PFK1

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.

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  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