PFK1

by U

  Another book, Cell 2455, Death Row, by Caryl Chessman, was

  irresistible this morning. Couldn’t stop reading it. I love true stories.

  My leisurely weekends are read-a-thons and I love every minute of

  them. Now, if only I could quit smoking.

  Made myself an excellent dinner tonight. A small sirloin steak,

  fluffy white rice, a huge green salad with mushrooms and tomatoes,

  carrot sticks and a glass of milk. It really hit the spot. I like to cook

  but it’s no fun eating by myself. I mostly like to cook when there’s a

  woman around. If you make her warm and mellow with good food

  and drink she is much more amenable to a nice long session of

  physicality in the rack. I would say that Ms. Davidson’s boyfriend

  knew his girl.

  Need to take better care of myself. Need to calm down, be less

  driven, less brittle, less emotional.

  Intend to polish up the script in a slow, deliberate manner. No

  sense punishing myself. It is done and I don’t have anything to worry

  about anymore. There is plenty of fuel in my literary engine, more

  than enough. I must preserve the vehicle of my talent, such as it is.

  Going to bed early tonight. Sometimes I lay awake thinking about

  women I have known. Lately it’s been Marie Susan Montambeault.

  It’s because I came across one of her letters recently, in a folder in my

  black trunk. There were a bunch of other letters of hers, too. I

  thought I got rid of them. Guess not. This one was dated July 16,

  1975.

  It reads in part:

  71

  Patrick, you should fucking come to Florida. There’s plenty of

  room in my apartment and in my bed. I’m making almost 500 net a

  month. Enough to feed us both until you get one of those big shit

  jobs. How long can you handle cutting roses?

  It wouldn’t take you long to save up for a plane ticket if you put

  your mind to it. I think you should consider it seriously and think

  objectively about the comforts of home and old friends.

  Hey, your beard looks great in the photo you sent. I’m glad you’re

  letting it grow again. Was it taken at Manuel’s in Atlanta? I wonder

  what it would feel like between my thighs. (You’re not the only one

  with lecherous thoughts.)

  There’s more along those lines but that’s all I can transcribe

  without getting pissed at myself all over again. The thing is, when

  Marie wrote that to me I was already six weeks into my disastrous

  affair with Polly. Talk about bad timing.

  I wonder how Marie is doing? Such a sweet and sexy woman. So

  smart and so much fun to talk to and be with. I sure hope she found

  someone who truly loves her. I have since kicked myself at least a

  thousand times for blowing her off as I did. I’d call her right now if I

  wasn’t still so ashamed.

  For example, whenever I think of that first time I went up to her

  cabin in Northern Georgia four years ago, I feel a shudder and start to

  curse myself.

  One beautiful, eerie photograph from that weekend still exists

  among my things, a picture of me and Marie standing in front of her

  little blue VW, our arms around each other. It was taken by Marie’s

  roommate Carolyn, and I can’t look at it for more than a few seconds

  before I start to think that I am insane.

  After spending all those years with Leanne (1970-73) I became

  convinced that I would probably never find a woman who liked me on

  a permanent basis.

  Leanne liked me at first, then she disliked me, and eventually it

  became impossible to tell whether she liked me or not. In retrospect, I

  think the fundamental issue was that the chemistry between us just

  wasn’t right.

  72

  That was definitely not the case with me and Marie. We hit it off

  immediately, and as lovers, were as compatible as a couple can be.

  The sex was fantastic from the start, as Marie reciprocated my

  enthusiasm in every way. For birth control, we had to use what Marie

  called "yucky" foam, but that did not seem to interfere with the

  pleasures of our lovemaking.

  It was a real revelation to be with a woman who got off on me as

  much as I got off on her.

  Before the weekend at her cabin, we had made love in Atlanta

  where I lived, but those had been hurried affairs, conducted in less

  than perfect surroundings. Then I visited Marie at her place in the

  woods. I had no fucking idea how sweet sex could be until that series

  of hot (in more ways than one) July nights.

  Marie had a covered porch in the front of her cabin, with a screen to

  keep the bugs out. The sun went down in a blaze of red and gold as

  Marie fed me dinner and glass after glass of red wine. Her Napa

  Valley origins were evident in the fact that she seemed to know her

  way around wine, far exceeding me in the level of her sophistication.

  "I bought this table wine in Atlanta when I was there," Marie said.

  "There is nothing remotely drinkable around here."

  "This wine tastes very good," I said, swigging it from one of the

  long stemmed glasses Marie brought from home when she joined

  VISTA.

  That was another thing about Marie. The way she went through

  life, it seemed almost effortless. Although her cabin was small and

  kind of ramshackle, Marie and her roommate Carolyn kept the place

  perfectly and had it nicely appointed with many attractive feminine

  touches.

  There was a Persian run on the shiplap floor in front of the fireplace

  and the furniture was well-worn but clean. Window dressings of lace

  and chintz gave the place a comforting feel, as did the abundance of

  flowers, incense, and candles.

  Moreover, and this was perhaps the most engaging thing, there was

  always plenty of delicious food on hand when Marie was around.

  73

  And, skinny as she was, Marie wasn’t shy about eating. A woman

  of good appetite who remains slender, sleek, and eminently fuckable

  is truly a prize. In my previous relationship with Leanne, the prize

  had eluded me. Not so with Marie.

  Man, oh man, did Marie love to fuck! And I loved to fuck her.

  When my cock was in her pussy, it was in heaven. I also loved

  kissing her and sucking her nipples, not to mention the shapely breasts

  they crowned.

  And there was her hair. Both up top and down below, her hair was

  long, thick, soft, and luxurious…

  All right, enough! Back to the present.

  I loved Marie, but I just couldn’t bring myself to move in with her

  after my unfortunate affair with Ms. Ellsworth. I was still suffering

  from aftershock. I honestly believed that I was in love with Polly.

  What a fool. I’m not always the best judge of where my interests lie.

  Sometimes I think if Marie had lobbied me a little harder – maybe

  called me and bugged me about it some more, I might have confessed

  what was going on.

  But after that last letter she never really pressed me and well, shit, I

  just don’t know. I mean, what the hell do I know about anything?

  Nothing.

  Now at night I am sad and lonely, listening to the r
ain patter down

  on the roof of this tiny cabin. Alone in the darkness I remember

  beautiful Marie. She was so striking, so incredible. What a gorgeous

  body. What a great laugh. Marie knew what to do with that lovely

  body of hers, too. Dammit. Sure wish I had that fucking decision to

  do over again.

  Tonight I would have done it differently. Back then I recall making

  a conscious decision to become miserably unhappy. In so doing, I

  succeeded beyond my wildest dreams.

  As much as anything else, I think what most embarrassed me about

  getting involved with Marie was my extreme poverty. Experience has

  always shown me that when one person has the upper hand in a

  financial sense it always means trouble.

  74

  If you have to depend on someone else for money, even for a short

  time, they hold it over you. It doesn’t matter what you offer in other

  respects. Money counts most of all. Oh, they can deny it all they

  want, but the truth is the person who brings the most money to any

  relationship calls the shots.

  You know how it is with humans.

  Tomorrow a long, busy day beckons. At least I get paid. That

  helps a little.

  * * * *

  May 2, 1978

  Sorry journal, but I gotta lay this exercise on you:

  Synopsis for The Dark City:

  1) The novel opens in the fall of 1969. From the beginning, the

  story is cast in the form of a search. A self-absorbed and slightly

  awkward young man named Dale Murphy collects his high school

  diploma months after the ceremony and heads off to college. He is

  looking for kicks, girls, fun, and knowledge, in about that order. Dale

  considers himself a typical example of his generation, born in post

  World War II baby boom. He is a child of suburbia, interested in

  girls, TV, beer, sports, food, music, girls, comic books, humor in bad

  taste, and girls.

  Oh, and lately he has discovered pot.

  2) Some silly adventures. Dale reveals things about himself

  through introspection, flashbacks, and interior monologues. All the

  stuff you’re not supposed to do in a novel.

  3) His friend Toby Schwartznecker is introduced, a barbarian who

  is even wilder than Dale. Toby, a true marijuana fiend, is beset with

  bizarre delusions and is jealous of Dale over a girl.

  4) They superficially discuss Vietnam, student protests, and

  politics. But they really don’t care much about it. They are mainly

  interested in having a good time.

  5) Dale arrives at Oxygen State, meeting his new roommate Jethro,

  another lunatic. Good for a few laughs. A former mental patient,

  Jethro fits right in. Does Jethro have pot? Yes, he does. A major

  point in Jethro’s favor.

  75

  6) Dale has an older brother in the military – Rick, the poor bastard.

  Will he be killed? Hard to say.

  7) A cast of characters is quickly introduced. Most significant is

  Maxwell, a crazy Jewish kid from California. Max is smart, funny,

  and every bit as rebellious as Dale, but hides it better. They dislike

  each other at first, then hit it off.

  8) Drugs. The environment of 1969-70 is saturated with drugs and

  drugs are utterly cool. Dale smokes too much hashish one day and

  has a big freak out.

  9) Food. Eating is described with relish and few aspects of the

  human excretory process are left unexamined, especially by Maxwell,

  who obsesses about such things. Scatology reigns supreme.

  10) The past. Dale thinks about life constantly, goes back and forth

  over it, in a search to discover what the fuck it means.

  11) Toby Schwartznecker falls in love. Slightly nauseating is the

  phrase that best describes The Schwartz in amour.

  12) Sex and drugs, rock and roll, beer and politics. School takes a

  back seat to all the things that are, like, happening. Everything is a

  joke and everything is wrong. This is what it was actually like back

  then.

  I know, it seems like a dream now, but I remember.

  Like Marcel Proust, I remember.

  Getting a little drunk, I think.

  Also right, now I am so very sick of writing. I’m so very sick of

  everything. I hate my life. I hate it, hate it, hate it.

  I make myself sick. I’m so goddamned fucking stupid, such an

  idiot. Asshole motherfucker piece of shit. The Dark City – what a

  pile of shit.

  Shit shit shit.

  Send it off to a publisher. Big fuckin’ deal. I hate my work. I

  despise it. After reading it over for the ten zillionth time, I feel like

  throwing up.

  The typist is getting the sample chapters ready tonight. I’m sending

  them off next week.

  Why do I even bother?

  76

  All I want is nothing. I want nothing at all. I have nothing and I

  want less. No paradise within. No paradise without. No Eden in this

  fucking Adam, that’s for sure. I’m a drunken fool. Like my old

  Uncle Rick. A fucking boozehead. Slobbery sick drunk, stupid, and

  crazy. I hate life and I just want to die.

  I should have jumped off that fucking bridge when I had the

  chance. I don’t believe in myself. I don’t believe in anything.

  Polly Ellsworth. I loved you. Truly I did.

  But you never loved me. You trashed me good. Thank you very

  much, sweetheart.

  You were brilliant and beautiful, but also fickle and faithless. That

  was why I didn’t quite trust you, why I kept my options open,

  apparently for good reason. You were a fucking phony. You never

  had faith in me, never really believed in me. I gave you more on my

  worst day than you ever gave me on your best. Your brand of

  affection deserves a john, not a boyfriend.

  So where does the living go, when it stops?

  I want to die. I hate being alive.

  I hate it, hate it, hate it.

  I’m drunk. I want to talk to my brother, but he is 12,000 miles

  away. And I’m lost in dreams of death.

  Why must we live? What is the point?

  I’m insane. I’m crazy. Cruzan Rum. It’s poison, man. I swear.

  What the fucking hell. I’m draining the bottle, smacking my lips,

  looking for more.

  The novel: The Dark City.

  It has taken so much out of me, so many long hours. I am ashamed

  to show it to anyone. I don’t believe in it. Writing this book has

  ruined me. I am destroyed. Let the motherfuckers tear it to pieces.

  Of course they will. I don’t care. My mind is a total blank. I can’t

  write anymore. I can’t even think anymore.

  I must go to sleep.

  77

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The Trap

  May 7, 1978

  Looks as if I’ll be writing a third draft after all. I’ve gone through

  14 pages of manuscript since April 26, and the end is nowhere in

  sight. Nevertheless, I will not let this annoying state of incompletion

  prevent me from offering it for publication. I am splitting off Chap.

  49 as a separate excerpt and intend to submit it along with a query

  letter.

  Katrine spent the weekend here.

  Probably the less said about Katrine spendi
ng two nights here, the

  better. But I will describe it anyway because I want to reduce the

  chance of succumbing to temptation again.

  Her father Roland dropped Katrine off over at the Whistler

  Restaurant, saying it would be easier than them trying to find my

  place in town. Then he drove to Charleston, where there was a group

  of Russian scientists visiting the Marine Center. I put Katrine’s

  overnight bag in my VW and brought her to the cabin. We spent a

  long 48 hours together.

  Two days later, at noon, I took her back to the Whistler and

  consigned her to Roland, who said it was damn nice of me to look

  after Katrine for a couple of days.

  "It does wonders for her mother to have time to herself, for a

  change," Roland said. "And you’re about the only person my wife

  trusts with Katrine."

  "Thank you," I said.

  Roland talked like his daughter wasn’t there, standing next to him.

  Apparently one of the stigmas that go along with being mentally ill is

  that other people feel free to talk about you as though you are a fence

  post or an idiot.

  What I try to do with Katrine is to have fun, and go light with

  things, even with sex. I don’t know what else to do with her.

  Because Katrine is not the kind of woman I want to squire around

  town, I made dinner here Friday night – spaghetti with meat balls,

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  greed salad, and sourdough bread with a cheese-garlic glaze. As

  always when I make a meal for her, Katrine ate like she was fucking

  starving.

  She went through two major helping of my special spaghetti with

  the roasted tomato sauce, as well as three servings of bread. I also had

  to give her extra salad and the last meatball.

  There we were, the lonely young writer and his mentally ill but

  exquisitely beautiful young blond girlfriend, having dinner together at

  the Cal style table in the living-room/dining room, with the big brass

  clock on the counter, slowly ticking away the seconds.

  To fortify myself for the night ahead, I drank three big glasses on

  red wine. Of course, Katrine had none, on account of the medications

  she takes. I gave her apple juice instead.

  We talked about what had been going on in our lives. What that