PFK1 (2 page)

new to retort. I may have left some words out of some sentences but

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since you knew me, (in the Biblical, as well as the regular sense) I

give you complete license to fill in any missing information.

Yours until Niagara Falls,

Polly

What the hell am I supposed to make of that shit? I go back and

forth. I’m thinking of hopping in my bus and driving down to see her.

Just to see her. It’s been more than a year since the last time I tried to

contact her.

Unfortunately, that previous trip went nowhere. But I’m in a

quandary. Is she just setting me up to act the fool again? What

happens if I go down there and she makes out like I’m insane for

coming down? It would just kill me. If only she would give me some

clear signal that she wanted to see me I would drop everything and go.

That is essentially what I asked her when I wrote. I said how about us

talking face to face? But she did not respond to that. And this is,

well, so weird…

I just don’t get it.

* * * *

November 13, 1977

I’ve decided not to drive down to Ashland to see Polly. I do not

believe she is being serious. I’ve asked her if we could see each other

and she sends me crap like the above letter. I must therefore conclude

she is not serious.

I am serious, but she is not. Oh, how roles have reversed! I’ll

probably write her again, I suppose, but I expect nothing.

* * * *

November 30, 1977 Monday

From my bedroom window I can see the bank tower, downtown,

the river, all the way to the west hills. Looking out the window

yesterday I was positive I saw Polly Ellsworth pull up in front of our

house. A blue Volkswagen slowed down and then stopped across the

street. I was absolutely sure it was her at the wheel. That face I

would know anywhere.

I ran downstairs right away but the car was already gone. If it

wasn’t Polly my name is Ronald McDonald.

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Could it possibly have been a figment of my overactive

imagination? Who knows? I wrote to her right after I got her last

letter, telling her that I am available for a meeting any time she wants

to get together. But I’ve heard nothing since.

I swear I am going crazy here in Portland.

My mother lives one mile away and pesters me constantly for

favors, errands, money, home repairs, money, or simply to yak my ear

off. I wouldn’t mind doing work but she is a total slug who won’t lift

a finger, is horrible to listen to, and treats me like a slave.

I’d listen politely except for the fact that her conversation is nothing

but venom and self pity. The old hag acts like she is on her deathbed.

Though perfectly healthy, she refuses to work and lives off the Social

Security payments she gets for my sister Ruthie, age 16. You would

think she is 93 years old instead of only 53. I fucking hate her.

My writing goes very slowly. Six short chapters in three days.

However, I am pleased with the quality. Must keep plugging away on

this new draft of
The Dark City
.

Have made a decision to write about only significant events in this

journal from now on. Less drivel, more action.

* * * *

December 8, 1977

Far fucking out. I have the whole place to myself.

* * * *

December 9, 1977

Did not get too far with yesterday’s entry. Too many people, too

many interruptions. In and out, in and out. Boys, girls, beer, reefer,

and loud, wild talk. The whole place was jammed with people at one

point. Why are we so popular? I do everything I can to discourage

them, but without success.

Nevertheless, late at night, after everyone was gone, I got a bunch

of stuff done on the book. I’m now up to page 26. These re-writes

are terribly difficult. Every sentence is a major project, with

blueprints, competitive bids, forklifts, and guys in hard hats shouting

orders.

11

Having lots of trouble with Chap. 7 right now. Will substitute all

new material, I think. A whole different slant is needed and I believe

the word they used to describe him was "incorrigible," meaning there

is no hope for him.

Wrote my brother Mick a letter today. Complained about nearly

everything. Don’t know what good it will do but I got it off my chest.

Yadda yadda yadda. That’s an expression Chesley has been using for

the past week or so.

Yadda yadda yadda. Whenever I use it, it sounds stupid. He can

get away with it, though. I don’t know why. Chesley wants to have a

Christmas party. Between him and me, the guest list will run

somewhere around 100. While reviewing the list of people I proposed

to invite, Chesley objected strenuously to about ten different names. I

agreed to take them off but will restore them when I take the invites to

Postal Instant Press.

Screw him.

Unless I’m writing, I can’t think of anything but sex. I wish I could

suppress this unholy urge that constantly distracts me. Sex and

sexibility. Because of it, I waste time with women I would never

otherwise hang around with in a million years.

What I want, I think, is irresponsible promiscuity. Forget all that

other junk I said. I did not mean it. I am after the one-night stand,

casual sex, intimate acts with total strangers. There can be nothing

more emotionally rewarding than fucking someone you hardly know.

Chesley wants me to date Alison, who is the best friend of his new

girlfriend Sue. Apparently Alison has been asking about me. Chesley

says he will score big with Sue if he can deliver me to Alison. Just to

put him off, I said under no circumstances would I go out with Alison

unless I was sure she would consent to sexual intercourse on the first

date.

That, I figured, would definitely kibosh it.

To my dismay, Chesley said that would be no problem. Here’s the

scenario: After our double date, we come back here for drinks and

Chesley and Sue will disappear into his bedroom. Left alone, I would

then be seduced by femme fatale Alison.

12

Oh shit!

It’s not Alison, its me. She seems genuinely sweet, if a little on the

chubby side. If I started sleeping with her, I’d never get rid of her

without a whole lot of trouble, I am sure.

Besides, I need time to work on my book. Most women don’t

consider what I am doing serious. They think my writing is some sort

of quaint hobby. Granted, I have gone nowhere with it so far but my

writing is definitely not a quaint hobby. It is an insanity preventive. I

use it to fill my empty spaces, which are many and deep. Women, on

the other hand, want to fill my empty spaces with themselves.

* * * *

December 19, 1977

Writing in red ink is bothersome but I can’t find my regular pen,

goddammit. Think Chesley stole it. Quiet weekend. Went out

drinking with Randy Thune on Friday night. Went out drinking with

Mario and Butch on Saturday night.

A really gorgeous woman hit on me at Kingston’s while I was with

Randy on Friday.

Uncanny how much she resembled Marie Montambeault. A very

similar laugh, the same liquid grey eyes. Her name was Darlene. For

some reason I like that name and Darlene herself seemed quite smart

and hip.

Also very slender and sexy. Without me even asking, Darlene gave

me her phone number and said I should call her. However, it is

unlikely that I will do so any time soon.

In fact I know I won’t. I want to work on my book. Darlene wants

me to work on her. I’m now up to Chap. 9, which ought to be a real

challenge. So it goes. I struggle and struggle.

Look at the calendar. My poor black puppy has been dead for

exactly a year today. My former girlfriend Leanne would never agree

to handle La Pooch in a responsible fashion.

So while Leanne was away on a work trip, Patrice trotted on over to

my old house.

13

The current tenants there promptly turned her over to animal

control. After only three days in the pound, those fuckers put her to

death, her dog tags notwithstanding.

Leanne went to get her as soon as she returned but the deed had

already been done. After only three fucking days!

Goddamn them! Such a sad thing. Such a sweet puppy. Our coal

black Labrador Retriever. I really loved that poor mutt. All I have

left is her engraved Milk Bone dog tag from 312 E. 16th with her

name misspelled "Patrise".

Leanne made me take it because she can’t bear to look at it

anymore. A tear just rolled down my cheek.

And another.

Goddamn, I hate the fucking world.

* * * *

December 21, 1977

I think of things like this: Two years ago today I last slept with

Polly Ellsworth. Now we are coming to the January date, which

signaled our permanent split. Now I must come to realize what is

necessary, and complete the emotional break. I must not keep on

thinking about her.

It must end.

In truth, it has not been all that bad, being alone. I’ve gotten a lot

of work done. I intend to remain alone.

Winter’s day.

In a deep and dark December. I am alone. Hiding in my room.

Deep within my womb. I touch no one and no one touches me. The

snow falls outside. Softly.

A freshly fallen silent shroud of crystallized water.

* * * *

December 27, 1977

The party came and went.

What my book needs, I’ve decided, is a really true description of

mental illness. I just realized how incoherent I am on that subject.

Hallucinate. A visual TV fantasy through the years, a pair of

flickering blue parents.

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* * * *

December 29, 1977

Rotten day at work.

At home alone. I don’t know what I would do without these

Fridays off. Who am I? What am I? When he makes fun of me,

Chesley calls me God’s Lonely Man. He claims that I secretly yearn

to get married and it is his considered opinion that I am overdue for

such a connection. However, I suspect it’s only projection on his part.

Chesley is the one who wants to get married. My ambitions are of

an entirely different nature.

Have to get another load of wood for the stove. A five dollar

bundle in the VW from those poor kids off Foster Road.

The whole fall’s been cold, not especially wet, but cold.

Worked on sabotaging the party a little bit over the weekend. Put

all of the crossed off invitees back on the list and told them to bring

their friends. If Chesley bitches about it, I’ll just threaten to squeal on

him about something.

There is an endless array of misdeeds to blackmail him about.

He is such a total double dealer I have many different angles I can

torture him with. The raft of shit he gave me about giving Randy

some Jarlsberg after our party is but one example.

What else?

I was upstairs peeing when Chesley and Randy came back from

playing racquetball at the Y. They were reading my stuff at the table

when I came down and took turns ridiculing it.

Honestly, I don’t care. It is fucking hard work, writing words

down. Writing is hard, very hard. I don’t care what anybody says.

They both laughed when I said nobody else has the guts to do it. Fuck

‘em.

I’m good at what I am doing and I have something to say.

* * * *

December 30, 1977

At home alone. I don’t know what I would do without these

Fridays off. Have I said that before? Sent another letter to the state,

asking them to renew my listing for eligibility worker.

15

Now I’ll settle down to read a good book. Shit, somebody is at the

door downstairs! If it is Sue with Alison in tow again I swear I will

hide in the basement.

* * * *

January 20, 1978

There’s just too much happening to keep abreast of things. Almost

three weeks have passed without me writing in this book.

On the female front, it appears I have a natural gift for screwing up

potential relationships, especially with women I care about. If pissing

women off was an Olympic event, I’d be a fucking gold medalist.

The more I care about them, the less capable I seem of making it

work.

Superficially, there is always a strong attraction. Once we get to

know each other, however, the honeymoon comes crashing down and

they end up giving me the finger.

Take Jill Deskins, for example. I received a letter from her