PFK1 (21 page)

tempting prize, Patrick, one all three are determined to win. Watch

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out. You must be very careful in the near future. Dangerous days lie

ahead."

"I want my money back," I said. "You’re just making all this shit

up."

Amazing Maureen laughed and kept right on talking. She read both

my hands and even turned them over to check out the backs. She said

I was going to be very successful but it was going to take an ungodly

long time and require a huge amount of work.

"I’m not sure I like that prediction," I said.

Suddenly Megan was at my elbow.

"You’re having your palm read?" She asked.

"Just for the hell of it," I answered.

Maureen shot Megan a glance.

"She has pretty blue eyes, doesn’t she?"

"Yeah," I agreed, as Maureen let go of my hand.

"Your lucky card is the Nine of Diamonds," Maureen said, as we

walked away. Megan asked me what Maureen meant with the bit

about her eyes. I said it was just a bunch of bullshit.

Other than me wasting my money, the Country Fair was, as usual,

quite a spectacle. The brazen sight of so many bare breasted young

women cavorting about hither and yon had me rubbernecking no end.

* * * *

July 11, 1978

Wrote a long letter to an editor at Avon Books today. I got her

name by calling Avon on the state WATS line. I’m not so sure about

this letter – it’s an uneven piece, not too remarkable. It’s hard to sell

myself. I find myself parodying my own style, and that’s the worst

thing you can do. I mean, I’m not even myself yet, so who am I

kidding?

The question of "Am I who?" continues to plague the 26 year old

Patrick. He is in a quandary. Oh, what to do, what to do?

Been reading a lot of B. Traven lately. I absolutely love The Death

Ship. It’s like working at the welfare office – not one bit different, I

swear.

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Traven’s such a storyteller. I wish I were more developed than I

am. I suppose it will come with time. I am only 26. What does

anybody know when they are 26?

The child abuse story is getting lost in a jumble of other ideas. It

may be a dead cat. I’m beginning to worry about myself again. I feel

these self-destructive impulses welling up within. I feel so detached

from other people. My neighbors Harry and Nick, are fun to drink

and shoot the shit with but nevertheless we three are interested in

different things.

Waiting for Ms. Ellsworth to return my manuscript. I expect her to

respond something like this:

"I know how much this probably means to you, and I admire your

effort in writing it. But it doesn’t do a thing for me. Nor do I

particularly appreciate how you view other people’s lives. I think you

are bitter and quite disturbed. Why are you so hateful and negative?

Why can’t you be more positive?"

My guess is that it will be something nice and uplifting and cheery

like that. She’s very mature now, you know.

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July 12, 1978

Yesterday I decided that I am a lousy writer because I write like a

simpleton. No New Yorker style prose is mine. Whenever I read my

own stuff, it’s like reading the words from a cretin who can barely

string a sentence together. A punk moron with a typewriter is what I

am.

I’ve thought about it a zillion times. What difference does it make

if you have something to say? If you can’t express the words artfully,

you’re sunk.

Can’t get anywhere on this child abuse story. The concussion and

the little head-shaped hole in the drywall are there, but beyond that

it’s formless. No real theme. No focus. No unity of vision. I can’t

get into the mind of a woman who would beat her children so

viciously and so often that the grade school feels compelled to call the

Child Protection Division.

Even though I have had a psychopathic harridan as my own mother,

the underlying thought process (or lack thereof) which result in the

torture of children simply horrify me.

We were more neglected as children than actually abused. We only

got hit when we demanded their time and attention. We soon learned

not to demand either. My way was to avoid Lois and Jim as much as

possible. It is still my way with authority of any type: Strict

avoidance. If authority must be confronted, I prefer guerilla warfare.

Now that I think about it, the old bitch probably could have been

effectively threatened, if Mick and I had ever thought of doing it. As

teenagers we could have just squealed on her to the authorities if she

didn’t behave.

I’ll bet that would have had interesting consequences.

Might just go in another direction altogether with my story, if I can

marshal the emotional strength for it. The desire to write another

novel brews in the back of my head all day long, day in and day out. I

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yearn to throw myself into it. It might give me a reason to go on

living.

The truth is I am sick of life as I am living it now. Often, I consider

suicide. What is the point of living? I just don’t get it. My life

counts for nothing. The notion of checking out early is one I find

infinitely attractive. It doesn’t frighten me nearly as much as it used

to, still retaining that old cynical appeal.

A death trip for the brooding boy.

All in all, I am feeling pretty expendable. Not very happy with

myself. I feel shame, know I have hurt others needlessly and truly

wish things had worked out differently. The best way to avoid getting

things is to want them. The more I want things, the more they elude

my grasp.

Thus it has been all my life.

So what? Forget it. Destiny is calling me. To my so-called

friends, my petty ambitions appear foolish, and so I play the fool.

Who am I trying to kid? I’m not a writer. I’m a nothing. A foolish

kitchen table experimenter without talent.

* * * *

July 13, 1978

Don’t forget what you did with the manuscript, you drunken fool.

Don’t forget what you did with her letter. May 4, 1976. Says it all,

doesn’t it? It is ink on paper, isn’t it? The words. Chiseled in stone.

Permanent. I’ll never live that one down, will I? Nor anything else.

Am I worried? I think not. It’s been weeks. Really scared her off

this time. It was stupid to have put that shit about her boyfriend in

there, even though all I did was tell the truth. After all, I do know her.

Okay. Don’t tell me I’m crazy. I already know that. One short

story this summer is all I ask. No happy ending required.

* * * *

July 17, 1978

Went to Eugene over the weekend to party with my friends.

Visited John Thomas, McNeese, Katrine, Charles, Arianna, Lori, Bill,

and a host of others. Drank. Smoked dope. Drank some more. Ate

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breakfast yesterday with John Thomas at the Home Fried Truck Stop.

What a zoo that was.

Bought two new (old) books.

Got a letter from Random House today, a form letter. They say

they will read fiction, but only a complete work. So now I must

photocopy my spare manuscript and ship it off. Another stab at it

can’t hurt anything.

Saw Foxe of Foxe and Weasel at Duffy’s on Saturday. Foxe is an

extremely attractive brown-haired beauty with gorgeous blue eyes.

When she sang that Dave Mason song The Words it really blew me

away. Foxe’s real name is Polly.

I know, I know.

How many women have that crazy name?

While they did their show on Saturday, I noticed that Weasel is an

aptly named fellow. Unfortunately, he did not seem to appreciate my

chatting up Foxe between sets.

But she came to my table. Honestly, I wasn’t bothering her. At

one point he was positively rude. Ah well. I would say that Foxe is

the talented one but Weasel hogs the show and (in my opinion) really

stinks up the act.

She was extremely friendly to me the whole time. Laughed at my

jokes. Gave me her address up in Portland. Put her hand in mine

briefly. Sat very close to me.

They play for practically nothing around here and it’s pretty sad to

see her under his thumb.

Told Megan at work today that I am seriously thinking of pulling

up stakes and leaving town. She appeared somewhat dismayed. Kept

asking where I planned to go. Said Hollywood. Besides, I said, what

is there for me here? I made a list: Nada. Nyet. Null. Nuttin. Ixnay.

Zip. Zilch. Zero.

I don’t even know why I took this job in the first place. Five years

I spent trying to get it and now I don’t want it anymore. The poor

truly are their own worst enemies, if you ask me. I can’t relate to

them. I don’t want to be here at all.

* * * *

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July 18, 1978

Sent a letter to my mother and sisters today, a kind of farewell in

case I leave town on short notice or something. I wish I had more

respect for my mother but I do not. As for my sisters, I feel sorry for

them because they have had to live in abject poverty ever since my

father died in 1968.

The old hag would never work and was (is) always stoned on pills.

My poor sisters have had to raise themselves, not unlike the Man-in-

the-Moon Marigold girls.

My father. You never really miss anyone until they are gone.

Although, at the time Jim died, he and I were not on good terms. For

example, I never really appreciated getting smacked when he got

angry. His constant belittling sarcasm and mean-spirited put-downs

likewise got old really fast.

But at least he acted as a counterweight to our evil, insane, creepy,

self-centered scrag of a mother.

I curse him for dying.

The misery and defeat of our lives really drags me down and makes

me wish I had never been born. Once in a great while when things are

okay I feel a kind of bitter pride in my family, but the moment is

usually quite brief. Most of the time it is just sad to be a part of this

crew and that’s all I’ve got to say.

I wish things were different. I wish I wish I wish.

At the welfare office last week these two women’s advocates gave

a presentation on how to determine whether you are in an abusive

relationship. Based on the materials they passed out, I was in an

abusive relationship with Polly Ellsworth. But instead of being the

typical male abuser, I was the abused one!

Their nine-point handout read as follows:

1) Does your partner... get jealous and possessive? Check.

2) Insist on knowing where you’ve been and who you’ve been

with? Check.

3) Accuse you of flirting or cheating? Check.

4) Rifle through your stuff? Double check.

5) Make you feel like you can never do anything right? Check.

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6) Want to limit the time you spend with family and friends?

Check.

7) Tell you how to dress or what to wear? Check.

8) Threaten to physically hurt you or somebody you care about?

Hmmm. Well no, I can’t say Polly did.

9) Hit, kick, shove, punch, slap, or hold you down? Nope. None of

that stuff, either.

I guess there wasn’t much physical about Polly’s abuse, other than

her insatiable sexual demands. Probably because I was five inches

taller and outweighed her by thirty pounds.

Plus, Polly was so darned cute when she got mad that I was more

amused by her antics than anything else. I kept expecting her to

pound her tiny fists against my chest but that never happened, either.

All she did was shoot her mouth off and crab at me when we weren’t

busy fucking. However, the women’s advocates said that even one or

two of the signs listed above is a cause for serious concern.

* * * *

July 19, 1978

Got restive about my manuscript and called Ms. Ellsworth to get it

back. No answer. The phone has been disconnected, possibly to

avoid contact from me. No doubt she has run off to get married to her

boyfriend. That’s all right. I’m just sorry I sent the stupid thing to her

in the first place. Now I just want it back so I can close this chapter.

Quit smoking and drinking for a while, starting today. See how

long it lasts.

I believe that I have talent and determination. I believe I can write

a few interesting sentences when called upon to do so. I refuse to

waste my talent simply because my personal life is so dismal and my

outlook so unhappy.

There is far too much I can bring to people that I haven’t even met