January 4, 1982
Raleigh
I stopped opening my telephone bills months ago. Still they scream at me from the cabinet over the sink where I keep them. The last bill I paid was in late summer, and because the envelope that arrived today was light, I opened it. Light envelopes mean they’ve had it. The letter inside said that if I didn’t pay them $65 by tomorrow, they would take my phone away.
I called to negotiate, and the woman scolded me. “Why on earth don’t you pay monthly?”
“I don’t know.” I pleaded, and she gave me until Thursday the seventh. By then I’ll have enough for the phone but nothing toward my already late rent.
I wondered why the rent and bill situation always has to be so desperate. Then I realized I made it desperate. I am desperate.
I saw an ad in the paper for a waiter at the Capital Club. I didn’t apply because if they hired me, I’d have to miss All Things Considered every night. Plus I don’t have the outfit to apply in, or the look.
When I lived in San Francisco I was just as desperate, so desperate I applied for a waiter job at a place called Henry Africa’s. You had to be twenty-one to wait tables. I wasn’t but lied and said I was. The guy in charge told me to come back tomorrow with my birth certificate. He was dressed in a safari outfit.
January 8, 1982
Raleigh
I spent the day crawling underneath the Ewing house and trying to think of one good thing to say about it. For a while, hunched over on my hands and knees, I used a rake to collect trash. Among my findings were two pornographic novels without their covers. They were from the late 1950s and pretty tame by today’s standards. One of them had black-and-white pictures of women in it. Mainly it showed their bosoms. Under each picture was a short paragraph, the author trying to be funny, most often. The models were on the big side.
I gave the books to Bobby and his best friend Dougie, who is working with us this week. In the afternoon I walked into the backyard and saw them drinking Mountain Dews and examining the pictures. “This one here’s got pretty little titties,” I heard Dougie say. He has red hair, an ex-wife, and a three-year-old daughter.
Today I broke a rake, a shovel, and a hammer—every tool that was placed in my hands. I saw a lot of centipedes under the house. After I crawled through a pile of cat shit, I decided to call it a day and go home.
January 10, 1982
Raleigh
Neil has left some fluid on the bed. It isn’t urine. It doesn’t smell bad. It’s just fluid.
January 11, 1982
Raleigh
Again this morning I found fluid on my birthday blanket. This time I rubbed Neil’s nose in it and put her out for a while. She makes a habit out of everything.
January 13, 1982
Raleigh
My phone has been disconnected, so I called Southern Bell. The woman I talked to said that it would stay cut off until I paid my bill.
“But I did pay it,” I said. “Seventy-five dollars just last week.”
They couldn’t verify it, so I went through my trash and found my receipt inside a can of lima beans. It was covered with rust-colored juice. The woman at the phone company addressed me as “Mrs. Sedaris” until I couldn’t stand it anymore and corrected her. That always happens. They think I’m a woman—a woman named David.
January 14, 1982
Raleigh
Lisa, Bob, and I drove on ice to see Body Heat. It was nice of them to invite me and to go out in this weather. The problem is that Lisa talks through everything, and loudly. It hardly ever has anything to do with the action taking place on-screen. Tonight, in the most suspenseful moment, just as William Hurt was about to open the booby-trapped door of the boathouse, Lisa touched my shoulder and leaned close. “Do you remember how to say the word snowman in Greek?” she asked. “I’ve forgotten since our last lesson and it’s driving me crazy.”
Afterward, she and Bob played a game of Space Invaders in the lobby. They weren’t haunted by the movie the way I was, and by the time we reached the car, Body Heat was, for them, forgotten.
January 19, 1982
Raleigh
Again today I dug ditches in the cold rain. After work I met James at the Laundromat. He’s black and a bit older than me, and these are a few of the things he said:
“I bet you’re sixteen years old.”
“I just like to be nice and meet new people.”
“I love all kinds of music.”
“I unwind in South Carolina.”
“Why doesn’t your wife do the laundry?”
“Aren’t you a family man?”
“Don’t you be lonely living here alone?”
“I’ve never met anyone like you.”
I gave him my phone number because he wants to cook me dinner.
January 23, 1982
Raleigh
James called last night at one. He was looking for an Amoco station and asked if I wanted to come along for the ride. I was awake, so I said OK. He pulled up a while later in a blue car that had four doors and was new and clean. We drove for almost an hour to all the stations he knew were closed. Then, four blocks from my apartment, we went to one that was lit up.
It was two a.m., and when we opened the door to the inside where you pay, a camera flash went off. They do that because of theft. Afterward James talked about prison life. He’s never been but was stopped once for speeding by a state trooper and said it was the most terrifying experience of his life.
The Hardee’s on Edenton Street was open, so we went there and he bought a medium-size Pepsi. We drove to Apollo Heights to look at his house, but we didn’t go in. James lives with his brother but will soon move to Fox Ridge, a new apartment complex for middle-class black people. The rent will be three-fourths of his monthly salary.
When James’s other brother was killed in Vietnam, the government sent someone to inform the family. That was in 1967. His mother worked in a school cafeteria. I asked a million questions, and he was good about answering them.
“Can I trust you?” he asked in the front seat of his car.
“I wouldn’t if I were you,” I told him.
He asked if we could be friends, and I said you shouldn’t ask things like that. It sounds too third-grade. If you’re meant to be friends with someone, you’ll be friends. There’s no need to talk about it.
James asked a lot of questions a person shouldn’t ask. Back at the apartment, during sex, I thought about a lot of different things; my new trash can, for instance, with the pedal. I was a thousand miles away and wishing I’d never answered the phone.
February 1, 1982
Raleigh
Outside the A&P I saw a woman with thick, stiff legs pushing an empty cart through the parking lot. Her hair was in braids, and she turned to me, saying, “They forgot to give me my groceries, goddamn them.” I followed her inside, but slowly. She walked like the Tin Man. I went to the A&P looking for a bargain, and when I didn’t find one, I went to the Big Star. Chickens look bigger when they’re wrapped tighter.
February 4, 1982
Raleigh
On the phone last night Gretchen told me that I’m rotting away in a crummy house next to the IHOP. I got angry because it’s true and changed the subject to next year’s Christmas.
February 5, 1982
Raleigh
This morning I stepped on a nail. Afterward I had to literally pry it out of my foot. I mean, it was in all the way up to the board. Now my foot is swollen, and it hurts to walk across the room.
On the bright side, it’s taken my mind off my inflamed penis. Maybe tomorrow I can cut off a few fingers to take attention away from my foot.
February 6, 1982
Raleigh
The Big Star is still holding their poultry-sale extravaganza: mixed fryer parts for 35 cents a pound. I told Dad about it, and he said it was a joke and that all the parts would be wings, backs, and necks.
He was almost right. They also threw in some hearts and live
rs.
I thought I’d never fall asleep last night. My foot was throbbing. The Rescue Mission gives crutches to people who are temporarily handicapped on the condition that you return them later, so I went with Margaret and got a pair. Then I tied them to my bike handles and rode to the library. Crutches are a real drag, but I like having people open doors for me.
February 9, 1982
Raleigh
My burning penis is not syphilis or gonorrhea but just some kind of bladder infection. That’s the good news. The bad is that they’ve finally cut off my gas. I haven’t paid the bill since May, yet still the total is only $30. Added to that is a $15 reconnection fee.
My grandfather Leonard was like that, like me. He would avoid bills and loan what money he had to friends. Mom grew up having her father wander home drunk and broke. I’m not drunk or generous, just broke.
February 10, 1982
Raleigh
After a four-day weekend I returned to work and was hit on the head by a brick. I was under a house, lying on my back and stapling insulation to the floor joists above me. The brick was loose and it landed on my eyebrow, taking a number of hairs and leaving a lump, which I sort of like because it makes me look tough.
In the afternoon I helped a guy named Pat carry furniture. It annoys me when someone assumes he’s stronger than me and calls for a third set of hands to help. I am not a physically weak person, just uncoordinated. Pat is a real chatterbox. While moving stuff, I learned:
He has nine brothers and sisters.
He is from Wisconsin.
Once he had a rod stuck up his penis to search for scar tissue.
He got married in Rhode Island in 1973.
He went to Vietnam.
He refinished his own dresser.
He has a thirty-four-inch waist.
He once found a pie safe in a Carrboro mechanic’s shop.
He subscribes to Workshop magazine.
He bought his stereo in 1969.
Meanwhile, Charles has been fired. His replacement is a guy named Tommy. Tommy is Dougie’s cousin and frequently talks about “gnawing on some pussy.”
That sounds pretty severe, to gnaw on it. Tommy’s sister is a lesbian. She’s straightforward about it, and when she brings her girlfriends home to meet the family, Tommy’s father kisses them on the mouth, hoping, his son says, “to get the sweet taste of pussy on his lips.”
With T.W. gone, there hasn’t been much sex talk on the job site. That’s changed now. I listen but never speak.
Driving home from Greek class, we passed a weaving drunk on the street. “That man lives in my apartment complex and once asked me to go with him to Charades Lounge for a drink,” Lisa told me. She lit a cigarette. “I would have gone if I’d known for certain that he was going to pay.”
February 11, 1982
Raleigh
Mrs. Ewing was at home this afternoon. She works as a maid for a car dealer and his insurance-selling wife. Her daughter-in-law chose the paint for the exterior of the house and luckily she likes it. “Now, I’m a lady and I like lady colors,” she said. “I like me some pink and yellow.” Mrs. Ewing begins stories with the line “You won’t believe this, but one time…”
Her son was in Vietnam and has had several nervous breakdowns since returning home. “It’s hard for him to find a job once they learn he’s been in a nerve center,” she said. Again today when it was time for her to leave, she said, “I’m gone.” And she was.
February 12, 1982
Raleigh
Charlie Gaddy was at the IHOP, causing heads to turn. He is the anchorman on Eyewitness News and a local celebrity. At the restaurant, one woman after another stepped over to say hello. One asked which syrup he preferred, and he said, “In my opinion, the blueberry is best.”
Tomorrow S. and I are going shopping in Chapel Hill. I want to find a good birthday gift for Mom and am willing to spend $20. She’s been a very good mother this year, so I’m looking for a German-made windup mouse. That would be the perfect gift.
I worked today with a black man named Charles T. who backed into a Southern Bell van as we were leaving Capital City Truck Rental in our huge flatbed. Charles T. can’t make out a word white people say. After he asked “What?” fifteen times, I started talking like him and he understood.
Charles T. plays cards in a one-story brick house behind the landfill. Last week he lost $400. We passed the Wakefield Apartments, and he pointed to a unit and told me that a few days ago, two brothers lost $9,000 gambling there. “The key to life is knowing when to stop,” he said. Then noon came, and he stopped working and left. Off to play cards, I guess.
February 14, 1982
Raleigh
Last night Dad came to visit. He walked in without knocking and went straight to my bed and lay down on it. Then he closed his eyes and was out for quite a while. Again he’d waited until the last minute to buy Mom a Valentine’s gift. Before leaving, he looked around my living room and kitchen. Then he said, “Well, aren’t we domestic.”
After reaching the sidewalk he returned and asked if my apartment was always this warm. Then he left again and returned again to ask if the building heats with gas or oil.
When I was in high school, Dad would sometimes come into my room and lie on my bed. Sometimes he’d talk, but most often he was silent.
February 15, 1982
Raleigh
New word: bourgeois, meaning pussy. Tommy says he’s glad he’s married and can get all the bourgeois he needs and don’t have to choke the chicken like single men do. He talks a lot about kicking his wife’s ass. He’ll kick her ass clean across the room if she doesn’t have supper ready when he gets home. He’ll kick her ass if she won’t give him bourgeois when he needs it. Today he wore a T-shirt with ANIMAL written on it. The thing about Tommy is that he’s more than a little ugly, especially compared to Bobby, who’s compact and cute. Tommy and Dougie and Bobby talk about Misty and Debbie and Jackie. They treat me with a kind of detached, patronizing humor that probably should bother me but doesn’t.
Last night I went crazy for marijuana. I was Jack Lemmon tearing up the greenhouse in Days of Wine and Roses. I looked for (and found) pot in the folds of album covers I had used to deseed long-ago ounces and quarters. I found some under the sofa cushions. Then I pulled out the couch and looked under the radiator. I turned the place inside out and got a little stoned but not much.
February 16, 1982
Raleigh
Tommy’s wife cooked chicken and rice, so he didn’t have to beat her ass last night. It was right there on the table when he got home. He uses the word nigger loudly and freely in that neighborhood, and it annoys me because we are guests there. What if Mrs. Ewing heard him? She’d be so hurt.
February 17, 1982
Raleigh
Yesterday morning I poured boiling water onto my left foot. I was making coffee and looking out the window at the guy in the next-door apartment, who was wearing a cowboy hat. Of course I stopped pouring once I’d burned myself. As the skin peeled off, I wondered when this string of bad luck might end.
February 19, 1982
Raleigh
Someone has drawn a swastika on the outer wall of Mrs. Ewing’s back porch and written beneath it IMMORTALITY.
“Ain’t that just about the silliest thing you’ve ever seen in your life?” she said when I pointed it out. “We ain’t Nazis here, and you know that’s a Nazi sign.” She laughed. “We ain’t Nazis and we ain’t Communists neither.”
After she left for work, I went looking for the door to her hot-water heater and found a magazine called Players’ Exchange. It’s for black swingers and is arranged by state. There were only two North Carolina swingers listed. One was a submissive lesbian who wrote that she was potty-trained and ready to travel.
I’m assuming the magazine belongs to Mrs. Ewing’s son, the one who was in Vietnam and lives with her.
February 28, 1982
Raleigh
I went to the
movies last night with Sally and Lyn’s friend Mitch, who is gay and cute and wore a pink sweater. He lives in Atlanta. On his little finger was a ring with jewels in it. As the movie started, he emptied half his popcorn bucket into my lap, saying, “Here, David, have some.”
It wasn’t an accident, but I wasn’t sure how hard to laugh. I don’t know how to react to Mitch.
March 11, 1982
Raleigh
Mrs. Ewing has an unplugged freezer on her back porch. She opened the door of it yesterday, and after gagging at the horrible smell that came out of it, she saw a tail and screamed. I covered my face and discovered that the tail was attached to a squirrel, a rotting one in a paper bag.
Mrs. Ewing covered her mouth as well and told me that she’s afraid of squirrels. When she sees them in her yard, she runs. “How did that thing get into my freezer?” she asked. “And in a bag!”
Her son Chester, who was in Vietnam and has nerve trouble, stepped out to complain about the odor and told his mother that he’d put the squirrel in the freezer, thinking she might want to cook it. Then he returned to his room and shut the door—didn’t even help clean up the mess.
“I ain’t never cooked a squirrel in my life,” Mrs. Ewing said after he’d gone. “Wouldn’t know how to, wouldn’t want to.”
We have painted her bedroom Pink Whisper with brown trim—her idea. The dining room is a shade called Zest.
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