PFK1 (43 page)

Been reading about Ernest Hemingway lately. I think he was

basically a good guy but got too deep into fucking hunting and blood

sports. Megan was appalled at this picture I showed her of all these

kudu and rhino he slaughtered in Africa. What the hell was the point

of that shit?

I think Megan and I might buy a place at the coast someday, a little

place, within walking distance of the beach. A geodesic dome style

cabin would be perfect, with lots of flowers, vegetables, and berries in

the yard. We’ll use wind and solar power, have a composting toilet,

the whole bit. We’ll come here on the weekends to party, take saunas

and just putter around.

Now that would be the life.

* * * *

March 21, 1979

Got an unhappy phone call at work today. Initially, I thought it was

a client. Instead, it turned out to be Jill Deskins. She yelled at me for

not calling her after our tryst last month. She reminded me that I

promised to bring her here for a visit and demanded to know why I

haven’t followed up yet.

For once I tried to handle the situation the honest way, an area in

which I am not too familiar. I told Jill that I had suddenly become

involved with another woman, and that it was serious. Silence. Then

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I told her that I didn’t see how it was ever going to happen for us. I

said I was sorry.

At first, there was more silence. And then the storm broke. Jill had

some pretty choice words for me, among which I caught motherfucker

and shithead. Several hours later, I think my left (phone answering)

ear is still a bit warm.

I suppose I deserved it. I’m sure glad Megan was out of the office

when Jill called.

I feel really bad about Jill. This time I just used her to get back at

Megan. The long and the short of it is that when it comes to women, I

am still pretty much a jerk.

But the whole thing is also ironic. When I was hot for Jill two

years ago, she blew me off. Nastily.

Now that that the shoe is on the other foot, I am no longer

interested. In a way, this mirrors what happened between me and

Marie Montambeault.

A couple of times there Marie took me for granted and I could

never get past it. She never said she wanted us to be together, she just

wanted me to come to her. There was no consistency on her part and

little willingness to put herself out.

Certain things put me off. I always thought that if Marie really

wanted me to come to Florida, she wouldn’t have taken no for an

answer. She would have lobbied me more. She would have called me

back and bugged me about it. At the time, she knew perfectly well

that I had no money and no prospects.

As with Jill, I was always supposed to be the one taking the risks.

Not once did Marie ask me to visit her, with no strings attached. It

had to be the whole deal or nothing.

Following my failed affair with the other one, and my stupid

behavior with Sarah, I was not ready to leap right into another

relationship. But what I still feel bad about was that I was never

completely honest with Marie and did not tell her what I was going

through. I know that I should have.

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Now I am in love with Megan, who knows little of this and who

frankly says she is uninterested in my past affairs. She says she loves

me and is content with that.

Does love ever work? Does it ever last?

I guess we will find out.

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March 23, 1979

Been waiting for a card to show up in the mail but so far nothing.

I’m concerned about having my
The Dark City
manuscript simply

vanish into the ether. If they aren’t going to do anything with it, they

could at least return it. They have a self-addressed, stamped

manuscript box.

Looking through my old materials relating to the book. I am

convinced that it is a masterpiece.
The Dark City
is taken from real

life. It’s so true – without even being literally true in every aspect.

How can they not see that? I just love my book.

As time passes, I am sure I will get others to see things my way but

for now I appear stymied. Too bad, though. I could really use some

positive feedback.

The doers do and the waiters wait.

That’s one of Chesley’s charming little aphorisms. Kind of a snide

reference to Michael D. as well, who waited tables at the Center

Fours restaurant for several years.

Speaking of Chesley, he has announced plans to marry Nurse

Shirley sometime in July – the 28th, I think. He says this is the real

thing. I have many misgivings, but will hold my tongue. Nobody

listens to me, anyway.

I still have a lot of basic faith in Chesley, almost the only one of his

friends who does. He can do practically no wrong as far as I am

concerned. If he wants to marry a woman who plainly does not love

him, who is a bowser by any definition of the word, I guess that is his

call. Maybe she is a really good fuck, although somehow I doubt it.

Shirley is a short, squat, ungainly woman with ankles like fence

posts. Standing beside each other, Chesley and Shirley resemble Mutt

and Jeff. When speaking, Shirley’s voice sounds like the horn that

formerly announced the start of work at my old rose factory job. It is

as sweet and lilting as a civil defense siren.

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Worst of all, Shirley is the woman Randy cheated on Wilma with

last year right before I left Portland. Even knowing that Randy was

married, Shirley fucked him.

Yuck. Double yuck.

Chesley’s old girlfriend Karen Hall was miles ahead of this creature

in terms of class, grace, intelligence, decency, warmth, and personal

loveliness.

He is completely insane.

Ah well. The doers do and the hypocrites write.

Ta-ta-ta! Time marches on, a cavalcade of impossible events. I am

to be invited to the wedding, probably against Shirley’s wishes.

Chesley might as well be inviting me to his lynching. I must

remember to keep these opinions to myself.

* * * *

March 24, 1979

Up on the dunes overlooking the tiny beach town of where I live.

A beautiful, sunny day and I am thrilled by the spectacle of sun, sea,

wind, and sand. Got to get a few coherent words down before I get

stoned. The air is soft and the sky is accented a stunning cerulean

blue. I can see for miles all around.

Some odd bird is making noise atop a gnarled snag fifty yards

away. Probably a woodpecker. Wack wack wack.

Later: I am about to leave. Those fucking goddamn dune buggy

riders just showed up to tear up the sand across the way and make a

god-awful racket.

How I hate them! All they do is wreck the delicate ecology of the

coastal environment. Why are these cretins allowed to do this? The

sound carries so well I can hear every throb and rev of their

ridiculously overpowered engines.

Fucking fat-assed stupid gear head morons.

I am rooting for another Arab oil embargo. Yes, let the shortages

begin. That will put an end to this so-called recreation once and for

all. I can always walk to my job.

Spent the night with Megan at Josie’s up in Heceta Beach. We

watched
The Wizard of Oz
on TV last night before retiring. Love that

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cowardly lion. I’ve probably seen that movie fourteen times. I recall

that my kindergarten class was all agog over it in the autumn of 1956.

It’s uncanny that I remember.

The Dark City
creeps along. I keep changing it as I write. It is sort

of a thought experiment, not really a serious novel. Bizarre ideas

come to me and I scribble them down. A darkly comic vision is the

central and only consistent theme.

Mary Wong sent me a letter yesterday. It is a farewell, from what I

am able to discern between the accusations. She seems to believe

rather forcefully that I am in love with Megan, and as a consequence,

had no business ever tumbling with her.

Reading it objectively, Mary is apparently saying that acting on

your own deceitful and selfish motives doesn’t diminish your anger

when you discover others doing the same thing.

* * * *

April 2, 1979

Welfare check day.

It was the usual headache, but I was prepared. I got good and

pissed off early and stayed that way until lunch. We have a new

supervisor, the agency’s response to our complaints about poor

treatment. As Megan predicted, our newest acquisition is your typical

welfare office fat broad.

Got my taxes mailed off. What a windfall it will be. I will soon

have $2,000 in liquid assets. Adventure calls me. Anytime would be

a fine time to leave. Fuck Florence. I want out of here.

Nick and Eleanor are driving to San Francisco for the weekend.

They have asked if Megan and me want to go along.

We might do it.

* * * *

April 5, 1979

San Francisco.

The trip down took thirteen hours. Nick and I both took bennies

and gabbed all night. He drove like Neal Cassady and I supplied the

Jack Kerouac conversational accompaniment. Eleanor and Megan

slept in back almost the whole way. We got in around 8:30 AM.

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A long, strange trip.

I really dig this town. There’s this great bar across the street from

City Lights Books. This afternoon we went to an anti-nuke rally

downtown and ate spaghetti afterwards. Tonight we are getting

dressed up to go out to dinner with Nick’s old army buddy Charlie

and his fiancé, Christine.

Portland is drab by comparison.

It’s like a hick town compared to San Francisco.

* * * *

April 9, 1979

Another extremely long day.

I am getting ready for bed. I can’t believe we just drove to SF and

back. Nick and Eleanor crashed in Eugene. Megan and I couldn’t

stick around because we were due at work. We finally arrived at

11:30 AM, driven here by a former welfare client and her drunken

boyfriend.

The guy was sucking on a beer at 10:00 AM.

What a trip.

Megan’s car was parked here so we came inside, showered, and had

a quick bite to eat. Then we went to work in separate vehicles. We

called ahead from Eugene early this morning to say we were going to

be late. Nick would not get up, despite his promise of last night. He

just couldn’t do it, he said.

He’s so fucking unreliable.

Spent four hours at work, and now I am home. Nick is still in

Eugene with Eleanor. He will probably come back tomorrow.

Been reading my Jack London book again. A hangover from our

trip to the Bay Area, I think. Now there was a hell of a writer.

London really dominated the scene while he was around.

Made a ton of money.

Times and seasons. Haven’t heard from my brother Mick in quite a

while. Wonder what he’s up to. Got a pack of posters in the mail

recently from the Trojan Decommissioning Alliance, courtesy John

and McNeese. There’s a big anti-nuke rally set for the capitol later

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this month. I’d like to be there but it’s on a workday and I don’t think

I can swing it.

Most of the time I am torn between my responsibility to support

myself and wanting to do other activities, like politics, writing, or

travel. Consequently, I never seem to get anywhere.

Still contemplating a move to Portland. Every time I mention it to

Megan, she gets upset.

I could write forever tonight. But it is already late and I need some

sleep.

* * * *

April 15, 1979

Raindrops are splattering hard on the roof of the house.

Real April showers.

The season changes. Summer nears.

I sliced
The Dark City
into small sections, gave each section a title,

and shipped it out to 24 different publications. I call the form "parts

of novels" and am hoping for the best. Some of the chapter titles are

pretty good, if I do say so myself.

Megan is concerned about me wanting to move to Portland, asking

if I am doing it to get away from her. I assure her it’s no such thing

but that does little good.

Got my new Liquor Control Commission ID card in the mail today.

Fucking police state. However, I need it if I want to go drinking

anywhere. They keep asking me. I’m almost 28 years old and the

people who run the bars still think I’m 19.