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geschrieben am: 10.07.2003 um 23:21 Uhr
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so leutz,
ich fühle mich verantwortlich euch folgendes buch zu empfehlen...ich habs vor ca. 2 wochen gelesen und muss wirklich sagen, dass es mir sehr sehr sehr gut gefallen hat. es war bei min. 20 magazinen auf platz eins und sogar beim playboy...*hmpf*( ob das ein erfolg ist?)
naja, jedenfalls hab ich euch die zusammenfassung kopiert.
die deutsche version kostet ca. 7,80 € also noch gerade so erschwinglich.
wer mehr infos will kann zu www.nickmcdonell.com gehen.
Nick McDonell---Twelve
White Mike is thin and pale like smoke.
White Mike wears jeans and a hooded sweatshirt and a dark blue Brooks Brothers overcoat that hangs long on him. His blond hair, nearly white, is cropped tight around his head. White Mike is clean. White Mike has never smoked a cigarette in his life. Never had a drink, never sucked down a doobie. But White Mike has become a very good drug dealer, even though it started out as a one-shot deal with his cousin Charlie.
White Mike was a good student, but heÂ’s been out of school for six months, and though some people might wonder what heÂ’s doing, no one seems to care very much that heÂ’s taking a year off before college. Maybe more than a year. White Mike saw that movie American Beauty about a kid who is a drug dealer and buys expensive video equipment with the money he makes. The kid says that sometimes there is so much beauty in the world that sometimes you just canÂ’t take it. Fuck that, thinks White Mike.
White Mike is not looking at beauty. He is looking at the Upper East Side of Manhattan. It is two days after Christmas and all the kids are home from boarding school and everyone has money to blow. So White Mike is busy with a pickup in Harlem and then ounces and fifties and dimes and loud music and packed open houses and more rounds and kids from Hotchkiss and Andover and St. PaulÂ’s and Deerfield all looking to get high and tell stories about how it is to kids from Dalton and Collegiate and Chapin and Riverdale, who have stories, of their own. All the same stories, really.
The city is a mess this time of year, this year especially. Madison Avenue is all chewed up with construction, and there are more bums on Lexington than White Mike remembers. It is crowded on the sidewalks, and the more snow, the worse it gets, and there has been plenty of snow. On some streets when the snowdrifts pile up there is only a salted corridor of frozen dog shit and concrete. ItÂ’s been cold since Thanksgiving, very cold, coldest winter in decades says the TV, but White Mike doesnÂ’t mind the cold.
When White Mike first started dealing, it was summer and hot, and he tried to go as long as he could without sleep as a kind of experiment. White Mike already looked pale and scary to the kids he sold to, and then by the third day his jeans and white T-shirt were grimed out and he looked like some refugee James Dean, and the last hours were just a blur and the cars on the street flew past so close to him that people who saw flinched, but he had the cadences of the city down so tight that he was fine.
At Lexington and Eighty-sixth, his friend Hunter saw him and said, Mike, are you feeling okay, and White Mike turned to him and there was a smear of dirt on his face and his eyes were glowing in the neon light from the Papaya King juice/hot dog place. White Mike smiled at him and said watch this and took off running, just running so fucking fast up the block toward Park Avenue. There were a bunch of private school kids walking the same direction, and when they saw White Mike running past them, one of them said, loud enough for White Mike to hear, Madman running. And White Mike turned and walked back to them saying, Madman, madman, madman, madman, and the kids got scared, and then White Mike ran full into them, and they scattered, and they didnÂ’t think it was funny at all, and then White Mike started barking at them, howling, and they all ran. And White Mike ran after them, barking and howling, and Hunter ran after him, and White Mike let them get away after a couple blocks. Hunter put White Mike in a cab, but he had to convince the cabbie to take White Mike, and pay him in advance. The cabbie was jumpy and looked in the mirror at White Mike the whole ride. White Mike had his head out the window, staring at the pedestrians. When White Mike got home and collapsed in his bed with his shoes and clothes still on, his last thought before sleep was Why not? He had been awake for three days.
so...das reicht. für dei die nicht so geübt in englisch sind, gibts wie gesagt die deutsche version im handel....allerdings etwas ausgelutscht und sexistisch. |
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