PFK1

by U

  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

  yet for me to go on punishing myself.

  Goddamn. I really drank myself into a stupor last night. At work

  today Megan kept asking me if something was wrong, saying that I

  seemed depressed. I told her I had a crushing hangover but the truth

  is my problems run deeper than that.

  138

  This isn’t my world. I am in it, but I am not of it. It really belongs

  to the criminals. Creatures like Adolph Hitler, Nixon, the Khmer

  Rouge, and my mother are very much at home on planet earth. The

  rest of us serve in some way the purposes of evil, either as victims or

  accomplices.

  Myself, I am nothing – my worst crimes are indecision and

  carelessness. It’s the big criminals who run the show.

  Lately, these posters have shown up in stores and restaurants up

  and down the valley, warning women to beware of this "Ted" killer.

  Dozens of young women across the country have apparently

  disappeared after being seen with him. No doubt this Ted guy is

  having a lot of fun these days, spreading terror and death wherever he

  goes.

  It’s a Ted Ted Ted Ted world.

  What few sweet women there are have to live in fear of their lives,

  day in and day out. And it’s not just Ted but countless criminals like

  him. Women are always fearful, always afraid. Yeah, that’s really a

  fine thing.

  All around me everywhere, the terrified women. Oh, it really raises

  the level of human existence, doesn’t it? Oh, happy day. I am so

  happy to be alive, enjoying a beautiful world, imagining a knife at my

  throat, if I was a woman.

  * * * *

  July 25, 1978

  At the laundromat washing clothes, something I spend a lot of time

  doing. Wrote another letter to a literary agent tonight. Don’t think I

  will leave a single stone unturned. Sent a note to Ms. Ellsworth also,

  requesting return of my manuscript. I need to make a few slight

  changes before I turn it over to the typist. Planning to put a telephone

  in here soon. Yuck.

  I’m also getting ready to start a new book. I can feel one coming

  on. Like a bowel movement.

  Will probably start it earlier than I initially planned. Maybe next

  month around August 15, if I’m still alive.

  139

  Writing up notes even now. It will be called Ding A Ling. Such a

  stupid title.

  I love it.

  La-la-la-la-la-la life goes on. My writing style is developing a

  certain unique tone. I can’t tell if it’s an improvement.

  The previous note that I wrote to Ms. Ellsworth I failed to send. It

  wasn’t quite right, didn’t say things the right way. Wish I knew why I

  care about her opinion. Sometimes I suspect I am not behaving

  rationally.

  As an alternate, I didn’t get to vote at the State Central Committee

  meeting at Fern Ridge over the weekend. Not that it mattered.

  Kozlowski won, as the opponent that John Thomas lined up against

  him, Rod ReZell, surely made the most insane speech I have ever

  heard. The guy went absolutely bonkers. I could have run against

  Kozlowski myself and done a better job than that dipshit Rod ReZell

  did.

  Afterwards, nobody was more disappointed than John. We talked

  later about splitting from the Democrats and forming a third party.

  The political party of Roosevelt and Kennedy is now the domain of

  totally worthless hacks.

  And it is likely to continue that way.

  If they don’t nominate Jerry Brown in 1980, I’m going to drop out

  of the club. The people running the party are nothing but jerks. It’s a

  waste of time trying to work within the system. What John and I

  really want to do is steal the dollar check-off money.

  Sent away for some newsprint paper to use for the first draft of my

  new book and also ordered up some manuscript mailers, just in case I

  need to send The Dark City out.

  Had words with some teenagers this evening. They tried to bully

  me with their car as I stepped out into the crosswalk.

  I had the light in my favor but they were in a big hurry to turn right.

  Apparently, I was supposed to hang back and wait for them to zoom

  through the crosswalk.

  140

  I think maybe I frightened them by how angry I got. I had the

  passenger by the shirt, reaching through the window to grab him. But

  the punk stammered an apology and I let him go.

  Can’t believe how close I came to punching his face. Fucking little

  shits leave much to be desired. I guess they don’t realize how much

  on edge I am, how I little concern I presently have for myself. This is

  a small town, with a lot of little punks.

  Probably like small towns everywhere. Nick and Clarice lived in

  Ashland for a while, a place Nick describes as a hick town with a

  sprinkling of Shakespeare. He calls this place a beach town with a

  dash of dilettantes.

  Small towns are for losers. Which I guess explains why I am here

  in the first place.

  My life is totally meaningless. I am bored sick, of myself and

  everything else.

  Lately I have had Marie Montambeault much on my mind again.

  It’s been over two years since I cruelly blew her off. I would have

  returned to her on bended knee long ago if I weren’t so goddamned

  ashamed of myself.

  What good has it done me to remain alone? My
record with

  women is not enviable. The first and last woman I slept with is

  Leanne, for crying out loud. Can you beat that? Of course we didn’t

  fuck while she was here but we still spent the night together. That

  must count for something.

  The thing is I don’t want to settle for just anybody, like my friend

  Chesley seems to be doing in Portland. You should see the wretched

  hag he spends time with nowadays. I swear Nurse Shirley is a fucking

  carbon copy of Chesley’s hideous mother.

  Talk about desperation.

  I want somebody I can love and respect, a woman I can trust and

  who in turn trusts me. Do you hear that, Polly Ellsworth? Does the

  word "trust" mean anything to you? You fucking cunt. You lied to

  me without a shred of remorse, didn’t you?

  * * * *

  July 26, 1978

  141

  Life at the welfare office. It really drags me down and makes me

  wonder what the fuck I am doing here. I have to say no to people

  because I can’t always give them what they want. Then they act like I

  am stealing from them. One of my clients left the office in tears today

  because I had to explain the facts of life to her. I tried to be gentle,

  but that was wasted.

  The facts of life state that she may not collect a welfare check and

  pocket her ex-husband’s child support payments at the same time.

  Absolutely, no way. It’s gotta be one or the other, not both. That’s

  the deal she signed.

  "But what about my daughters?" she said tearfully. "I need money

  for their school clothes and shoes. How are we supposed get by on

  welfare?"

  "You gotta look for a job," I said.

  She acted like I was trying to snatch her purse. A job? Work? She

  prefers to stay at home.

  I told her that option went out the door when her former husband

  moved in with his girlfriend. She seems to think that state welfare

  exists to prop up her middle class lifestyle and that is simply not the

  case.

  We’re here to hand out a few peanuts, lady, not to make the

  payments on your new car.

  She is one of a whole bunch of women whose cases we had to close

  recently for collecting money they haven’t reported. They always

  seem shocked to learn that giving birth does not come with an

  automatic exemption from salaried employment.

  Somebody (not me) should tell my mother that. She has been

  laboring under the same delusion for years.

  Still, being the bearer of bad tidings drags me down. Megan

  doesn’t like it much either. But I don’t know what else to do.

  Nothing, I guess. I got another huge bill on my student loans today.

  They want a make-up payment for when I was behind on them two

  years ago. Sonofabitch.

  Oh well. I never figured it would be easy, working and trying to

  write at the same time. I ain’t Kerouac, for crying out loud. I fully

  142

  intend to support myself, come what may. Kerouac lived off his

  mommy most of his adult life. Much as I love his words, the leechy

  aspect of Kerouac’s life is always in the background when I read his

  stuff. Sure am glad I read that Ann Charters biography of Kerouac

  two years ago.

  Cleared up a lot of things in my head. Otherwise, I’d still be as

  naive about writing as I was in the summer of 1975.

  * * * *

  July 29, 1978

  Picked up my VW in Eugene yesterday. Megan and I went

  together and smoked dope on the way. Nothing much happened at the

  office while we were gone.

  We got very stoned and wound up talking about why she and Mark

  never had kids. They have been married for five years.

  Turns out Mark doesn’t want children. He’s adamant about it. No

  Children. Meanwhile, Megan’s been on the pill for six years and is

  concerned about what it is doing to her.

  Geez. Mark is a whole lot dumber than I thought he was. If I were

  in his place, it would take me no time at all to knock Megan up, if

  that’s what she wanted. She is a remarkable woman. Without her, I

  would really hate my job and probably wouldn’t be able to drag

  myself there at all. Seeing her is about all I look forward to.

  Harry and Nick have noticed my affection for her and keep teasing

  me about it. They try to encourage me to have a sneaky little affair

  with her. But I have no interest in an affair with a married woman.

  It would be immoral and wrong and all that kind of shit and I like

  her too much to even consider it. If she went along with it I might

  lose respect for her and in truth, I don’t think she would go for it.

  That kind of thing is just not like Megan.

  Or me.

  On the other hand, if Megan weren’t married, well, I don’t think

  you could hold me back.

  The Volkswagen has a new generator and a new regulator but still

  doesn’t seem to run smoothly.

  I think the battery isn’t holding a charge.

  143

  May need a new one.

  * * * *

  July 30, 1978

  Put 1,000 words on the typer tonight. That’s what Bukowski calls

  it. The typer. On Friday in Eugene I bought a copy of his new poetry

  collection, The Days Run Away Like Wild Horses Over the Hills.

  Megan seemed quite interested in it, having been an English major

  in college. She asked if she could borrow it when I’m done. I said

  sure. I really like the title. It says it all. The days run away like wild

  horses over the hills...

  Now that’s poetry. Also bought Chandler’s mystery novel The

  Lady in the Lake. Read the whole thing in a couple of hours this

  afternoon.

  Wrote three letters to publishers today, in addition to my regular

  work. Where it all goes is anybody’s guess. The current letter count

  is twelve.

  There will be some evolutionary changes in the next dozen query

  letters, I’m sure. The important thing is to have a nice clean copy of

  the book ready in case I get a nibble.

  Soon I will be starting a new book, possibly in the next couple of

  weeks. I’ll be using my new manuscript paper when it arrives. I’ve

  got the story pretty solid in my mind already, so there shouldn’t be

  much problem getting it underway.

  This is how it goes. Write write write. One thousand words per

  day, just like Jack London. You look forward to doing your little

  stint. You enjoy it immensely.

  The truth is, I do enjoy writing. I have no intention of giving it up

  or of slowing down. This is my thing.

  Ms. Ellsworth must have gotten my letter by now. I would imagine

  she’ll be sending the manuscript back to me. I’d like to make a few

  adjustments before handing it over to the typist.

  I slept for five hours today – from afternoon until early evening.

  Then I put my clothes in the wash at the laundromat and took a spin

  down to the beach. I just had to see the stars and smell the ocean on

  144

  this gorgeous summer evening. The weather this past week has been

  incredibly beautiful.

  Somehow or other I feel like I am ready for a change. What
it is, I

  do not know. I plan to put my energy into a new book but there’s

  something else going on inside me as well. However, what that

  something is I cannot say.

  Back to the job tomorrow. Thank goodness I got some real work

  done today. Otherwise I’d be stuck with this feeling of emptiness.

  Can’t wait to begin my new novel. Then I’ll really have something to

  think about.

  Don’t know what I would do if I didn’t have the writing. I’d

  probably go crazy or simply kill myself. I couldn’t survive here

  without this outlet for my emotional energy.

  But perhaps writing is too good an outlet. I am getting rather

  withdrawn away from the job. Practically the only people I see

  outside of work are my neighbors, Harry and Nick.

  We had dinner and drinks again last night. I have forbidden them

  to bring up the subject of Megan so our conversation was somewhat

  stilted. Nick played his Tom Waits records and also a bunch of other

  stuff. He is a popular music fanatic.

  I liked this Dave Mason album Nick played several times,

  Mariposa De Oro. One song in particular, "The Words," really gets to

  me. I first heard it sung by Foxe at Duffy’s tavern. According to the

  liner notes, it’s written by a guy named Jim Kreuger. Very

  compelling. My own anthem.

  Where do the words come

  from when you need them?

  They make themselves so

  hard to use.

  Well I wouldn’t have a date

  With the blues if

  I could only find the words…

  Dinner was excellent. I did all the cooking. We ate broiled pork

  chops garnished with a brown sugar/apple sauce glaze, baked baby

  red potatoes with ranch dressing and chives, a huge green salad, fresh

  145

  broccoli, whiskey, wine, beer, weed, and Marlboros. A well-balanced

  meal, comprising virtually all of the major food groups and then

  some.

  Don’t tell Megan I was eating meat. She’s a vegetarian and quite

  strict about it. I know carrion is disgusting but those chops were

  really juicy and I broiled them to a fucking turn. Harry says I should

  quit my stupid state job and go to cooking school. He says top chefs

  make lots of money. I said that I am a writer first and last and that I