by U
stomach was a rock about the size of a bowling ball. I was coughing
up salt water and getting the sweet air back into my lungs. How long
I had been there I do not know.
A minute, maybe less. As suddenly as it had sucked me in, Devil’s
Churn had spit me out.
I was totally wasted, wrung out, bruised, and stunned. Also
surprised as hell that I was still alive. Ironically, I ended up at almost
exactly the same spot where I went in.
My right shoe was missing, but my wallet was still in my back
pocket. My clothes were soaking wet, my shoulder was sore and I
was very thoroughly shaken, but otherwise unhurt. I was also
suddenly sober as an eagle.
Devil’s Churn had rejected Patrick J. Compton.
Thinking about it now, a day later, I shake my head. I know not
what malevolent spirit animates the universe. However, it is not
interested in taking my life. Not yet, anyhow. On the other hand, it
certainly isn’t above kicking the shit out of me.
My shoulder hurt like a sonofabitch but nothing felt broken. Very
slowly, I pulled myself together and wobbled up the trail, back to my
vehicle. The lone sneaker on my left foot squished water as I shuffled
along.
I felt exactly like the fool I truly am. Nothing had changed except
that I nearly got myself killed. Good grief. As a consequence, I have
resolved to never go swimming in Devil’s Churn again. It was a poor
idea at best.
171
My flirtation with high-risk water sports is now officially over. No
one will ever know about it but me. As I got in my VW, I decided
that I hate living as much as ever and despise humanity, but I will
nevertheless go on. There will be no further life-threatening nighttime
adventures.
This I solemnly promise. From now on "Venice-easy" will mean
slogging it out no matter what. If I ever really feel like risking my life
again, I will simply move to Los Angeles, where life is death by
another name.
Too bad about my missing shoe.
Those Adidas were my favorites.
Meanwhile, back to reality. My hair was still damp by the time I
arrived home. Hmmm. Wet hair from Devil’s Churn. Sounds like a
short story. Something X-rated perhaps, with a detailed description of
moist pubic hair following a round of inventive intercourse.
When I got home, I changed my clothes and sat down at the kitchen
table to swill beer and puff on a cigarette. I was already working
away at my Olivetti when there came a knock at the screen door.
What the shit? A visitor? Better not be those damn Moonies again, I
thought.
It wasn’t the Moonies. Much to my surprise, it was Megan.
"Can I talk to you?" she said. "It’s very important. I was here
earlier but you weren’t home."
I opened the screen door.
"Sure, come on in," I said.
Megan stepped inside. She seemed all excited and charged up
about something. She began pacing the living room.
"I’ve left Mark," she said. "My marriage is over. Today I moved
in with Josie and I’m not going back. Mark is staying in Eugene with
friends while we sort out how and when we are going to get a
divorce."
This was a big surprise. A shock, in fact.
My cigarette was still burning in the ashtray. I stubbed it out and
opened the refrigerator.
"Can I get you something to drink? A beer?"
172
Megan shook her head.
"I’m sorry about your marriage," I said, closing the door.
"Don’t be sorry," she said. "It’s been a long time coming and
divorce was probably inevitable."
"I don’t know what to say."
Megan came toward me, standing a few feet away. She took a long
look at me. I stood there, looking back at her. What the hell?
Goddamn, she looked beautiful, with her long blond hair and sea-blue
eyes. But I also saw a little bit of wildness in her eyes, a look I had
not seen before.
Megan was dressed in tight jeans, sandals, and a soft white cable
knit sweater. She seemed more radiant, more compelling, more
gorgeous than ever.
"Did you just take a shower? Your hair looks wet," she said
suddenly.
"Nah. I went swimming in the ocean."
"At night? In the dark?"
"It was a spontaneous thing," I said.
Megan came up to me, moving in close, very close. Our bodies
were nearly touching. Her face was an inch from mine.
"I’m thinking about doing something spontaneous," she said.
"What would that be?"
She put her arms around me.
I returned her embrace. The soreness in my shoulder had
miraculously disappeared.
Our lips met in the sweetest of kisses.
* * * *
August 26, 1978
The entry above was written a week ago. I have not had a chance
to write since. Now I’ll pick it up where I left off.
Megan and I talked all night, making out in between times. We
rolled around on my bed, necking like teenagers. To put it mildly, her
kisses induced a state of high excitement.
There is this intense chemistry between us that cannot be denied.
We both can feel it. On Saturday morning she left at dawn. We did
173
not do it, though. Later on I had to go run a few errands. I was in a
pretty good mood. I turned the VW’s radio on. I let Nick use my bus
last Thursday to get some stuff to fix his house. He must have
changed the radio tuner from the news station to the classic rock
station. Oldies.
Fontella Bass began singing Rescue Me. Normally, I would have
shut it off. This time I let it play.
Megan has been back every night since. But we have not done it.
Not yet, anyway. Even if Megan said it was okay, I’d like to be a
little clearer about what is going on between us before that happens.
It’s difficult to explain.
Before, I’ve let physical relationships develop before I knew where
I was headed emotionally. I don’t think that’s such a good idea
anymore.
Years ago, back when I was in high school, you could count on
women to show a little bit of restraint, to hold off on the sex.
That is no longer the case. Nowadays, it is all too often fuck first,
ask questions later. I want to be more cautious now.
Besides, after working together for the past six months, we know
each other really well but at the same time I wonder how well we
really know each other. Sex makes things complicated and I’m
concerned about getting sucked in again only to have it fall apart
miserably. You know what I mean.
In truth, I am not so resilient emotionally as I once was, and things
are beginning to affect me. This is my one, my only, tiny little life.
Already it has been plenty screwed up. Every mistake you can
possibly make I have made. Some mistakes twice. I see things as
they are it scares the fucking bejeebers outta me.
This is something I don’t want to screw up.
Megan is absolutely the last thing I expected to have happen,
Honest. I figured we might flirt but that is all. Eventually, I figured
Mark would find some nice upwardly mobile type job and they would
move out of town to a nice middle class suburb somewhere. That’s
how I saw it.
174
Therefore I believe it a poor idea to go all the way with Megan until
I am sure which way she is going.
Chesley is here today, the fool. We are going to the Folies at the
Beachcomber tonight. The all-nude show, with dancers from Portland
and Eugene.
Megan laughed when I told her we’ve had our tickets for weeks.
She is attending a quilt show in Yachats with Josie so I won’t see her
again until tomorrow night.
Right now Chesley is down at Harry’s house, shooting the breeze
with him and Nick. I am up here at my cabin getting stoned and
scribbling in my new journal book. We’re going to make a big dinner
tonight before we go out to the show – baked Chicken Dijon with
scalloped potatoes au gratin, loaves of Italian bread and a green salad.
We’ll top it off with wine, beer, whiskey, and Marlboros. The works.
We have front row seats at the Folies. I plan to get good and drunk
on Harry’s fine red wine before we go.
"Show me some tits and ass," Chesley keeps saying, over and over
again. Harry and Nick really dig him. Chesley is quite the popular
one, isn’t he?
Finished the final revisions to The Dark City and turned it over to
the typist. I really let that piddly small stuff drag out for a long time.
I wish I could talk about it to some sort of literary professional.
Everyone is sick of me and my stupid book. Oh well. I can’t say I
blame them. I’m pretty sick of it myself. I’ll try not to read the damn
thing again unless I get a nibble. Publication would be nice, I must
admit.
* * * *
August 31, 1978
Megan and I are getting closer. The time I spend alone with her is
the best part of my day. I suddenly realized this afternoon while we
were chatting at work that I am happy.
For the first time in a long time, I actually feel happy. My slow
downward spiral has been arrested. A little bit of wind is starting to
fill my sails.
175
At the last possible instant, the aircraft known as Patrick One pulled
out of its screaming dive.
Later: Megan just left an hour ago and now I am getting ready for
work. We slept together in my double bed last night but we did not do
it. She kept her panties on (she rarely wears a bra) and I also wore my
briefs but I don’t know how much actual sleep we got. The sexual
tension was so thick you couldn’t have cut it even with a ginsu knife.
Jesus, what a bod that Megan has! Holy Moley! The dancers at the
Folies last week were great, really nice to look at. Big breasts and
legs and solid, fleshy bodies.
But Megan is really something special. She is just out of this world
beautiful, sexy, slender, and passionate. All of a sudden, sex is
everywhere. I’m not sure what the hell I am doing, but so far it feels
pretty good. In twenty minutes we will meet at work and pretend like
we are just seeing each other.
We will do a little of this and a little of that. Then we will go to the
Cafe for breakfast with Josie and a couple of others. Only Josie
knows what is going on.
Nearly finished with my psilocybin mushroom article. It has gone
rather well. There are two magazines I want to send it to. The writing
has a Carlos Castaneda-like feel but is otherwise lucid. It’s both fun
and serious at the same time.
Nick knows this guy, Gary Menser, who has published a book
about finding and identifying psilocybin mushrooms. He says Gary
will show us where zillions of these psilocybe cyanescens mushrooms
grow.
Megan says she wants to come with us.
* * * *
September 5, 1978
Completed the mushroom article tonight. I kept trying to end it but
it ran a full 12 pages. Then it stopped of its own accord, with all bases
covered. I really like it.
The piece took a whole month to write, off and on. The success I
had writing it makes me want to go back and finish a bunch of other
projects I’ve started but then stalled out on.
176
I love it when the ideas start to outpace my ability to get them
down. The story was a single draft effort, from some rough notes.
The mushroom photos I’ve had made using Mick’s slides look
incredibly gorgeous. He’s an excellent photographer. I’ll be jumping
for joy if my story gets accepted for publication.
The typing of The Dark City is going along well. The typist says
it’ll be ready September 15. How nice. I plan to send it to a couple of
different publishers right away.
A guy can hope, can’t he?
Spent the weekend with Chesley in Portland. Brought Nick along
with me for some fun in the big city. We would have had a lot more
fun except that it rained the whole goddamn Labor Day weekend.
Boy, was I ever pissed! Nick seemed to enjoy bar-hopping with us,
though. He thinks Portland is cool, and says I’m wrong to call it
"Cyanide City."
* * * *
September 9, 1978
Megan came over as usual last night and visited with me. I don’t
know quite how it happened but it happened.
Yep. We did it. What can I say? When a beautiful woman kisses
me and tells me she wants to make love to me, right now, this very
minute, I find it hard (impossible) to refuse.
Oh, I suppose I could refuse if there was some other beautiful
woman I was already making love to on a regular basis, but such is
not the case.
I am weak and sensual.
The second time around (about 1/2 hour later) we puffed on a little
reefer to heighten the experience.
However, it needed little in the way of augmentation. Megan is
really wonderful, a wildcat in bed and intensely amusing otherwise.
She has this animal magnetism effect on me that I am powerless to
resist. Ever since meeting in February, we hit it off great and both of
us feel this special chemistry.
177
The third time was the best of all. She came and came and came,
gripping me like a vise. When I finally ejaculated, it was like our
bodies were fused in a nuclear detonation.
I feel as if we are destined to be together. I know for my own part
that I intend to be real sweet to her and keep my true (rotten)
personality in check as much as possible. She tells me she wants to be
free and finally feels free after having left her husband last month.
Who knows what The Future will bring? But if being with her like
last night is a taste of tomorrow, I can hardly wait.
Shipped 18 pounds of books and magazines to Mick in Swaziland
yesterday. A choice selection, if I do say so myself. He should
especially enjoy the three skin mags I swiped from Nick and sent
along with the rest of the stuff.
Soon I am going down to the Beachcomber to swill beer and watch
th
e Huskies play UCLA on the tube. I get the feeling Washington is
going to pound the shit out of UCLA and I don’t want to miss a
minute of it.
Received a rejection from Dwight Allen at Scribner’s. He said my
novel showed remarkable talent but unfortunately was not right for
them. Whaddya know? Talent!
But fuck it. I am kind of discouraged at this point. I have the
feeling The Dark City will never get published. The only thing I have
ever officially published is one lousy poem, and not even a very good
one at that. It’s no Dover Beach, that’s for sure.
Where do I go from here?
Ding A Ling.
It could be the great American novel. Ha ha. I feel myself getting
psyched up. I’ll try pouring it all out in one long insane rush. That’s
it. I can feel that long insane rush coming on. My 27th birthday
approaches and life is short. I want to get it down, baby, need to get it
down. Make them laugh and cry.
I want to take a good hard look at the crazy inner workings of life,
explore the things ignored by other writers. Trace my origins back to
their gnarled roots. My earliest recollections.
I know I can do it.
178
Reading Knut Hamsun’s Hunger. Even in translation, it has an
incredible effect on me, putting me in this weird mental state. I feel as
though I am totally in his power.
Hamsun can do whatever he wants to my head. The writing style is
so fucking deep. How the hell did he learn to do that? Makes me
think of my square headed Scandinavian relatives. Well, I am a
storyteller too. Read my new book, coming soon: The Dark City!
When I was at Chesley’s apartment in Portland, I couldn’t stop
pacing because I was so worked up with sentences and ideas for
stories. I wrote them down as fast as I could, but as soon as I sat
down, another one would hit me. There was a mad flowing rush of
brilliant thoughts coursing through me.
Soon I will begin. Next Friday, perhaps. I don’t care how hard it is
or how long it takes, I just want to do it.
Chesley hates it when I pace. He says he hated it last year when we
lived together in Portland and says he still hates it now because it
drives him nuts.
Washington beat UCLA 10-7, a narrow victory. The game was a