Паланик, Чак - Паланик - Бойцовый клуб (engl)Проза и поэзия >> Переводная проза >> Паланик, Чак
Юбу Лбхбйяу. Вксркчщс ухзв (engl)
TYLER GETS ME a job as a waiter, after that Tyler's pushing a gun in my
mouth and saying, the first step to eternal life is you have to die. For a
long time though, Tyler and I were best friends. People are always asking,
did I know about Tyler Durden.
The barrel of the gun pressed against the back of my throat, Tyler says
"We really won't die."
With my tongue I can feel the silencer holes we drilled into the barrel
of the gun. Most of the noise a gunshot makes is expanding gases, and
there's the tiny sonic boom a bullet makes because it travels so fast. To
make a silencer, you just drill holes in the barrel of the gun, a lot of
holes. This lets the gas escape and slows the bullet to below the speed of
You drill the holes wrong and the gun will blow off your hand.
"This isn't really death," Tyler says. "We'll be legend. We won't grow
I tongue the barrel into my cheek and say, Tyler, you're thinking of
The building we're standing on won't be here in ten minutes. You take a
98percent concentration of fuming nitric acid and add the acid to three
times that amount of sulfuric acid. Do this in an ice bath. Then add
glycerin drop-by-drop with an eye dropper. You have nitroglycerin.
I know this because Tyler knows this.
Mix the nitro with sawdust, and you have a nice plastic explosive. A
lot of folks mix their nitro with cotton and add Epsom salts as a sulfate.
This works too. Some folks, they use paraffin mixed with nitro. Paraffin has
never, ever worked for me.
So Tyler and I are on top of the Parker-Morris Building with the gun
stuck in my mouth, and we hear glass breaking. Look over the edge. It's a
cloudy day, even this high up. This is the world's tallest building, and
this high up the wind is always cold. It's so quiet this high up, the
feeling you get is that you're one of those space monkeys. You do the little
job you're trained to do.
Pull a lever.
Push a button.
You don't understand any of it, and then you just die.
One hundred and ninety-one floors up, you look over the edge of the
roof and the street below is mottled with a shag carpet of people, standing,
looking up. The breaking glass is a window right below us. A window blows
out the side of the building, and then comes a file cabinet big as a black
refrigerator, right below us a six-drawer filing cabinet drops right out of
the cliff face of the building, and drops turning slowly, and drops getting
smaller, and drops disappearing into the packed crowd.
Somewhere in the one hundred and ninety-one floors under us, the space
monkeys in the Mischief Committee of Project Mayhem are running wild,
destroying every scrap of history.
That old saying, how you always kill the one you love, well, look, it
works both ways.
With a gun stuck in your mouth and the barrel of the gun between your
teeth, you can only talk in vowels.
We're down to our last ten minutes.
Another window blows out of the building, and glass sprays out,
sparkling flock-of-pigeons style, and then a dark wooden desk pushed by the
Mischief Committee emerges inch by inch from the side of the building until
the desk tilts and slides and turns end-over-end into a magic flying thing
lost in the crowd.
The Parker-Morris Building won't be here in nine minutes. You take
enough blasting gelatin and wrap the foundation columns of anything, you can
topple any building in the world. You have to tamp it good and tight with
sandbags so the blast goes against the column and not out into the parking
garage around the column.
This how-to stuff isn't in any history book.
The three ways to make napalm: One, you can mix equal parts of gasoline
and frozen orange juice concentrate. Two, you can mix equal parts of
gasoline and diet cola. Three, you can dissolve crumbled cat litter in
gasoline until the mixture is thick.
Ask me how to make nerve gas. Oh, all those crazy car bombs.
The Parker-Morris Building will go over, all one hundred and ninety-one
floors, slow as a tree falling in the forest. Timber. You can topple
anything. It's weird to think the place where we're standing will only be a
point in the sky.
Tyler and meat the edge of the roof, the gun in my mouth, I'm wondering
how clean this gun is.
We just totally forget about Tyler's whole murder-suicide thing while
we watch another file cabinet slip out the side of the building and the
drawers roll open midair, reams of white paper caught in the updraft and
carried off on the wind.
Then the smoke, smoke starts out of the broken windows. The demolition
team will hit the primary charge in maybe eight minutes. The primary charge
will blow the base charge, the foundation columns will crumble, and the
photo series of the Parker-Morris Building will go into all the history
The five-picture time-lapse series. Here, the building's standing.
Second picture, the building will be at an eighty-degree angle. Then a
seventy-degree angle. The building's at a forty-five-degree angle in the
fourth picture when the skeleton starts to give and the tower gets a slight
arch to it. The last shot, the tower, all one hundred and ninety-one floors,
will slam down on the national museum which is Tyler's real target.
"This is our world, now, our world," Tyler says, "and those ancient
people are dead."
If I knew how this would all turn out, I'd be more than happy to be
dead and in Heaven right now.
Up on top of the Parker-Morris Building with Tyler's gun in my mouth.
While desks and filing cabinets and computers meteor down on the crowd
around the building and smoke funnels up from the broken windows and three
blocks down the street the demolition team watches the clock, I know all of
this: the gun, the anarchy, the explosion is really about Marla Singer.
We have sort of a triangle thing going here. I want Tyler. Tyler wants
Marla. Marla wants me.
I don't want Marla, and Tyler doesn't want me around, not anymore. This
isn't about love as in caring. This is about property as in ownership.
Without Marla, Tyler would have nothing.
Maybe we would become a legend, maybe not. No, I say, but wait.
Where would Jesus be if no one had written the gospels?
I tongue the gun barrel into my cheek and say, you want to be a legend,
Tyler, man, I'll make you a legend. I've been here from the beginning.
I remember everything.
BOB'S BIG ARMS were closed around to hold me inside, and I was squeezed
in the dark between Bob's new sweating tits that hang enormous, the way we
think of God's as big. Going around the church basement full of men, each
night we met: this is Art, this is Paul, this is Bob; Bob's big shoulders
made me think of the horizon. Bob's thick blond hair was what you get when
hair cream calls itself sculpting mousse, so thick and blond and the part is
His arms wrapped around me, Bob's hand palms my head against the new
tits sprouted on his barrel chest.
"It will be alright," Bob says. "You cry now."
From my knees to my forehead, I feel chemical reactions within Bob
burning food and oxygen.
"Maybe they got it all early enough," Bob says. "Maybe it's just
seminoma. With seminoma, you have almost a hundred percent survival rate."
Bob's shoulders inhale themselves up in a long draw, then drop, drop,
drop in jerking sobs. Draw themselves up. Drop, drop, drop.
I've been coming here every week for two years, and every week Bob
wraps his arms around me, and I cry.
"You cry," Bob says and inhales and sob, sob, sobs. "Go on now and
The big wet face settles down on top of my head, and I am lost inside.
This is when I'd cry. Crying is right at hand in the smothering dark, closed
inside someone else, when you see how everything you can ever accomplish
will end up as trash.
Anything you're ever proud of will be thrown away.
And I'm lost inside.
This is as close as I've been to sleeping in almost a week.
This is how I met Marla Singer.
Bob cries because six months ago, his testicles were removed. Then
hormone support therapy. Bob has tits because his testosterone ration is too
high. Raise the testosterone level too much, your body ups the estrogen to
seek a balance.
This is when I'd cry because right now, your life comes down to
nothing, and not even nothing, oblivion.
Too much estrogen, and you get bitch tits.
It's easy to cry when you realize that everyone you love will reject
you or die. On a long enough time line, the survival rate for everyone will
drop to zero.
Bob loves me because he thinks my testicles were removed, too.
Around us in the Trinity Episcopal basement with the thrift store plaid
sofas are maybe twenty men and only one woman, all of them clung together in
pairs, most of them crying. Some pairs lean forward, heads pressed ear-
to-ear, the way wrestlers stand, locked. The man with the only woman plants
his elbows on her shoulders; one elbow on either side of her head, her head
between his hands, and his face crying against her neck. The woman's face
twists off to one side and her hand brings up a cigarette.
I peek out from under the armpit of Big Bob.
"All my life," Bob cries. "Why I do anything, I don't know."
The only woman here at Remaining Men Together, the testicular cancer
support group, this woman smokes her cigarette under the burden of a
stranger, and her eyes come together with mine.
Short matte black hair, big eyes the way they are in Japanese
animation, skim milk thin, buttermilk sallow in her dress with a wallpaper
pattern of dark roses, this woman was also in my tuberculosis support group
Friday night. She was in my melanoma round table Wednesday night. Monday
night she was in my Firm Believers leukemia rap group. The part down the
center of her hair is a crooked lightning bolt of white scalp.
When you look for these support groups, they all have vague upbeat
names. My Thursday evening group for blood parasites, it's called Free and
The group I go to for brain parasites is called Above and Beyond.
And Sunday afternoon at Remaining Men Together in the basement of
Trinity Episcopal, this woman is here, again.
Worse than that, I can't cry with her watching.
This should be my favorite part, being held and crying with Big Bob
without hope. We all work so hard all the time. This is the only place I
ever really relax and give up.
This is my vacation.
I went to my first support group two years ago, after I'd gone to my
doctor about my insomnia, again.
Three weeks and I hadn't slept. Three weeks without sleep, and
everything becomes an out-of-body experience. My doctor said, "Insomnia is
just the symptom of something larger. Find out what's actually wrong. Listen
to your body."
I just wanted to sleep. I wanted little blue Amytal Sodium capsules,
200milligram-sized. I wanted red-and-blue Tuinal bullet capsules, lipstick-
My doctor told me to chew valerian root and get more exercise.
Eventually I'd fall asleep.
The bruised, old fruit way my face had collapsed, you would've thought
I was dead.
My doctor said, if I wanted to see real pain, I should swing by First
Eucharist on a Tuesday night. See the brain parasites. See the degenerative
bone diseases. The organic brain dysfunctions. See the cancer patients
So I went.
The first group I went to, there were introductions: this is Alice,
this is Brenda, this is Dover. Everyone smiles with that invisible gun to
I never give my real name at support groups.
The little skeleton of a woman named Chloe with the seat of her pants
hanging down sad and empty, Chloe tells me the worst thing about her brain
parasites was no one would have sex with her. Here she was, so close to
death that her life insurance policy had paid off with seventy-five thousand
bucks, and all Chloe wanted was to get laid for the last time. Not intimacy,
What does a guy say? What can you say, I mean.
All this dying had started with Chloe being a little tired, and now
Chloe was too bored to go in for treatment. Pornographic movies, she had
pornographic movies at home in her apartment.
During the French Revolution, Chloe told me, the women in prison, the
duchesses, baronesses, marquises, whatever, they would screw any man who'd
climb on top. Chloe breathed against my neck. Climb on top. Pony up, did I
know. Screwing passed the time.
La petite mort, the French called it.
Chloe had pornographic movies, if I was interested. Amyl nitrate.
Normal times, I'd be sporting an erection. Our Chloe, however, is a
skeleton dipped in yellow wax.
Chloe looking the way she is, I am nothing. Not even nothing. Still,
Chloe's shoulder pokes mine when we sit around a circle on the shag carpet.
We close our eyes. This was Chloe's turn to lead us in guided meditation,
and she talked us into the garden of serenity. Chloe talked us up the hill
to the palace of seven doors. Inside the palace were the seven doors, the
green door, the yellow door, the orange door, and Chloe talked us through
opening each door, the blue door, the red door, the white door, and finding
what was there.
Eyes closed, we imagined our pain as a ball of white healing light
floating around our feet and rising to our knees, our waist, our chest. Our
chakras opening. The heart chakra. The head chakra. Chloe talked us into
caves where we met our power animal. Mine was a penguin.
Ice covered the floor of the cave, and the penguin said, slide. Without
any effort, we slid through tunnels and galleries.
Then it was time to hug.
Open your eyes.
This was therapeutic physical contact, Chloe said. We should all choose
a partner. Chloe threw herself around my head and cried. She had strapless
underwear at home, and cried. Chloe had oils and handcuffs, and cried as I
watched the second hand on my watch go around eleven times.
So I didn't cry at my first support group, two years ago. I didn't cry
at my second or my third support group, either. I didn't cry at blood
parasites or bowel cancers or organic brain dementia.
This is how it is with insomnia. Everything is so far away, a copy of a
copy of a copy. The insomnia distance of everything, you can't touch
anything and nothing can touch you.
Then there was Bob. The first time I went to testicular cancer, Bob the
big moosie, the big cheesebread moved in on top of me in Remaining Men
Together and started crying. The big moosie treed right across the room when
it was hug time, his arms at his sides, his shoulders rounded. His big
moosie chin on his chest, his eyes already shrink-wrapped in tears.
Shuffling his feet, knees together invisible steps, Bob slid across the
basement floor to heave himself on me.
Bob pancaked down on me.
Bob's big arms wrapped around me.
Big Bob was a juicer, he said. All those salad days on Dianabol and
then the racehorse steroid, Wistrol. His own gym, Big Bob owned a gym. He'd
been married three times. He'd done product endorsements, and had I seen him
on television, ever? The whole how-to program about expanding your chest was
practically his invention.
Strangers with this kind of honesty make me go a big rubbery one, if
you know what I mean.
Bob didn't know. Maybe only one of his huevos had ever descended, and
he knew this was a risk factor. Bob told me about postoperative hormone
A lot of bodybuilders shooting too much testosterone would get what
they called bitch tits.
I had to ask what Bob meant by huevos.
Huevos, Bob said. Gonads. Nuts. Jewels. Testes. Balls. In Mexico, where
you buy your steroids, they call them "eggs."
Divorce, divorce, divorce, Bob said and showed me a wallet photo of
himself huge and naked at first glance, in a posing strap at some contest.
It's a stupid way to live, Bob said, but when you're pumped and shaved on
stage, totally shredded with body fat down to around two percent and the
diuretics leave you cold and hard as concrete to touch, You're blind from
the lights, and deaf from the feedback rush of the sound system until the
judge orders: "Extend your right quad, flex and hold."
"Extend your left arm, flex the bicep and hold."
This is better than real life.
Fast-forward, Bob said, to the cancer. Then he was bankrupt. He had two
grown kids who wouldn't return his calls.
The cure for bitch tits was for the doctor to cut up under the
pectorals and drain any fluid.
This was all I remember because then Bob was closing in around me with
his arms, and his head was folding down to cover me. Then I was lost inside
oblivion, dark and silent and complete, and when I finally stepped away from
his soft chest, the front of Bob's shirt was a wet mask of how I looked
That was two years ago, at my first night with Remaining Men Together.
At almost every meeting since then, Big Bob has made me cry.
I never went back to the doctor. I never chewed the valerian root.
This was freedom. Losing all hope was freedom. If I didn't say
anything, people in a group assumed the worst. They cried harder. I cried
harder. Look up into the stars and you're gone.
Walking home after a support group, I felt more alive than I'd ever
felt. I wasn't host to cancer or blood parasites; I was the little warm
center that the life of the world crowded around.
And I slept. Babies don't sleep this well.
Every evening, I died, and every evening, I was born.
Until tonight, two years of success until tonight, because I can't cry
with this woman watching me. Because I can't hit bottom, I can't be saved.
My tongue thinks it has flocked wallpaper, I'm biting the inside of my mouth
so much. I haven't slept in four days.
With her watching, I'm a liar. She's a fake. She's the liar. At the
introductions tonight, we introduced ourselves: I'm Bob, I'm Paul, I'm
Terry, I'm David.
I never give my real name.
"'This is cancer, right?" she said.
Then she said, "Well, hi, I'm Marla Singer."
Nobody ever told Marla what kind of cancer. Then we were all busy
cradling our inner child.
The man still crying against her neck, Marla takes another drag on her
I watch her from between Bob's shuddering tits.
To Marla I'm a fake. Since the second night I saw her, I can't sleep.
Still, I was the first fake, unless, maybe all these people are faking with
their lesions and their coughs and tumors, even Big Bob, the big moosie. The
Would you just look at his sculpted hair.
Marla smokes and rolls her eyes now.
In this one moment, Marla's lie reflects my lie, and all I can see are
lies. In the middle of all their truth. Everyone clinging and risking to
share their worst fear, that their death is coming head-on and the barrel of
a gun is pressed against the back of their throats. Well, Marla is smoking
and rolling her eyes, and me, I'm buried under a sobbing carpet, and all of
a sudden even death and dying rank right down there with plastic flowers on
video as a non-event.
"Bob," I say, "you're crushing me." I try to whisper, then I don't.
"Bob." I try to keep my voice down, then I'm yelling. "Bob, I have to go to
A mirror hangs over the sink in the bathroom. If the pattern holds,
I'll see Marla Singer at Above and Beyond, the parasitic brain dysfunction
group. Marla will be there. Of course, Marla will be there, and what I'll do
is sit next to her. And after the introductions and the guided meditation,
the seven doors of the palace, the white healing ball of light, after we
open our chakras, when it comes time to hug, I'll grab the little bitch.
Her arms squeezed tight against her sides, and my lips pressed against
her ear, I'll say, Marla, you big fake, you get out.
This is the one real thing in my life, and you're wrecking it.
You big tourist.
The next time we meet, I'll say, Marla, I can't sleep with you here. I
need this. Get out.
YOU WAKE UP at Air Harbor International.
Every takeoff and landing, when the plane banked too much to one side,
I prayed for a crash. That moment cures my insomnia with narcolepsy when we
might die helpless and packed human tobacco in the fuselage.
This is how I met Tyler Durden.
You wake up at O'Hare.
You wake up at LaGuardia.
You wake up at Logan.
Tyler worked part-time as a movie projectionist. Because of his nature,
Tyler could only work night jobs. If a projectionist called in sick, the
union called Tyler.
Some people are night people. Some people are day people. I could only
work a day job.
You wake up at Dulles.
Life insurance pays off triple if you die on a business trip. I prayed
for wind shear effect. I prayed for pelicans sucked into the turbines and
loose bolts and ice on the wings. On takeoff, as the plane pushed down the
runway and the flaps tilted up, with our seats in their full upright
position and our tray tables stowed and all personal carry-on baggage in the
overhead compartment, as the end of the runway ran up to meet us with our
smoking materials extinguished, I prayed for a crash.
You wake up at Love Field.
In a projection booth, Tyler did changeovers if the theater was old
enough. With changeovers, you have two projectors in the booth, and one
projector is running.
I know this because Tyler knows this.
The second projector is set up with the next reel of film. Most movies
are six or seven small reels of film played in a certain order. Newer
theaters, they splice all the reels together into one five-foot reel. This
way, you don't have to run two projectors and do changeovers, switch back
and forth, reel one, switch, reel two on the other projector, switch, reel
three on the first projector.
You wake up at SeaTac.
I study the people on the laminated airline seat card. A woman floats
in the ocean, her brown hair spread out behind her, her seat cushion
clutched to her chest. The eyes are wide open, but the woman doesn't smile
or frown. In another picture, people calm as Hindu cows reach up from their
seats toward oxygen masks sprung out of the ceiling.
This must be an emergency.
We've lost cabin pressure.
You wake up, and you're at Willow Run.
Old theater, new theater, to ship a movie to the next theater, Tyler
has to break the movie back down to the original six or seven reels. The
small reels pack into a pair of hexagonal steel suitcases. Each suitcase has
a handle on top. Pick one up, and you'll dislocate a shoulder.
They weigh that much.
Tyler's a banquet waiter, waiting tables at a hotel, downtown, and
Tyler's a projectionist with the projector operator's union. I don't know
how long Tyler had been working on all those nights I couldn't sleep.
The old theaters that run a movie with two projectors, a projectionist
has to stand right there to change projectors at the exact second so the
audience never sees the break when one reel starts and one reel ran out. You
have to look for the white dots in the top, right-hand corner of the screen.
This is the warning. Watch the movie, and you'll see two dots at the end of
"Cigarette burns," they're called in the business.
The first white dot, this is the two-minute warning. You get the second
projector started so it will be running up to speed.
The second white dot is the five-second warning. Excitement. You're
standing between the two projectors and the booth is sweating hot from the
xenon bulbs that if you looked right at them you're blind. The first dot
flashes on the screen. The sound in a movie comes from a big speaker behind
the screen. The projectionist booth is soundproof because inside the booth
is the racket of sprockets snapping film past the lens at six feet a second,
ten frames a foot, sixty frames a second snapping through, clattering
Gatling-gun fire. The two projectors running, you stand between and hold the
shutter lever on each. On really old projectors, you have an alarm on the
hub of the feed reel.
Even after the movie's on television, the warning dots will still be
there. Even on airplane movies.
As most of the movie rolls onto the take-up reel, the take-up reel
turns slower and the feed reel has to turn faster. At the end of a reel, the
feed reel turns so fast the alarm will start ringing to warn you that a
changeover is coming up.
The dark is hot from the bulbs inside the projectors, and the alarm is
ringing. Stand there between the two projectors with a lever in each hand,
and watch the corner of the screen. The second dot flashes. Count to five.
Switch one shutter closed. At the same time, open the other shutter.
The movie goes on.
Nobody in the audience has any idea.
The alarm is on the feed reel so the movie projectionist can nap. A
movie projectionist does a lot he's not supposed to. Not every projector has
the alarm. At home, you'll sometimes wake up in your dark bed with the
terror you've fallen asleep in the booth and missed a changeover. The
audience will be cursing you. The audience, their movie dream is ruined, and
the manager will be calling the union.
You wake up at Krissy Field.
The charm of traveling is everywhere I go, tiny life. I go to the
hotel, tiny soap, tiny shampoos, single-serving butter, tiny mouthwash and a
single-use toothbrush. Fold into the standard airplane seat. You're a giant.
The problem is your shoulders are too big. Your Alice in Wonderland legs are
all of a sudden miles so long they touch the feet of the person in front.
Dinner arrives, a miniature do-it-yourself Chicken Cordon Bleu hobby kit,
sort of a put-it together project to keep you busy.
The pilot has turned on the seat-belt sign, and we would ask you to
refrain from moving about the cabin.
You wake up at Meigs Field.
Sometimes, Tyler wakes up in the dark, buzzing with the terror that
he's missed a reel change or the movie has broken or the movie has slipped
just enough in the projector that the sprockets are punching a line of holes
through the sound track.
After a movie has been sprocket run, the light of the bulb shines
through the sound track and instead of talk, you're blasted with the
helicopter blade sound of whop whop whop as each burst of light comes
through a sprocket hole.
What else a projectionist shouldn't do: Tyler makes slides out of the
best single frames from a movie. The first full frontal movie anyone can
remember had the naked actress Angle Dickinson.
By the time a print of this movie had shipped from the West Coast
theaters to the East Coast theaters, the nude scene was gone. One
projectionist took a frame. Another projectionist took a frame. Everybody
wanted to make a naked slide of Angle Dickinson. Porno got into theaters and
these projectionists, some guys they built collections that got epic.
You wake up at Boeing Field.
You wake up at LAX.
We have an almost empty flight, tonight, so feel free to fold the
armrests up into the seatbacks and stretch out. You stretch out, zigzag,
knees bent, waist bent, elbows bent across three or four seats. I set my
watch two hours earlier or three hours later, Pacific, Mountain, Central, or
Eastern time; lose an hour, gain an hour.
This is your life, and it's ending one minute at a time.
You wake up at Cleveland Hopkins.
You wake up at SeaTac, again.
You're a projectionist and you're tired and angry, but mostly you're
bored so you start by taking a single frame of pornography collected by some
other projectionist that you find stashed away in the booth, and you splice
this frame of a lunging red penis or a yawning wet vagina closeup into
another feature movie.
This is one of those pet adventures, when the dog and cat are left
behind by a traveling family and must find their way home. In reel three,
just after the dog and cat, who have human voices and talk to each other,
have eaten out of a garbage can, there's the flash of an erection.
Tyler does this.
A single frame in a movie is on the screen for one-sixtieth of a
second. Divide a second into sixty equal parts. That's how long the erection
is. Towering four stories tall over the popcorn auditorium, slippery red and
terrible, and no one sees it.
You wake up at Logan, again.
This is a terrible way to travel. I go to meetings my boss doesn't want
to attend. I take notes. I'll get back to you.
Wherever I'm going, I'll be there to apply the formula. I'll keep the
... ... ...
Продолжение "Бойцовый клуб (engl)" Вы можете прочитать здесь
|Угощали Обаму Путин с Медведевым в русском стиле: на столе стоял
самовар, а в самоваре по исконно русской традиции была водка...
Как удивится потом американский президент, узнав, что он поподписывал в