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.Mahlerthe phone rings and somebody says,“hey, they made a movie aboutMahler.you ought to go see it.he was as fucked-up as you are.”the phone rings again.it’ssomebody else: “you ought to seethat Mahler movie.when you get highyou always talk about Mahler’s music.”it’s true: I like the wayMahler wandered about in hismusic and still retained hispassion.he must have looked like anearthquake walking down thestreet.he was a gambler and he shotthe worksbut I’d feel foolishwalking into a movie house.I make my ownmovies.I am the best kind of German:in love with the musicof a great Jew.fellow countrymanat the trackheard the voice behind me,“Hank…”I turned and here was thisGerman youth,maybe age 34,needed a shave, beer on hisbreath.“I know you don’t like tobe bothered…but I havethis book…”“all right, kid, look I haveto find a place…”I took the book over toa trash can, put it ontop, asked his name,autographed it,handed it back.“I am shaking,” hesaid.“it’s all right,” I said,“I’m just a horseplayer.”“I’ve been looking foryou many days…”“kid,” I said, “listen tome, I can’t drink with youor pal with you.I have to leavenow.”“oh, I understand,”he said.that was good.I didn’t see him anymorethat day.the next day I wassitting alone in a small boxsection.then I heard a voice behindme.“hello, Hank,” it said.I didn’t answer.“who do you like in thisrace?” he asked.“I mean, out of all yourexperience, who doyou like?”I turned.it was my friend ofyesterday.he had another bookin his lap.I recognized it.it was full of photographsand writing about one ofmy trips toEurope.I grabbed him by thethroat, shook him a bit,then took the book, ripped downhis pants, his shorts andjammed the book up hisass,then I lifted him up over myhead,carried him down to therailing,tossed him onto thetrackwhere the 6 horseon post paradestepped onto the middle ofhis back.his eyeballssquirted outand rolled aroundlooking forAndernachand I got up andwent to the barfor a pretzel and abeer.the young man on the bus stop benchhe sits all day at the bus stopat Sunset and Westernhis sleeping bag beside him.he’s dirty.nobody bothers him.people leave him alone.the police leave him alone.he could be the 2nd coming of Christbut I doubt it.the soles of his shoes are completelygone.he just laces the tops onand sits and watches traffic.I remember my own youthful days(although I traveled lighter)they were similar:park benchesstreet cornerstarpaper shacks in Georgia for$1.25 a weeknot wanting the skid row churchhand-outstoo crazy to apply for reliefdaytimes spent laying in public parksbugs in the grass bitinglooking into the skylittle insects whirling above my headthe breathing of white airjust breathing and waiting.life becomes difficult:being ignoredand ignoring.everything turns into white airthe head fills with white airand as invisible women sit in roomswith successful bright-eyed young menconversing brilliantly about everythingyour sex drivevanishes and it reallydoesn’t matter.you don’t want foodyou don’t want shelteryou don’t want anything.sometimes you diesometimes you don’t.as I drive pastthe young man on the bus stop benchI am comfortable in my automobileI have money in two different banksI own my own homebut he reminds me of my young selfand I want to help himbut I don’t know what to do.today when I drove past againhe was goneI suppose finally the world wasn’tpleased with him being there.the bench still sits there on the corneradvertising something.computer classsitting in a computer class,first of two three-hoursessions.I am being sucked into the NewAge.my wife is there too.there are three others.the computer-whiz-boywhisks us throughour paces.we each sit in front ofa computerworking our mouse,not wanting to beleft out,not wanting to seemdumb,not wanting to befound out.there is a desperationin that room.and besides, we’vepaid for allthis.“what!” says a nervousblonde lady,“how can I take notes?I can’t keep up!”“take mentalnotes,” saysthe computer-whiz-boy.he smiles.the night envelops us aswe workon.once an impulse struckme,to leap up andscream:“shit! that’s enough!I can’t handlethis!”what stopped mewas that I knew thatit was all simpleenough,it was only a matterof learning theroutine.the class actuallyrolled on for anextra hour.at one rest breakeverybody startedtalking aboutold televisionprograms whichpissedmeoffbut that finallyabated.afterwards,driving away in thecarmy wife asked me,“well, did youlearn anything?”“god, I don’t know,”I answered.“you hungry?” sheasked.“yeah,” I said,“we’ll eatout.”and I drove towardthe Chineseplaceand all about usin trafficwere people whoknew aboutcomputers or whowould soon know aboutcomputersand some who werealreadycomputedthemselves.control panel.find file.select all.show clipboard.hide ruler.insert header.insert footer.auto hyphenate.show invisibles.show page guides.hide pictures.how ya gonna keep usdown on thefarmifwe can’t find it on themenu?imagehe sits in the chair across from me.“you look healthy,” he says in a voice that isalmost disappointed.“I’ve given up beer and I drink only3 bottles of white German wine each night,”I tell him.“are you going to let your readers knowyou’ve reformed?” heasks.he walks to the refrigerator and opensthe door.“all these vitamins!”“thiamine-hcl,” I say, “b-2, choline, b-6, folicacid, zinc, e, b-12, niacin, calcium magnesium,a-e complex, papa…and 3 bottles of whiteGerman wine each night.”“what’s this stuff in the jars on the sink?” heasks.“herbs,” I tell him, “goldenseal, sweet basil, alfalfamind, mu, lemongrass, rose hips, papaya, gotu kola, clover,comfrey, fenugreek, sassafras and chamomile…and I drink onlyspring water, mineral water and my 3 bottles of whiteGermanwine.”“are you going to tell your readersabout all this?”he asks again.“should I tell them?” I ask [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]