Chapter 9 8

------------------ 8 On the outskirts of Roscoe, New York, I poked expressionlessly in the knee-deep snow for a full two hours like a bare telephone pole, numbly letting the wind and snow beat in the dark, and my fingers stretched out in the wind were already frozen Gotta lose consciousness.With the white swirls whipped up by the fierce wind, I suspect that the chances of passing cars seeing me, let alone my fingers, are close to zero.I started to think seriously about the wisdom of this trip.Speaking of which, I was in town to visit Brother Burnie, though I had a growing sense of foreboding about the trip.Anticipate that a face-to-face, nose-to-nose, stare-eyed encounter with Kaufman must have been terrifying.Hiding in the supposed safety of my little pretend-to-be-warm nest in Coopersville, rewriting "Heart and Hymen" with humor, I'm like a merry thrush, but now I have to live with the consequences , I have no face to face Mr. Kaufman, no legitimate excuse to confess, and I will lose my job.I'm afraid the vigilantes will be right this time - though I'll be damned if I admit it to them.

what!Fuck Bernie.What I really regret is that I have doubtless lost precious income--money that has been spent three times imaginatively.Should the money be used to buy clothes for the kids or a muffler for the car?Shouldn't we be stocking our fridge with more food for when we're even poorer?Is it the shingles on the roof or the rotten front steps?Or spend all your money on a trip to the sunny Caribbean and worry about the miserable days that lie ahead?Needless to say, if I had the choice to put mufflers and tires on my old car or build a castle on warm golden sands in these tough times, I'd rather have my old car fixed up - the country is shrinking China's auto repair industry should be encouraged.

good.Bernie's two bucks a page.It keeps us going.Pleasant imagining of what to do with his money added much joy to our dreary Appalachian life, and a smile to the grimy faces of my little rascals.Our family is back together.Previously there was only despair and misery here, but now we have hope.Even my little ones actively engage in animated family arguments, competing to come up with their not worth two cents point of view on what we should do with my money.Look, Bernie, look at the joy this family is getting for just enough for your one-night gratification.But why do you insist on taking it back?Don't you feel guilty for doing this?When was the last time you went to church?Reluctantly attending some fat boy's bar mitzvah with pimples out of a sense of duty?Or do you go out of your firm faith to seek the true God—like Maude of Goobswell and her godfears, who walk out of the house every Sabbath and trek to worship?

Bernie, why are you doing this to us?Treat me?Why are you such a mean, despicable—no!you are right.Vigilante would be right.It's all my fault.I reap the consequences.Oh what should I do?Bernie.Mr. Kaufman, my lord.please.In the name of all your hallowed titles, please give me one more chance.please.I promise.I swear on the name of my mother in the grave, I will do what you tell me this time, and I will not play tricks again.No more kidding.The rewriting section you're given is just a test, to see if you have a sense of humor.Haha, you do!Terrific, advanced sense of humor.You proved yourself to be a hundred times better than me, the best of the best.Someone like you—I flap my arms like a penguin to warm myself up and mumble to myself—someone like you is one in a thousand, incomparable, uncut gems.Look at me again, Mr. Kaufman.Begging for a lift all the way to New York to see if you would let me try again.An unlucky chance.Isn't that too much to ask?

Oh, what a pity!I jumped up and dusted my pants and muttered.Even before I set off the journey was clouded with disaster—my bad luck, which I suspected was but a small omen of greater disaster awaiting me.Why should I leave Goobsville?Ask further: Why was I born?Interesting.I was laughing and bouncing around, and I was stroking my frozen ears.However, I did try to crawl back into my mother's womb the moment I was born, as God and those two terrified midwives can attest.They had never seen anything like it.I must be a sentient fetus.From that moment of great reluctance, everything went downhill.

Oh, what a pity!The driver in the first car I got in three hours ago turned out to be an old drunk. "Why not let, oh... let me drive?" I suggested.Once we got on the road, the car swayed from side to side on the slippery road and went at a very fast speed, which was nerve-wracking. "Don't. I'm nervous when other people drive." The old man muttered.The road turned, but we kept going straight, off the freeway, only to miraculously get back on the road after a few hundred meters - and the old idiot kept on driving with technology as cool as an orange popsicle. "I'm a good driver," I pleaded, not daring to breathe, "and I'm a good instructor. Hey, want to see my papers. Heck, listen, I've taught the most Good driver. Even taught Greyhound drivers."

"Don't. Don't distract me," he said angrily.That's when he noticed another car coming straight toward him in the lane he thought belonged to him. There is no hope.Bad luck.I fastened my seatbelt, closed my eyes, and mentally prepared for the inevitable: a few broken ribs and maybe a ridiculously dimpled shoulder too.Or a lobe of lung failed, a leg was smashed into three, and several tendons were severed.Is it just for looks?Then I can sue the old thing and get a fortune.I've seen myself on that tropical green island, wheel chairing to the beach every morning, gesturing to the kids with a pencil in my mouth, and I'm busy finishing my Goobsville memoir.

Long story short, we barely made it ten miles out of beautiful Binghamton - my drunken friend finally rolled into a ditch, first with a violent shudder, then rolled over on his back.This time it was my luck again, and I was just embarrassed by a few drops of urine on my pants. This little loss is not worth going to the lowest court to sue him, let alone the big one that flew away when I was about to get it. money.Looks like I'll never have a chance to sue him. What about the second ride?This one proved to be less dramatic than the last, though no less difficult—a man with a bald head, a blond wig, and a silk shirt.He's coming from Utica.He was a traveling salesman of high-voltage equipment, a gentleman—it was quickly confirmed—a homosexual seducer, and he thought I was a tempter.I started chatting with him, talking about everything imaginable, typical American glib.Arriving in Roscoe, having talked all about the local flora and fauna, I couldn't think of anything else to talk about, and was about to repeat myself when I looked down and saw his hand scratching my leg.Hungry fingers were like those big hairy poisonous spiders crawling up and down my thighs and I couldn't ignore it.So I told him the truth like any sane man in my position would do: I do want to come with him, right here and now in this car, right now, but I want my Infectious diseases may not be cured yet.

"infectious disease?" "I mean, if it doesn't bother you, I'll be with you." "Which one do you have?" He examined me carefully from the corner of his eye.Our car was bouncing on the snow-covered road. "I don't know what they call it, but I have to go to the hospital every two weeks because the urethras keep growing together. They use a robotic device, like a rotary root puller—" And so I was brought back to Roscoe.The idea that I had nowhere to live in New York, and that I didn't want to face Bernie, started to like the place.Seriously, Rothko has its own charms.Weak deer are scattered on the beautiful steep mountains, rough-skinned trout are jumping in the rushing streams beside the road, and the humid air is refreshing.Maybe I'll pitch my tent here for the winter like some 19th century general named So-and-so did, who knows!To be honest, being stuck here is a piece of cake for me, what really worries me is when some malicious old gypsy once told my mother in Vienna or Krakau or something that bad things always All three things happening at the same time.I've always regarded it as a dire yet true prophecy, because it has been fulfilled in my life over and over again, if you count exactly from that catastrophe onwards.

Yes.This prophecy fits my mother well.Before I left home, I called my mother in Palm Springs, where she was currently busy with sugar daddy.What an idea the old woman came up with! "Marry him." I wisely suggested to her. "Pfft! He's too old." "That's all right, Ma. You'll be rich when he's gone. We'll take care of you, of course." "I have my own principles." "I hope you will take good care of them and marry him." "Who do you take me for?" "My mother—or whatever you used to tell me." "Are you joking?"

"Seriously. Look, we can poison the old guy. Does he have a favorite, like strawberry ice cream or Russian caviar?" "I like your humor." "Listen, the other reason I'm calling is - besides telling you I love you - I have 'business' to go to New York for two days, can I stay at your apartment?" "Everything is sealed and locked up." "I don't need anything. Just a place to sleep. If I could borrow a couch—" "No. I just had a new seat up." "Floor. I have a sleeping bag." "The floor was freshly scrubbed. Even the carpet was cleaned with detergent." "I won't dirty it." "I spent hours waxing the floor and—" "What do you think I'll do, piss on the furniture?" "If you drop food crumbs on the floor, I'll get cockroaches everywhere when I get back," she said disgustedly. "If you forget to close the windows, thieves will get in. If you—" "Listen, I'll be very careful. I need a place to stay. I can't afford a hotel for thirty dollars a night." "No way. No way. I'm there, okay, but I can't let you go in and out by yourself, sleep on the floor like a hippie, and leave the crumbs of your meal everywhere, and leave the lights on. " "I sleep on my bed. I don't eat at home. I can even go without the lights—I have a flashlight. I keep the windows shut. I bark like a dog to scare burglars away. I dust your furniture with a good clean the windows." "No way. How are my little grandchildren?" she asked, happily changing the subject, thinking I hadn't noticed. So here I am, Mrs. Nu, somewhere in the Catskills, jumping up and down here like a frozen kangaroo, waiting for the dreaded number three, six, nine, or more to come upon me.It is very difficult for a man under such circumstances not to curse his mother.Not because I'm pretty sure she's my mother.How reluctantly I was born in the Bronx Hospital, where I was actually confused, confused, with an Irish baby.Maybe I'm Irish?Maybe that's why Mrs. Nu has been treating me like this.It wasn't that she worried about the hapless rug, it was that she hated the Irish.Hey hey!Curse you selfish and biased woman!Let burglars break into her goddamn freshly scrubbed apartment, make all the lights go on, make those cockroaches fatten up and turn them into little Danes.Let them walk knee-deep in shit and do a jitterbug on her freshly laundered carpet once they enter her precious home, let them smash her collection of precious Viennese statuettes to pieces, and— -puff! ——Pooping in the toilet without flushing it.Let the heartless burglars, on a whim, use her phone to make long-distance calls to their associates in Kuala Lumpur and Singapore, in person, with operator service, and at daytime rates.In addition to the above, dear Lord, please let them leave with the thought of opening all the windows, not only to let the rain come in, but also to let the thieves who come after them come in.Amen, thank the Lord. But that doesn't help the fact that I'm going to face Mr. Kaufman—although I already know that I will... Maybe, just maybe, I'll turn defeat into victory in the impending defeat, and emerge from the pain Find a little joy... Maybe I can arrange a little lunch with Bernie to discuss my confusing situation with rewriting.Perhaps afterward he could be lugged to a small dinner, at the Palais du Palais, or at Pierre Otnelle, for a more in-depth discussion of his literary career.How about some midnight buttered crepes and wine, co-writing how about that intimate moment, number 23, the plot of the novel?Also, did he ever think about writing a screenplay?stage show?How about writing lyrics for a pop song or dance drama?With his talent, the things he can do are endless and effortless, at most it is a change of form.Then, how about another kosher bacon, or a hot fudge ice cream with nuts and creme for dessert?I talked to him in insightful language as I spooned it into my mouth, like an oral thesis, punctuated with quotations, like those bitter black nuggets on chocolate ice cream, my favorite love to eat.I was so hungry and so preoccupied with Bernie's bounty that I didn't notice a car approaching and it slowly stopped.I was so surprised that I jumped so high that my legs fell to the ground like frozen stilts. "Okay." I smiled and opened the car door, and suddenly found a familiar face. "Mr. Nudelman!" chirped the fair little thing. "Miss... oh... miss. No, no. Let me guess," I said, climbing into her sleek, warm coupe. "Math class," she recalled for me. "That's right, that's right," she smiled and started the car.The car moved forward effortlessly, like gliding on sugar syrup. "Miss Schmack." "Call me Stephen." "All right, Stephen. Call me Sam." "Student four years ago, Sam." "Never forget." "You're such a wonderful teacher, really, with a brilliant idea." "I've lost some weight since then." "Stunning, like a hipster." "I'm so sorry I didn't pass you, really, really sorry," I apologized to "Call me Stephen."I thought to myself, I'm afraid she still thinks that probability functions are shit, that Markov chains are for locking bicycles, and that permutations are gatherings where everyone has something to worry about. "Oh, I should. I've never had a math brain." "Call me Stephen" said charmingly, wrapping her shawl hair around her middle finger, while she easily grasped the steering wheel, and the car rushed in the silver-white whirlwind. "There's some food in the backseat, if you like." "I'm not too hungry—just had a full meal, in fact," I shrugged, looking over my shoulder. "Nothing in particular," she exclaimed as I checked her picnic basket again. "I think there are two egg salad sandwiches left on rye bread." "Well... I think I can eat one at most, maybe—something to wash it down?" "There's a thermos of coffee in the back somewhere." "Yes. Found it." "The other sandwich has to be thrown away if you don't—" "Well, in that case," Professor Nu murmured, his mouth full and three quarters of the first one gone, "...think of the hunger and drought in the world, I think I'd better take it seriously and help you get rid of that one too." He smiled, smacking the unswallowed crumbs, the egg salad still on his lips.The food he devoured fell into his empty stomach with a clang like tennis balls into a metal basket. "How far are you going?" I said after a few minutes, yawning, the combination of the temperature in the car and the full stomach making me feel deliciously sleepy.In her bottomless basket I found cupcakes with a sugared chocolate crust and cumin sauerkraut by itself—all in danger of being thrown away. "New York City," she said, nodding. "Great!" Haha, the gypsy miscalculated. "Me too. What a coincidence. I went there to pick up my new car - I just ordered it. I was planning to take a Greyhound ride, but I hate sitting in a stuffy bus like canned herring, getting smoked." To die. How nice it would be to let me be free and enjoy the openness of the road,” explained the former math teacher.He looked elated, with mayonnaise on his mind. "You know, a flying team or something, but no motorcycles." The good professor slipped down and fell asleep involuntarily as he spoke. From Route 17 to NYC Thruway to Palisades Park, I've been having nightmares of Leaf and Magnus - all grown up - no matter how sternly I warn They insisted that one became a scientist and the other became a writer.Leaf, Leaf, it seemed—he was in his first year of graduate school—had figured out a cure for the common cold, while the creatively gifted Magnus dropped out to write novels with a frenzied zeal so fast that The publisher didn't even have time to write him a check.These two kids — who had reached the pinnacle of achievement fresh off their diapers — left their father humiliated for failing in his field.It's not just that!To rub salt in the wound, even Vivica came up with a revolutionary invention that made cooking out of the old routine, and my Irish setter, Pratt, suddenly—in his old age— — learned to talk, and it was scheduled for an interview for the cover of Newsweek.I'm surrounded by unprecedented achievements, awards, and recognition of all kinds, but what am I doing?After all this commotion, I'm still slogging away at the first pages of my "Gooberswell's Crumbling" memoir.By the time I got to the third paragraph, I couldn't get the syntax right anyway. "You should be proud," said Viveka earnestly, trying to inspire me to hold up my noble head. "Proud? Can I be proud when I am jealous of Miss Schmack who never knows how to be hungry, angry and desperate? Absolutely not!" I woke up in anger and found myself sitting in Miss Schmack's chair In the car, the car was blocked near the George Washington Bridge.My children, my wife, and my dog, whose talents have yet to be discovered, and Stefan, who doesn't understand my current predicament and confusion, are talking to me about her future.His father, a famous lady pants king, finally let her try acting and allowed her to live on her own, she explained.Stop fooling around in liberal arts, no, sir.So, starting this semester, she rents an apartment in the city, enrolls in art school, and is within easy reach of success.But it wasn't a decision made lightly, she told the yawning audience beside her — that's why her father paid for her 300 yuan in accommodation again.Stephen—to my surprise—had spent a long time thinking about his future, the entire fall semester, and even traveled so far to "fill" his mind. "I had no academic ambitions as a student of yours, but, let's face it, things change. I finally picked up those books, and I read a lot. I think being an actor has to be your own. realism, worldview." "Of course, of course," I replied, in spite of my usual easy-going tone, while still thinking about what the dream meant, and as to what she had said, I had no idea at all. "I'm reading D. H. Lawrence." "Really?" I raised my eyebrows and said, thinking that besides knowledge, she also has necrophilia. "Now that I've figured out what he's talking about, I'm going to really study hard." "He in the past." "what?" "In the past. He is dead." The former teacher said tolerantly. "Or in the past," she giggled, lost in her dream.She talked endlessly about how to start a new journey, how to start a new life without restraint due to a lot of reading. "I can't believe it." I shook my head, terrified and glad that I had left teaching, where I had to deal with the ingenuity of 100 Steffen and his senior mentors every day—teachers and students. Either too lazy or too stupid to think and express in English, they wear rags and outlandish accessories that they think are culturally tasted, you will mistake them for a pile of furs and jewelry .Am I the only one who thinks this way?What does all this mean?Does my scientific background make me an abnormal person?The science I have learned is not about abstractions, it requires formulas and physical proofs.I just can't bear to be asked if I'm an Aquarius, or if someone wants to help me purify my soul through abstract thinking and the gravity of the moon, does it have something to do with my background too? "A whole new way of life?" I responded, clearly feeling extremely uncomfortable and forced to be polite, realizing that I was about to fall into my old habit of talking nonsense again. "My lover is a woman." Stephen smiled, revealing a whole row of straightened teeth, showing that familiar enthusiastic but blank face: the fifth seat in the third row by the window. "Well, we are the same." I laughed.Not normal, that's not normal.eccentric.Also nasty.What a pity.How useless. "To such a far place." I nodded, weighing her self-disclosure in my mind, "So, you are... are..." "Oh no! I'm bisexual. That's who I am." "Is that so?" "And that's not all." "Oh?" "I'm still a vegetarian." "Wow!" I laughed and asked myself: Who would have thought that such a young and beautiful girl, with two long and beautiful legs, neat teeth, and a beautiful nose, would be a vegetarian?We finally got off the George Washington Bridge and onto the West Highway, and I thought, what would General George say about all this if he was here today?Will he understand, or will he be confused?Will he take it in stride or blow his lungs?Will he hear where she comes from?Or are you indifferent to all this? No!I warn myself.stop!Don't make fun of her.She is proud of her spring breeze, why should you spoil her happiness and make her unhappy?Does your life have such a good time that you have the right to make fun of hers?Look, she didn't hurt anyone with her stupidity.Yes, let her pursue her wildest whims, if it pleases her very much.Let her lick her girlfriend's pussy with the cauliflower in her ears, if she can get extreme pleasure out of it.Let her conduct a naked choir.They stood in a semicircle and sang the first three and a half lines of "Sons and Lovers," while she used an asparagus as a baton.Let her play Lady Macbeth on the New York stage in a kimono sewn together from 3,001 dried cucumber skins.Nudelman, Nudelman, you old man who escaped from society, bored and tired, why do you want to destroy the interest of this lovely young man, and destroy the dream of the delicate Princess Schmack?She does nothing but show you love and give you mayonnaise, and in return you belittle her knowledge and accomplishments, make fun of her newfound interest in two kinds of sex, and spoil this lovely Hard-won fruit for herbivores.Nudelmann, you greedy and cruel vampire, you are not much better than the Nazis who forced your kosher predecessors to eat the guts of pigs alive.Professor Nu, I have to remind you: do it the way it used to be in the good old days at Goublesville, when God was the monthly check after federal and state taxes.Bite your tongue, smile, be happy, and above all try to think nothing of it.Remember, today's ignorant may be tomorrow's leader.For all you know, Stephen is likely to give up acting to go to the high-level theater stage, and even become the president.This country is going from bad to worse.Who dares to say that one day the American Schmacks will not occupy the whole world?Even if they weren't, they would be Soski and his ilk.But what does all this have to do with my personal existence?hardly.The only thing I couldn't get rid of was the curious notion that Stephen's father would give me a job in the women's lingerie business. what!When people are poor, there are many troubles, not only lack of money to spend, but also suffering from pain—jealous of those rich people.Is there any other reason for me to mentally take advantage of this basically good Miss Schmack?Why am I always having sober conversations with myself?I kept thinking over and over again, and the vehicles were much sparser at this time.Our car started to move again, and the outlines of the beautiful buildings on the West Side of Manhattan were looming in front of us.My heart skipped a beat for joy. "Manhattan," I said aloud.I thought of those poor Algonquians who had absolutely no sense of land values.Hastily listing lands to white folks as soon as they see them, only to be duped by a cunning fellow like Pete Minhuit.As Maud said - all they got was a box of useless beads.When I hear the name "Manhattan," I can't help thinking of the Dutch bowling on the Battery Park Green.Then I thought of the painted Brits haunting the streets, and the boatloads of immigrants who came later, flocking to the tenements on the Lower East Side.All these romantic and trivial pasts were learned from third-grade history textbooks, and I still don't forget them.Mmm - Manhattan.I already think of the bakery window, where the fresh fruit jams are about to overflow, and the crispy brown bread or soft bread is piled on the shelf, and the fragrant caraway seeds on the crust make you want to eat them. , Chew it in your mouth. ① Altong Kun people: an Indian tribe. Coming to Manhattan from the woods of Goobsville was a real thrill, like recharging an old battery.Others might just smell the filth and sweat of thousands of bodies, but I literally smell the smell of food - Chinese, French, Pakistani, Italian , and Arabic; candied baklava and chicken and pork pies.Spiced curries and sorbets.And herring mercifully soaked in ice-cold smooth yoghurt. At this time, New York gave outsiders the impression of a hodgepodge, and the alluring aroma from the range hood was like a radio signal.As the car drove to the West End, all my sleepy energy was focused on the alluring fragrance.Like a starving dog who ate only two ignominiously acquired egg sandwiches in a week, I wandered on this strange island while Steffen gushed about her idol, D. H．Lawrence, and all the books she had studied in depth—his three novels.Ellis Island Tammany Association: and the immigration line miles in front of customs came to my mind.Seeing the big men in waistcoats and boots in the old Tammany Society hall, who were so sure of winning elections in their own districts, and seeing the carriages of the rich men galloping proudly across the cobblestone streets, Stefan is still telling Her reality and D. H．How Lawrence's reality came about.Yes.Yes.Yes.Tell me more, Steffen.Don't hide from me. ① Ellis Island: A small island west of Manhattan Island in New York City, which was once the main immigration checkpoint for immigrants to the United States. ② Tammany Association: Founded in 1787.It is a powerful organization of the Democratic Party in New York City, which was developed from Yuanguang's charitable group. It has become synonymous with corrupt politics for its various misdeeds in the 19th century. "Have you read his books carefully?" Her question interrupted my train of thought.She tilted her head and looked at me suspiciously and asked, a pair of innocent almond eyes must be able to set off a storm in the New York Coliseum. "Lawrence?" I said, staring out at the coal-black street. “Sexual descriptions have never been my cup of tea,” our protagonist jokingly replies as he ponders where to get off. "Hey, where are you going to play?" Steffen asked me, the elf who read people's minds.We were driving up 50th Street, past rush hour, and the road was showing white thaw. "I think I'd better go to the Hampshire Hotel," I said without batting an eyelid. "You can let me down here. I like to walk around town," I explained.I like it, really. "I'd love to have you live with me, but it's too small. I'm afraid my girlfriend won't think it's a cool idea." "Cool. Hot. Don't think about it, listen to me, thank you for giving me a ride." I babbled and picked up my battered overcoat, which seemed even tattered now.She parked the car on the side of the road. "You're an angel," I said, kissing her gratefully. "Thank you for the cupcakes, sandwiches, brownies, coffee and sauerkraut." "Goodbye," said the bubbly panty heir, waving the car toward her lover.open to D． H．Lawrence and delicious sliced ​​carrots. "See you on Broadway, young man." I waved her back, and the car was long gone.