93
VII
cain't no gang whip us now
116
VIII
fire extinguishers
133
IX
a fast-running train whistles down
142
X
the junking sack
158
XI
boy in search of something
162
XII
trouble busting
179
XIII
off to california
191
XIV
the house on the hill
231
XV
the telegram that never came
245
XVI
stormy night
256
XVII
extra selects
270
XVIII
crossroads
290
XIX
train bound for glory
309
Postscript
320
BOUND FOR GLORY
Chapter I
SOLDIERS IN THE DUST
I could see men of all colors bouncing along in the boxcar. We stood
up. We laid down. We piled around on each other. We used each other for
pillows. I could smell the sour and bitter sweat soaking through my own
khaki shirt and britches, and the work clothes, overhauls and saggy, dirty
suits of the other guys. My mouth was full of some kind of gray mineral dust
that was about an inch deep all over the floor. We looked like a gang of
lost corpses heading back to the boneyard. Hot in the September heat, tired,
mean and mad, cussing and sweating, raving and preaching. Part of us waved
our hands in the cloud of dust and hollered out to the whole crowd. Others
was too weak, too sick, too hungry or too drunk even to stand up. The train
was a highball and had the right of way. Our car was a rough rider, called
by hoboes a "flat wheeler." I was riding in the tail end where I got more
dust, but less heat. The wheels were clipping it off at sixty miles an hour.
About all I could hear above the raving and cussing and the roar of the car
was the jingle and clink on the under side every time the wheels went over a
rail joint.
I guess ten or fifteen of us guys was singing:
This train don't carry no gamblers,
Liars, thieves and big-shot ramblers;
This train is bound for glory,
This train!
"We would hafta git th' only goddam flat wheeler on th' whole dam
train!" A heavy-set boy with a big-city accent was rocking along beside me
and fishing through his overhauls for his tobacco sack.
"Beats walkin'!" I was setting down beside him. "Bother you fer my
guitar handle ta stick up here in yer face?"
"Naw. Just long as yuh keep up th' music. Kinda songs ya sing? Juke-box
stuff?"
"Much oblige, just smoked." I shook my head. "No. I'm 'fraid that there
soap-box music ain't th' kind ta win a war on!"
"Little too sissy?" He licked up the side of his cigaret. "Wisecracky,
huh?"
"Hell yes." I pulled my guitar up on my lap and told him, "Gonna take
somethin' more'n a dam bunch of silly wisecracks ta ever win this war! Gonna
take work!"
"You don't look like you ever broke your neck at no work, bud!" He
snorted some fumes out of his nose and mashed the match down into the dust
with his foot. "What th' hell do you know 'bout work?"
"By God, mister, I work just as hard as you er th' next guy!" I held
the ends of my fingers up in his face. "An` I got th' blisters ta prove it!"
"How come you ain't drafted?"
"I never did get by those medical gents. Doctors and me don't see eye
to eye."
A blond-headed man about forty nudged me in the ribs with his elbow on
my left side and said, "You boys talkin' about a war. I got a feelin' you're
goin" to see a little spell of war right here in just a few minutes."
"Makes ya think so?" I looked around all over the car.
"Boy!" He stretched out his feet to prop his self back up against the
wall and I noticed he was wearing an iron brace on his leg. "They call me
Cripple Whitey, th' Fight Spotter!"
"Fight spotter?"
"Yeah. I can spot a fist fight on the streets three blocks before I
come to it. I can spot a gang fight an hour before it breaks out. I tip off
the boys. Then they know how to lay their bets."
"Ya got a fight spotted now?"
"I smell a big one. One hell of a big one. Be some blood spilt. Be
about ten minutes yet."
"Hey! Heavy!" I elbowed the big boy on my right. "Whitey here says he
smells a big fight cookin'!"
"Awwww. Don't pay no 'tention to that crippled rat. He's just full of
paregoric. In Chicago we call 'im P. G. Whitey'! I don't know what they call
him here in Minnesota!"
"You're a goddam lyin' rat!" The cripple got up and swayed around on
the floor in front of us. "Get up! I'll cave your lousy dam head in! I'll
throw you out inta one of these lakes!"
"Easy, boy, easy." Heavy put the sole of his shoe in Whitey's belly and
held him back. "I don't wanta hit no cripple!"
"You guys watch out! Don't you stumble an' fall on my guitar!" I eased
over a little. "Yeah! You're some fight spotter! If you spot a fight an'
then it don't happen just when you said, why, you just pitch in and start
one yer self!"
"I'll crack that box over your dam curly head!" The cripple made a step
toward me, laughing and smearing cement dust down across his face. Then he
sneered and told me, "Goddam right! Hell yes! I'm a bum! I gotta right ta
be. Look at that gone leg. Withered away! You're too dam low down an'
sneakin' to make an honest livin' by hard work. Sonofabitch. So you go into
a saloon where th' workin' stiffs hang out, an' you put down your kitty box
an' play for your dam tips!"
I told him, "Go jump in one of these lakes!"
"I'm settin' right there!" He pointed at my guitar in my lap. "Right,
by God, on top of you!"
I grabbed my guitar and rolled over three or four other fellows' feet
and got out of Whitey's way just as he turned around and piled down
backwards yelling and screaming at the top of his lungs. I stumbled through
the car trying to keep my balance and hold onto my guitar. I fell up against
an old man slumped with his face rubbing up against the wall. I heard him
groan and say, "This is th' roughest bastardly boxcar that I ever swung
into."
"Why doncha lay down?" I had to lean up against the wall to keep from
falling. "How come ya standin' up this a way?"
"Rupture. It rides a little easier standin' up."
Five or six guys dressed like timberjacks brushed past us cussing and
raving. "I can't stand this dust no longer!" "Out of our way, men!" "Let us
by! We want to get to the other end of the car!"
"You birds won't be no better off in th' other end!" I hollered at
them. The dust stung the roof of my mouth. "I tried it!"
A big husky gent with high boots and red wool socks rolled back on a
pair of logger's britches stopped and looked' me over and asked me, "Who in
the hell are you? Don't you think I know how to ride a boxcar, sonny? I'm
gettin' out of this wind!"
"Go ahead on, mister, but I'm tellin' ya, ya'll burn up back in that
other end!" I turned again to the old man and asked him, "Anything I can do
ta help ya?"
"Guess not, son." I could see by the look on his face that the rupture
was tying him up in knots. "I was hopin' ta ride this freight on in home
tonight. Chicago. Plumber there. But looks like I'll have ta get off at the
next stop an' hit the highway."
"Purty bad. Well, it ain't a dam bit lonesome in here, is it?"
"I counted sixty-nine men in this car." He squinted his eyes and
gritted his teeth and doubled over a little farther. "Might be, I counted
wrong. Missed some of th' ones layin' down or counted some of them twice.
Pretty close ta sixty-nine though."
"Jest like a car load of sheep headed fer th' packin` house." I let my
knees bend in the joints a little bit to keep the car from shaking me to
jelly.
A long tall Negro boy walked up and asked us, "You men know what's
makin' our noses burn?" He was wearing a pair of work shoes that looked like
they had seen Civil War service. "Eyes, too?"
"What?" I asked him.
"Cement dust. This heah cah wuz loaded down wid sack cement!"
"Shore 'nuff?"
"I bet I done sucked in three sacks of th' damn stuff!" He screwed his
face up and mopped across his lips with his hands.
"I've breathed in more'n that! Hell, friend! You're talkin' to a
livin', breathin' stretch of concrete highway!"
"Close as we is jammed an' packed in heah, we'z all gonna be stuck 'n'
cemented together time we git outta dis hot box."
"Boys," the old man told both of us, "I hope we don't have no trouble
while I'm in here. If somebody was ta fall on me or push me around, this
rupture, I know, it would kill me."
"I'll he'p see to it dat nobody don't push nobody on toppa you,
mistah."
"I'll break 'em of th' habit," I told both of them.
"What time of day is it? Must be fightin' time?" I looked around at the
two.
"Mus' be 'roun' about two or three o'clock," the Negro boy told me,
"jedgin' from that sun shinin' in th' door. Say! What's them two boys doin'
yondah?" He craned his neck.
"Pourin` somethin' out of a bottle," I said, "right by that old colored
man's feet. What is it?"
"Wettin` th' cement dust wid it. Strikin` a match now."
"Gasoline!"
"Ol` man's 'sleep. They's givin' 'im de hot foot!"
The flame rose up and burned in a little spot about the size of a
silver dollar. In a few seconds the old man clawed at the strings of his
bundle where he was resting his head. He kicked his feet in the dust and
knocked little balls of fire onto two or three other men playing some poker
along the back wall. They fought the fire off their clothes and laughed and
bawled the kids and the old man both out.
"Hey! You old bastard! Quit bustin' up our card game!"
I saw one of the men draw back to hit the old man. Another player was
grinning and laughing out to the whole crowd, "That wuz th' funniest dam
sight I ever seen!"
The two boys, both dressed in overhauls, walked back through the crowd,
one holding out the half-pint bottle. ''Drinka likker, men? Who wantsa
drinka good likker?" The boy with the bottle shoved it up under my nose
saying, "Here, mister music man! Take a little snort! Then play somethin'
good an' hot!"
"I been a needin' a little drink ta ease me on down ta Chicago." I
wiped my hand across my face and smiled around at everybody. "I shore thank
ya fer thinkin' 'bout me." I took the bottle and smelled of the gasoline.
Then I sailed the bottle over a dozen men's heads and out of the door.
"Say, stud! Who daya t'ink youse are? Dat bottle was mine, see?" He was
a boy about twenty-five, wearing a flop hat soaked through with some kind of
dime-store hair oil. He braced his self on his feet in front of me and said
again, "Dat bottle was mine!"
"Go git it." I looked him straight in the eye.
"Whattaya tryin' ta pull?"
"Well, since yer so interested, I'll jest tell ya. See, I might wanta
lay down after while an' git a little sleep. I don't wanta wake up with my
feet blistered. 'Cause then, dam yer hide, I'd hafta throw ya outta this
door!"
"We was gonna use dat gas ta start a fire ta cook wid."
"Ya mean ta git us all in jail with."
"I said cook an' I mean cook!"
Then my colored friend looked the two boys over and said, "You boys,
how long you been goin' 'roun' cookin' people's feet?"
"Keep outta dis! Stepinfetchit!"
"You cain't call me dat an' git by wid it, white boy!"
I put my shoulder against the colored boy and my hand against the white
boy's arm, and told them, "Listen, guys! Goddamit! No matter who's mad at
who, we jest cain't start a fight of no kind on this freight! These big
Burlington dicks'll jail th' whole bunch of us!"
"Yaaa. Skeerd!"
"You're a dam liar! I ain't afraid of you ner twenty more like ya! But
do you know what would of happened if these railroad bulls shook us down ta
look at our draft cards, an` found you with that bottle of gasoline on ya?
It'd be th' lockup fer you an' me an' all of th' rest of us!"
The old man with the rupture bit his lips and asked me, "Son, do you
suppose you could get one of the men to move up out of the door and let me
try to get a little breath of that fresh air? I feel like I've just got to
get a little air."
The colored boy held the old man up while I walked over to the door and
tapped a nice healthy-looking boy on the back. "Would you mind lettin' this
old man ride in yer place there in th' door fer a little while? Sick.
Rupture trouble."
"Not at all." The boy got up and set down back where the old man had
been standing. He acted friendly and hollered at us, "I think it's about
time we took turns ridin' in the doors. Let everybody have a whiff of that
fresh air!"
Almost everybody in the car rolled over or stood up and yelled, "Hell
yes!" "Turn about!" "I'm ready." "Too late, boys, I been dead an' buried in
solid cement for two hours!" "Gimme air!" "Trot out yer frash airr!"
Everybody mumbled and talked, and fifteen or twenty men pushed their way
through the others to stand close to the doors, hoping to be first.
Heavy walked through a bunch of them saying, "Watch out. Men, let this
Negro boy through with this old man. He's sick. He's needin' air. Back up a
little. Make room."
"Who'n th' hell are you? Tubba lard! Dictater 'round here?" one old boy
popped off.
Heavy started for the man, but he slipped back in through the crowd.
"All of you men get up! Let a new bunch get cooled off! Where's the old man
that the boys put the hot foot on a few minutes ago? There you are! Hey!
Come on! Grab yourself a hunk of this nice, fresh, cool climate! Set right
there! Now, who's to be next?"
A red-eyed vino drunkard took a man by the feet and pulled him along
the deck to the door. "My buddy. Ain't said a word since I loaded 'im in
last night in Duluth. Bummed th' main stem fer two bits, then he scooped his
flue."
A Mexican boy rubbed his head and got up from somewhere along the wall.
He drank half of a quart vinegar jug of water and then sailed the bottle out
the door. Then he set down and hung his feet out the door and rode along
holding his head in his hands vomiting into the wind. In each door there was
room for five men. The first ten being sick and weakly, we let them ride for
about half an hour. Then they got up and ten more men took their seat for
only fifteen minutes.
I was watching a bunch of men hold their fingers to their lips and
shush each other to keep quiet. Every one of them haw-hawing and tittering
under their breath and pointing to a kid asleep on the floor. He was about
twenty. Little white cap from the ten-cent store, a pair of old blue
washed-out pants, shirt to match, a set of dirty heels caked over with the
dust of many railroads, and a run-over pair of low-cut shoes. He was hugging
his bed roll and moving his lips against the wool blanket. I saw him dig his
toes in the dust and kiss the bundle.
I walked over and put my foot in the middle of his back and said, "Wake
up, stranger. Git ya some fresh air there in th' door!"
The men cackled and rolled in the dirt. They rared back and forth
slapping their hands against their legs. "Ddrrreeeeeeeaaaammming of youuuu
with your eyes so bluue!" One man was grinning like an ape and singing worse
than that.
"What's th' boy dreamin' about so purty, music man?" another
big guy asked me with his tongue in his cheek and eyes rolling.
"Leave th' boy alone," I told him back. "What th' hell do you dream
about, freight trains?"
I set down with my back against the wall looking all through the
troubled, tangled, messed-up men. Traveling the hard way. Dressed the hard
way. Hitting the long old lonesome go.
Rougher than a cob. Wilder than a woodchuck. Hotter than a depot stove.
Madder than nine hundred dollars. Arguing worse than a tree full of crows.
Messed up. Mixed-up, screwed-up people. A crazy boxcar on a wild track.
Headed sixty miles an hour in a big cloud of poison dust due straight to
nowhere.
I saw ten men getting up out of the door and I took my guitar over and
set down and stuck my feet out. The cold air felt good whipping up my pants
leg. I pulled my shirt open to cool off across my waist and chest. My Negro
friend took a seat by my side and told me, "I reckon we's 'bout due some
frash air, looks like."
"Jest be careful ya don't use it all up," I kidded back at him.
I held my head in the wind and looked out along the lake shoreline with
my ear cocked listening to the men in the car.
"You're a lyin' skunk!" one was saying. "I'm just as hard a worker as
you are, any old day!"
"You're a big slobbery loafin' heel!"
"I'm th' best dadgum blacksmith in Logan County!"
"You mean you use ta was! You look like a lousy tramp ta me!"
"I c'n put out more manly labor in a minnit then you kin in a month!"
"Hay, there, you sot! Quit spittin' on my bed roll!"
"Yeah! Yeah! I know! I'm woikin' stiff, too, see? But I ain't no good
here! Yeah! I woiked thirteen years in th' same weave room! Breakout fixer
on th' looms! Poil Harbor comes along. Big comp'ny gits alla de war orders.
My place is a little place, so what happens? Just like dat! She closes down.
An' I'm out on de freights. But I ain't nuttin' when I hit th' freights.
Takes it all outta me. Nuttin`. But a lousy, dirty tramp!"
"If you're such a good weaver, mister, you can come back here and sew
up my drawers! Ha! Ha! Ha!"
"Fancy pants! Whoooeee!"
"I plowed th' straightest row of corn in Missouri three year ago!"
"Yaaa! But, mister big shot, dey don't grown no corn in dese here
boxcars, see! Yaaa! Dat's de last bitta woik yez ever done!"
"No Swede cut much timber as me, Big Swede! I cutta 'nuff of that white
pine ta build up da whole town!"
"Quiet down! You dam bunch of liars, you! Blowin' off at yer head what
all you can do! I hear this talk all up and down these railroads! You had a
good job somewhere once or twice in your life, then you go around blabbin'
off at your mouth for fifteen years! Tellin' people what all kinds of
wonders you done! Look at you! Look at your clothes! All of the clothes in
this car ain't worth three dollars! Look at your hands! Look at your faces!
Drunk! Sick! Hungry! Dirty! Mean! Onery! I won't lie like you rats! An` I
got on the best suit of clothes in this car! Work? Me work? Hell, no! I see
somethin' I want, an' I just up an' take it!"
Looking back over my shoulder, I saw a little man, skinny, puny,
shaking like he had a machine gun in his hands, raise up on his knees from
the other end of the car and sail a brown quart bottle through the air.
Glass shattered against the back of the well-dressed man's head. Red port
wine rained all over me and my guitar and twenty other men that tried to
duck. The man in the suit of clothes keeled over and hit the floor like a
dead cow.
"I got my papers! I got my job already signed up!" The guy that slung
the bottle was tromping through the car patting his chest and preaching. "I
had a brother in Pearl Harbor! I'm on my way right this minute to Chicago to
go to work rollin' steel to lick this Hitler bunch! I hope the gent with the
nice suit on is restin` comfortable! But I ain't apologizing to none of you!
I throwed that bottle! Want to make anythin' out of it?" He shook both fists
and stood there looking at all of us.
I wiped my hands around over me where the wine was spilled. I saw
everybody else was picking chips of glass out of their clothes and mumbling
amongst themselves. "Crazy lunatic." "Hadn't ought ta done that." "Might of
missed 'im, hit one of us."
The mumble got loud and broke into a crack like zigzag lightning.
Little bunches of men circled around arguing. A few guys walked from bunch
to bunch preaching over other fellows' shoulders. At the side of me a
husky-looking man got up and said, "What all he says about Pearl Harbor and
all is okay, men, but still he hadn't ought to have thrown that wine bottle.
I'm going to walk back there and kick his rear good and proper just to teach
him a lesson!"
Then from somewhere at my back a half-breed Indian boy dove out and
tackled the husky man around the ankles and they tangled into a knot and
rolled around over the floor, beating, scratching, and clawing. Their feet
kicked other men in the face and other men kicked them back and jumped into
the fight.
"You're not gonna hurt that little fella!"
"I'll kill you, Indian!"
"Hey! Watch who th' hell you're kickin'!"
Heavy split through the car knocking men out of his way hollering,
"Hey! Cut it! Cut!"
"You fat pimp, keep outta dis!" A dirty-looking, dark-complected man
was pulling a little oily cap down over his eyes and making for Heavy.
Heavy grabbed him by the throat and busted the back of his head up
against the wall about a dozen times cussing, "I'll teach you that you
cain't call no decent man a pimp! You snaky-looking hustler!"
All down the line it started and spread, "You said I wouldn't work fer
my livin', huh? I'll bat your eyes out!"
"Who wuz it yez called da loafer?"
Shirts and pants ripped and it sounded like everybody was getting their
duds tore off them.
"I didn't lak ya dam looks frum da very start!"
Five and then ten other couples dove in.
"Where's that low-life bastid that called me a bum?"
Men walked up and down the car pushing other men off of their feet,
heaving others to one side, looking at the few that was still riding along
on the floor.
"They're goin' an' blowin'!"
'There ye air, ye foul-mouth cur, you!"
I saw six or eight reaching down and grabbing others by their shirt
collars, jerking them to the middle of the floor. Fists sailing in the air
so fast I couldn't see which fist was whose.
"I knowed you was nuthin' but a lousy chiselin' snake when I first seen
yuh climb on this train! Fight! Goddam yuh! Fight!"
Shoe soles cracked all around over the car and heads banged against the
walls. Dust flew up in the air as if somebody was dumping it in with trucks.
'I'm a tramp, am I?"
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Анекдот
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- Да, дорогая, я провинился, но ты же знаешь, где нужно поставить
запятую в "Казнить нельзя помиловать"?!
- Не знаю! Зато я знаю, куда сегодня нужно поставить запятую во
фразе "Спать нельзя давать"!!! |
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показать все
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