by U
disappointment because it was all defense. I hate those Los Angeles
schools. They think they are so cool.
I’m thinking of going on the wagon for a while, maybe for as long
as it takes to complete Ding a Ling. No dope. No booze. No
cigarettes. I’ve been thinking about this for a long time. I feel
unhealthy, like I’ve been pushing myself too hard this past year. No
more. I shall strive for a more purely creative, life enhancing balance.
I can’t keep beating myself down.
Why do I keep punishing myself? What have I done that is so
wrong? Answer: Plenty.
So what? What of it? I’m not a goddamned saint. Not like those
people who are so unbearably self-righteous.
On and on it goes.
All I know is that the month is September and the air is warm and
sweet. Our little beach town settles into night as I gaze out my
window, thinking about the days of my life.
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CHAPTER EIGHT
Playing For Keeps
September 10, 1978
My brain is finally working again, or so it would appear. I love the
mushroom article I wrote. It reads just fine. I also hope the magazine
I’m sending it to also likes it. They can’t ignore the wonderful color
photos. They make the whole piece. The psilocybin season is
supposed to start sometime soon. (Try saying that three times fast.) It
lasts maybe three months. I intend to sock away a whole mess of
mushrooms this year. Need to find a good mushroom.
Megan has taken two weeks off to hash out some financial issues
with Mark. He has moved to Eugene for the time being, staying with
his Eastern Fellowship buddies. I don’t like it that Megan is away but
as the boyfriend I am in no position to object. We shall see what we
shall see.
* * * *
September 22, 1978
Work these past two weeks has been a total bitch. When Megan is
gone, everything falls on me and the pressure is intense. More than
ever it becomes clear that Megan, Josie, and me are the only
competent workers in the office. We don’t piss the clients off, we do
our work, and we actually understand what the fuck is going on. The
others are totally worthless or worse, an impediment to the effort.
The clerical dames continually bring cases to me that belong to that
fool Elmore because he screws up everything he touches. Although
he has a degree from a college down south, he does not seem to be
able to read or write with any skill.
The boob strikes me as functionally illiterate.
I also wind up with some of Foghorn Leghorn’s work because she
has a habit of always being missing in action. It pisses me off no end
because they are such lousy workers the clients make it a point to
avoid them. As a consequence, the bad workers get paid to do little or
nothing. They can’t even fill out a simple AFS 415 properly.
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All I think about is Megan Megan Megan. Her husband is trying to
win her back and I am beginning to worry that she will slip through
my fingers somehow.
Josie says it is touch and go.
Time will tell. I am not ashamed of anything I have done. I follow
my heart. That is all.
* * * *
September 23, 1978
A poem:
THE AUTUMN QUESTION
Fading sunlight is a yellow beam
through my kitchen curtain
evening softly falls
the voices of neighborhood kids at play
drift in through the screen door
Derrick, Sunny, and Moonflower
I hear their voices
at the end of a beautiful day
I glance across the dunes
temperature 74 degrees
in and out of bed all day
smoking dope and drinking
reading and dreaming
Alabama lost to USC, 24-14
but exciting to the end
a dog barks
a gull cries
I am at home
no work today
on and on it goes
I get so sick of myself
and bored
I am rotten company
I’ve got to learn to be more careful,
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more circumspect
The woman in my life
is skittish and I wonder
if it is right to get involved
I would be a liar if I said
it didn’t bother me
that she is married
to someone else
the answer I get today is not
the same one I get tomorrow
I only want tomorrow’s answer
not today’s
What then, is happening?
I feel sort of like a sneak
which I probably am
* * * *
September 24, 1978
More adventures with Bartleby the Scrivener. The typist is
correcting the errors she made on the manuscript today and then it will
be ready for submission. That reminds me – I need to rewrite the
query letter that goes with my sample chapters. I’ve got a lot of new
ideas that I want to try out.
Had a TV Mexican dinner for my evening meal last night. Yuck.
It didn’t sit well afterwards.
Think I might start writing Ding A Ling tomorrow. No reason not
to. My notes on the project grow rather voluminous. I have nothing
left to do except write the goddamned thing.
It will be an eclectic mix of comedy and melodrama. I can’t help it.
That’s how I write.
More later.
* * * *
September 28, 1978
Much to say, but the words come hard. Michael D. is in town,
ostensibly to do work and socialize. I believe he is invading my
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territory. We went hunting for mushrooms yesterday. Found a few
campanulatus but no semilanceata. Might be a bit too early in the
season. They better show up soon because I’m tired of waiting! I
wish to commune with the Mushroom Goddess.
The days go on. Now Megan won’t let me touch her. She is
conflicted about things. I didn’t start this but now I suffer. I adore
her body. What an incredible beauty she is. I look at her constantly.
I especially enjoy watching her from the side. What a profile. She is
so beautiful it makes me want to cry.
What the hell am I doing? I could spend a lot of time with her but
suddenly she is the nervous one. I can sort of understand why. Sort
of. What the fuck are we doing?
No success in starting Ding yet. Going up to Portland soon. Have
to spend time in training relating to my job. A major bore. May even
go visit dear mater, the old bitch. Also need to write a long, gossipy
letter to Mick.
Received a pretty good letter from him just the other day. He’s
been reading the mystery novels I sent him (Hammett and Chandler,
mostly). I get the feeling he is devouring them.
Mick’s letters are incredible sometimes. I really feel he is every bit
as literary as I am, though uninterested in the pursuit of it as a career.
Meanwhile, he says he is thinking of taking his "pecker" in for a 3,000
mile check up because he has not yet fathered any children among the
/> native women. Hmmm.
For me, sterility would be no great cause for concern. It is the
opposite problem which has caused me everlasting anguish.
Wrote another version of my query letter. I may write it over yet
again. It’s so hard to decide what stays in and what goes out. A one-
page pitch is all that’s necessary, I think.
* * * *
September 29, 1978
Work is a hell from which there is no escape. The manager let
Mavis go today because the repulsive old crone of a clerical
supervisor dislikes her.
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It stinks. I don’t care how much the manager tries to justify it, the
whole business is rotten. Mavis did solid work and needed her job.
Fucking rotten bullshit. Those two hags the state put in charge of this
operation are really on my shit list now.
There will be retaliation and I guarantee they won’t like it. We
wrote a nasty protest letter on Mavis’s behalf but Megan insisted on
changing it. Oh well.
Glad to be going to Portland for a while.
* * * *
October 5, 1978
The fall weather has been absolutely exquisite all week. I am in
assistance worker training at this very moment, pretending to take
notes. Our instructor is a dork named Jim Nossle. He is a stupid
idiot.
The pupils are one dozen women and me. Most of the women are
hugely obese. Megan calls them "fat broads." She says fat broads are
an extremely common welfare office type.
The non-fat broads are split into two pairs. One pair is devoutly
Christian (another common welfare office type) and others are older
women with grown children, returning to work.
The two older dames I actually like. They are classy and laugh
easily. Both are about my mother’s age, which makes me again
wonder why Lois won’t get a job. Probably because she is a
worthless lazy parasite and they are not.
Otherwise this crew is as dull as dishwater.
Makes me realize Megan is quite the exception in welfare office
land. A slim, blond, beautiful welfare worker. Practically unheard of!
What an anomaly!
Managed to read three books hidden in my ADC training manual
these past two days – The Day of The Locust, Double Indemnity, and
The Temple of Gold. Last night I took my sister Ruthie to see Animal
House, the National Lampoon comedy filmed in Eugene.
We watched it at the Foster Drive-In. It was strange to see the
Memorial Union up on the screen, the very place where I used to chat
up the other one.
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But there it was, in a Hollywood movie.
Ruthie was all bummed out about breaking up with her boyfriend
Brad. The movie cheered her up a little. Some of the jokes were
pretty crass. Still, watching Belushi dance to "Louie Louie" cracked
me up. That guy is a scream.
Chesley had his birthday. I gave him a bottle of Jack Daniels and a
copy of The Rolling Stone that Randy borrowed and promptly lost. I
wonder what will happen to these guys?
They are so blind about things. They give me extremely bad vibes
about The Future. One problem is that my friends are boring. They
are not interested in anything besides money.
Megan came by to see me on Saturday before I left. She was both
responsive and distant, a hard combination to handle. I must confess
to a bit of guilt regarding our affair. I’m sure she feels it even more
acutely. I think I’m going to leave her alone for a while.
* * * *
October 10, 1978
Got the book photocopied over the weekend. Last night was quite
weird. Bought an ounce of dope and got totally ripped from my first
reefer in quite a while. Completely wasted. Had to lie down for a
couple hours to recover. Reefer madness. Yikes! I must be more
careful from now on.
Still having a mental debate about what to write next. I don’t want
to get bogged down halfway through. Maybe I should try writing two
books at the same time. But I keep thinking: What would work best?
I’m not sure.
Reading The Thin Man by Dashiell Hammett. Mick says Marlowe
is a more likable character but Hammett writes better mysteries. I
noticed that The Gutting of Coffignal is similar to Red Harvest in the
way Hammett sets it up. But The Glass Key is my favorite. Really
love Ned Beaumont. Sure wish I could write as well as Dashiell.
Wonder why he quit when he did?
Nick called to ask when I am coming back, if ever. I wish it were
today. I’m sick of spending my nights in a sleeping bag. Wanna get
to my big deluxe full size mattress. Maybe Megan will join me there
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sometime. After only one week back I’ve got to return to Portland
once again for a union convention.
Assistance worker training is a huge drag. I already know all this
stuff. What is worse, I’m beginning to hugely resent the fact that Jim
Nossle is such a smug overpaid windbag. Damn, what a self-
important twit!
* * * *
October 22, 1978
Spent the weekend at the Portland Hilton attending the general
council meeting of the union. Another huge drag, except for one
thing. I was the delegate for our coastal district while Megan was the
alternate. We had rooms across the hall from each other.
I’ve quit smoking because Megan hates tobacco and complains
when she smells it on my breath and clothing. Obviously, I would
rather sleep with a beautiful woman than smoke cigarettes. Anything
for you, baby.
I’ve learned my lesson.
Although the convention itself was a crashing bore, certain
extracurricular activities were rather fun. Unfortunately, I had to
attend the meetings while Megan got to spend a large part of her time
shopping in downtown Portland. Otherwise we spent our free hours
in her room or my room, making love. That part I enjoyed.
Holy Moley, I can’t get over what a dynamite body Megan has! It
is utterly exquisite. She is such a beauty. On Saturday night, we got
really stoned on my new dope and I chased her all over the hotel
room, both of us bare ass naked, laughing like crazy.
However, I’m wondering where this will lead. Although she is
currently separated, Megan has made no definite plans for getting a
divorce and that concerns me. I guess I will just take things as they
come.
Many hours were spent arguing about pointless resolutions. I’ve
been to so many of these goddamn functions. I don’t talk much
because I get nervous in front of a large audience. I’m a killer in
small groups, though.
Never at a loss for words there.
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More ideas for a book project flit through my head. I think I may
ditch the childhood story in favor of a mystery. Maybe I could knock
one off in a few months, if all goes well. Already I have a tentative
title:
The Dark City.
The warm weather is over. Rain and cold are on the way. I’m
afraid I will again freeze my ass off in my spare little cabin, sleeping
Sent The Dark City to another publisher last week. Won’t get my
hopes up. Bracing for disappointment. What I would like to do is go
to New York and meet some of those people in person. Charm the
hell out of them. But for that I need money.
Looking for a copy of Brautigan’s Dreaming of Babylon and James
M. Cain’s The Postman Always Rings Twice. Those two books
should help me in my review of the private eye novel.
Busy busy busy. Got a lotta stuff to work out. Someday I think it
will pay off. But right now I am very tired and must go to sleep.
* * * *
October 24, 1978
Began writing a story I call The Dark City tonight. About 800
words so far. A fairly good beginning. I hope it goes well. I’ve
decided not to touch The Dark City again unless I absolutely have to.
You know what I mean.
Jill, the former political apparatchik, has written me a letter. Got it
yesterday. She says she is thinking of me once again and apologized
for her previous missives. Jill says she was probably blaming me for
something that wasn’t my fault and now regrets her words. In short,
she says she misses me.
It’s quite an unusual letter, given some of the past things she has
written to me. Here’s some of it:
Hello, Patrick,
I’ve been thinking a lot about you lately and wish I had your phone
number. Unfortunately, I can’t seem to find it.
Strange things have happened to me, especially since I got my tubal
ligation. I have been using self-sex as my main tension release.
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Given my job at the railroad, I’ve had a lot to get tense about. The
good thing that has come out of this has been the increased ability on
my part to achieve some fantastic orgasms. I think my ability to give
pleasure has increased in proportion to my ability to receive pleasure.
Are you interested?
Inhibited as I am about writing incriminating information, I’d
prefer to whisper certain things in your ear via the telephone. I have a
particular sexy favor I’d like to ask of you – one that I certainly hope
you won’t mind…
Jill goes on to tell me how to get in touch with her and says she has