[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
.”“Get off this phone and out of our lives!” he roared.“What about my privacy?”“Stop talking to her like that,” said Tracy.“I don’t like it, Allan.”“Tracy, hang up.”“No.You hang up!”“Well,” I said, “that seems to make a majority here for flushing Allan.If you ask me …”“No one asked you.I’ll tell you what I’m going to do.I’m going to hang up this phone and come downstairs, Tracy, and hang yours up too.And then we’re going to turn the phones off for tonight—we’re going to forget about hearing from this maniac.Forever.And if she calls back tomorrow, I’m calling the police.Do I make myself understood?”He didn’t wait for our answers—I heard a determined click.“Miss Digby, I guess we have to say good-bye now.Thank you so much for calling me up tonight.I feel kind of … better.You’re a very … unusual person.”“Thanks, Tracy.I’m feeling a bit perkier too.Like I was saying, I know pretty much what you’ve been going …”The sound of arguing voices, then: “Allan, don’t do that, don’t hang up—Allan, you jerk!”Then just static again, broken connection—and I was left alone again with my strange, familiar interlocutor, the night.And those other voices, the ones I’ve come to welcome and trust, the ones who talk to me, soothe me, cajole me, get me through to dawn.“Lily?” I called.“Lily?” And Lily was there.She told me she’d listened to everything and she loved me.Lily would always love me.Three days later, Minnie W-W-G hustled over with a registered special-delivery letter for which I had to sign.It was from Iris Moss.Well, well, well, Willis.So you are a woman! Ha! I say, ha! The reason I say “ha” is because I have come to the conclusion that my hypnotic-rapist may not be of male persuasion at all, but rather a female.These stains (which I found yet again this morning) may not be semen on my panties, but rather gynecological juice from the she-bitch in heat (excuse my profanity) who gets into my undergarments as I sleep and licks me, rolling her tongue over my cringing clitoris in passionate whorls of lust!I have decided it is a woman dressed as a man who sneaks into my room.I see the whole sordid picture.I see that it is not semen that has been pumped into my vagina, it is your own female sexual arousal juices, your lubricants that facilitate sexual congress.You seem to me the type of person who would pursue vibrators and dildos, and in public places.Editor of Letters, indeed! I spoke to my friend Basil Schrantz (a gentle man who wants nothing more than to be an Oral Surgeon), and he informed me that he is aware how you gain access to my room at night dressed as a man.He insists on remaining in my room, as I sleep, to protect me.So BEWARE! You will have to contend with Basil Schrantz if you plan to continue your frenzied tonguings of my labia major and minor.I will write again, with details.Do not forget: I am on to you! I can have photographs taken! DO NOT PRINT THIS LETTER.Do not print my other letter to you either—I do not authorize it.If you do, I will sue you! (Or charge my professional writer’s fee, which is $625.)Do not try to contact me by telephone.I know how you are capable of sending germs (or worse) through the wires.Utterly Disagreeing,Iris L.MossIris Moss’s first letter had already been sent to the printer, I picked up my pen.Dear Iris,Basil Schrantz is wrong.I do dress as a man occasionally—but I don’t fancy unconscious sex partners.Have you noticed Basil dressing up in female garb ever? Most specifically as a nurse?Listen, Iris, let’s not be enemies.I have this sense of you and me: that we can somehow help each other.I would like to continue to write to you.I like the thought of writing to a woman who’s such a fighter, at least during waking hours.I repeat, with regret, I cannot pay you for your thoughts.Your first letter has already gone to press; I promise this most recent one will not be published.Sincerely,WJDThe phone on my desk rang.“Willis Digby here.”“Hey.Are you the crackpot there who sent me this smartass letter?”“Who is this?”“This is Dino Pedrelli.I wrote you frustrated old maids a letter about three weeks ago, and here I get this poison pen response that’s tellin’ me I’m impotent.”He said im-poh-tent.I remembered the letter suddenly.Dino the Dong.“Yeah.So what do you want from me now? A balloon?”There was a choking sound on the other end.“Jesus.God.A man goes to work, he picks up a magazine to read on the subway, and he sees all this vicious crap”—he choked again—“he takes the time to write in, to write in to you bitches—and this is the thanks he gets? Tellin’ me I’m im-po-tent?”I hung up after Dino described in detail a few of his most recent sexual encounters, after he wept badly, after he’d promised me he would “make me pay” for this transgression.“Guess what?” I called across to Page when I’d hung up.“Dino Pedrelli is not im-poh-tent.”She frowned and went back to her typewriter.“Impotent, Willis, impotent,” she corrected.FourGET BACK, THE voice was screaming through the bullhorn.Get back, lie down, keep your eyes and mouth covered.Lie flat, cover your eyes!The crowd was stumbling and screaming, a single blinded animal.The tear gas hung in sick orange streamers in the 90-degree air.The police, in their riot gear, kept on coming.I felt a leather hand on my neck—it picked me up by my T-shirt the way a kitten is plucked up by the ruff.I wrenched around to get a look at my manipulator—and got a nightstick flat across the face.I saw the cop’s face—big nose, helmet, mail-slot mouth—in a kind of 3-D ripple: green, red, then, mercifully, black.When I came to, I heard someone screaming.I sincerely hoped that it would not turn out to be me.Nothing worse than catching yourself in a cliché.As it turned out, it wasn’t me, but a fat Mamma-Cass-like woman nearby who had just caught a glimpse of my face.“Look at that, I’m going to faint!” she bellowed to someone.“Look at what happened to that poor girl!”Someone else began pressing a cold wet cloth against my nose.I brushed the cloth away and stared up into a blond, sympathetic moon-face.“Ah’m jus’ tryin’ to hep,” she said.I tried to retort but found that my lips and tongue seemed sealed together by a powerful mortar.I spit some blood on the grass.“I think it’s broken,” I said, or thought I said, pointing to my nose.The girl looked mystified.“Come ag’in?”I wrestled my bruised tongue once more into speaking position.“B’oken.My noth.My noth!” I shouted, losing patience, jabbing my finger at my proboscis.The girl smiled beatifically and nodded, adjusting her white armband with the red cross, preparing to move off through the crowd, or what remained of it.“Ah’m up heah from Alabama with a blues group.Ah’m jus’ tryin’ to he’p out.”She floated off, and I sat up, looked out over Pennsylvania Avenue.The crowd had been effectively dispersed, except for a few bloody hangers-on, like me, a few last-worders [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

zanotowane.pl

doc.pisz.pl

pdf.pisz.pl

listy-do-eda.opx.pl