by U
writing. A more typical man never would have kept a book that told
truths about his thoughts and feelings.
A more typical man would have insisted she forget about nursing
school and hang around with him. A more typical man would have
smacked her in the mouth the minute she started to bitch and crab and
nag.
How are the rest any different? How is Megan any different? I
can’t see that she is really, perhaps less vicious, but still entirely
faithless. Let women go their own way.
Let them mate with inferior men. Let them live dull, boring lives. I
want a woman who is not only beautiful but brave, who can see past
my faults, who can understand that I am striving to be strong and true.
No such woman exists, I am afraid.
* * * *
January 16, 1979
This journal is four old year’s today. By all rights, I should destroy
it and myself and be done with everything. That would be a fitting
end to an obscene chronicle. All I have left is my writing. The words
keep me going, goddamn them.
The longest interruption I have experienced is the time I spent with
Sarah in the spring of 1976. I see that I failed to mention much about
her in my last entry.
One of my many mistakes.
It’s really ironic that the mistakes I’ve made with women continue
to bother me. I’ve made every regular mistake a guy can make and a
few I invented on my own.
What it boils down to is that there are just too many women to
choose from. There are far too many possibilities for me to decide
easily. What I have to do, I realize, is fall in love.
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The problem there is that my heart has often led me astray. What
the fuck is wrong with me? My feelings really betrayed me by
making me fall in love with Leanne. If there was ever a case for my
emotions being contrary to my own best interests, Leanne has to be it.
Similarly with Sarah. For the better part of seven months in 1975, I
used her as a means to frustrate the other one. It was a constant pain
to her that I kept another woman on the string, and she therefore
devised ways to make us both miserable when we weren’t fucking
like bunnies.
For me, Sarah was yet another mistake. A sweet, adorable Boston
girl. Beautiful too, in her own Irish way. Long, dark hair and
stunning blue eyes. A button nose and an infectious laugh.
But inhibited sexually. What a turn off. Grimacing through the act.
Eager to get it over with. Do I want that?
At the same time, she was cuddly and extremely affectionate.
Sarah really loved to kiss, and that time I was visited her in Louisville,
we kissed for hours.
But like with certain other women, particularly Leanne, the
physical excitement just wasn’t there. No special chemistry. It was
too bad, too, because Sarah had a really lovely little bod, which I
could have enjoyed immensely if the girl had a better attitude about
the dirty deed.
Unfortunately, when I suggested doing something even mildly
perverse, like 69ing, for example, Sarah made it clear that she would
do so only with the greatest reluctance and distaste. Therefore, with
Sarah there was no pussy eating or cock sucking, no fingers up the
bum or twisted, kinky games. Only straight missionary and only once
(or less) per day.
At the same time, Sarah was content to guzzle booze galore (she
had a frightful capacity for a 105 pound woman) and puff on
Marlboros until the room was blue.
I should have known I was wasting her time and mine after that
visit to Louisville in 1975. But I persisted in going through the
romantic motions with her, without serious intent.
What an idiot I am.
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A wonderful woman, Sarah was. Not my type as it turned out. I
suppose if the other one had just stopped hassling me about her, I
would have broken it off naturally.
But goddamn it, I hate being bullied. I’m still annoyed at the other
one for forcing me to drag poor Sarah all the way across the fucking
continent just to prove that I won’t be bullied.
What a mistake that was.
* * * *
January 19, 1979
Heading up to Portland. Have to get out of town for a while.
Chesley says I can stay with him and that he will find me a date if I
want one. Why the hell not? Being at work with Megan this past
week was so fucking weird.
* * * *
January 20, 1979
Chesley said he thought I was coming up on Saturday, not Friday
and so was not around when I arrived. I am positive I said Friday but
he claims otherwise. Oh well. Typical. I am so self-absorbed that I
continue to believe that the world revolves around me, despite all
evidence to the contrary.
To top it off, I made the mistake to going to see Randy and Wilma.
Wife Wilma is quite the pleasant host. She made me feel as though I
though a panhandler looking to sponge money off them. It was very
pleasant treatment.
What a bitch she is.
All the negative things Lloyd Schenzler has said about her are
apparently true. Wilma’s ultimate goal, as Lloyd puts it, is to control
every single aspect of Randy’s life, to the point where he must get her
permission even to go wee-wee.
Wilma has a cat that she treats like a newborn baby. Stifled child
hunger is what I call it. Utterly bizarre to witness. One of the most
disturbing cases I have ever seen. By doing so, Wilma has turned a
harmless household pet into a malicious pest.
I’m willing to bet that Penny the cat lives better than 89 percent of
the world’s children. What does this tell us? Randy works for his
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daddy but sits back and complains to me about welfare bums. But
hey! I am an expert on the subject.
Believe me, I have no illusions about the clients. None. But what
advantages have most of them had? I recall the words Nick
Carraway’s pop told him in Fitzgerald’s incredible novel The Great
Gatsby:
"Before you begin criticizing others, please remember that not
everyone has had your advantages."
Most of the welfare clients have had very few advantages, or none
at all. I try to keep that in mind when dealing with them.
Some of them I think about and it really breaks my heart. A
beautiful little four year old like Angela Baxter wears crummy hand
me downs and has no warm winter coat.
What a gorgeous blond child Angela is. She looks like what me
and Megan might have, I think, if we ever had a girl.
But how will she be treated in school? Poorly. Meanwhile, a
stupid cat lolls in the lap of luxury. For some reason (it must be my
own fucked up attitude) I think that the way that Wilma treats her pet
is sick. But that’s me. You know me.
Nothing good to say about anybody.
Goddamn I’m bitter. I won’t admit it to anyone, but it’s because of
that goddamn Megan. Stringing me along while she puts the pressure
on Mark. Goddamn.
As
soon as I got serious about her she dumped me to run back to
him. It’s so fucking cold I have to admire the perfect symmetry of it.
She is exactly like all the others.
* * * *
January 21, 1979
That goddamn Nick is listening to the stereo downstairs again. He
knows how much I hate his records but he plays them anyway.
Right now Linda Ronstadt is singing. Willin’. Ms. Ronstadt has a
beautiful voice and sings with the pure tones of an angel. I love her,
but right now I wish she’d just shut the hell up.
226
Picked up Dreaming of Babylon in Portland over the weekend at
Lookingglass Books. It’s really terrible. I’m afraid Brautigan has lost
his touch.
Also bought B. Traven’s novel Government, which was expensive
at $4.50 but is just outstanding. Man, I’m likely to go broke buying
books. I got a $30 per week habit. Fuck.
Ripped off the last part of Chapter 10 of The Dark City this
morning at about 4:30 AM at Chesley’s place. Had a sudden
inspiration after beer at Frank Peter’s Inn and just had to get it down.
Chap. 10 runs ten pages double spaced.
Chap. 9 is shorter at seven pages. Moving along now that I am
finally settled in at Nick’s place.
Have given up on the idea of building a house here. Right now it’s
too rich for my blood and besides, what would be the point? I’ve got
almost $2,000 but need closer to $3,500 to swing the deal, or so say
the FmHA folks.
Right now I live in a nice house – huge kitchen, dishwasher,
fireplace in the living room, hardwood floors, a study and a bedroom
upstairs for me.
The only reason I wanted to buy a house here was to have a place
where Megan and me could get cozy. Now that’s off.
Megan has betrayed me. That’s the long and short of it. Josie told
me that the situation with Mark is suddenly looking iffy again because
he’s not sure that he’s going to take that job up in Washington State.
Megan told Josie she’s out of patience and is convinced now that
Mark is never going to get real.
I told Josie it doesn’t matter one way or the other at this point.
Megan has already made her decision. I am out of the picture, as
much by choice now as by circumstance.
Megan is simply too fickle for me.
Nevertheless, I pissed and moaned about it to Chesley until his new
girlfriend Shirley showed up. When we resumed our conversation,
the first sentence out of Shirley’s mouth was an opinion that Chesley
and I bring out the worst in each other.
227
Oh yeah? Shirley said it in this totally nasty tone of voice. Not
only was her remark uncalled for, it was like a little speech she had
rehearsed beforehand or something. What a sweet thing for her to
say. At least it takes a catalyst for us to bring out our worst. Shirley
manages the trick all by her lonesome.
As Shirley sat there spewing criticisms, I pictured Randy banging
her during those stolen moments when he was cheating on his missus.
Yep, I saw it all: Randy’s godes slapping up against the exterior
lips of Shirley’s gaping, smelly, hairy cunt. Randy’s cock going in
and out of Shirley’s greasy hole while she spread wide. Smack,
smack, slap, slap. Eeeahh! Spurt!
Chesley caught the way I was gazing at Shirley, and knowing me,
demanded to know what I was thinking. I answered:
"Nothing."
I left soon afterwards. What an idiot Chesley is, taking up with
Randy’s former girlfriend. Shirley is a real scrag and the sooner
Chesley realizes it, the better off he will be. However, I got a bad
feeling about it.
Chesley treated a truly wonderful woman like Karen Hall in the
shittiest possible manner for years and now he winds up with a crude,
coarse, crabby, gum-chewing slut. A cynic would say it serves him
right.
It serves him right.
Stopped by Michael D.’s house on the way out of town. He is up to
his usual Michael D. type stuff. Interviewed Muhammad Ali and was
quite proud of it. I would be too, for Ali is indeed the greatest.
Talked to Lloyd on the phone. He told me some dirt about Wilma that
really turned my stomach.
I can’t even write about it. Poor, poor Randy.
Yes. We boys are no good but the women are all great. Ask them
and they will tell you. Unlike us, they are perfect in every way. They
have no faults.
Now Nick is playing B. B. King. What a great musician B. B. King
is. Tears in my eyes. Help the poor. Help poor me. The thrill is
gone, baby. It’s gone away for good.
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* * * *
January 26, 1979
Got two letters from my brother Mick today. Mailed from Africa a
month apart. Says he feels old. I think he wants to feel old, that’s all.
The really big news is about Megan and me. We had a huge
argument yesterday. She’s done with Mark again and wants to get
back together. Under no circumstances will that happen, I answered.
It was a mistake, I said. We’re finished.
On the way to Newport where we had food stamp training she
asked why we can’t be friends. I told her it was because I have
decided that we can’t be friends. I told her she is not trustworthy
enough to be a friend of mine.
She got angry but I stuck to my guns and asked her exactly what
was trustworthy about her. She started to cry and I finally said if she
was going to pull that kind of shit to leave me by the side of the road
and I would fucking hitchhike the remaining 30 miles to Newport.
On the way back it was more of the same. She admitted she had
sex with Mark and that really pissed me off. I got a vivid mental
image of the scene stuck in my head. I told Megan I thought she was
cheap.
Oh man, did that ever make her mad! I suppose Megan hates me
now and I can’t say I blame her. Oh well. Ho hum yawn. It’s just
too bad. There’s no one else I’m interested in, but I don’t trust her. If
I go back to her she will probably just dump me again in all
likelihood.
She has used me and I don’t like being used. I have too much
emotional vulnerability as it is. I can’t afford to fall in love with
another woman who doesn’t love me. I’ve seen what it does to my
friends. I’ve seen what it has done to me in the past.
I want true, honest, lasting, mutual love. I don’t want to end up the
sucker who gets stuck with some self-centered parasite. My poor
stupid irresponsible father married one of those creatures and now he
is ten years in the grave while the ghoul he married (my dear, sweet
mater) still cruises along merrily, causing endless trouble wherever
she goes.
229
Meanwhile, I just want to be left alone. Alone. Please leave me
alone, I told Megan. Don’t even talk to me, I said.
Just leave me alone.
The next thing I know there’s this new woman hitting on me, the
owner of a local art gallery, Mary Wong. She cornered me at the
tavern the other night an
d hung around until I bought her a glass of
wine.
At one point, Mary invited herself over to our house but that was a
bit too much so I canceled the invitation. She’s quite interesting,
though – petite and slender, with shiny black hair and a flat little
Chinese face. Two or three years younger than me. What Mary really
wants, I suspect, is a man with serious money, which I am not.
I am only a man with a job. However, that’s a damn sight better
than most of the bums in this town.
The art gallery isn’t doing so hot, she says. Not enough work is
being sold and those damn artists are a pain in the ass. I put Mary’s
friend Donna on welfare a few months back and Mary asked me a
bunch of questions about getting freebies from the government. I said
she had to get pregnant before the free stuff really starts to roll in.
Mary says she has better things to do with her life than raise some
bratty kid. I laughed at that.
* * * *
January 28, 1979
Strange weekend. Spent most of it in Megan’s company. We
argued. We had lunch. We argued some more.
Then we had dinner. If you didn’t know any better, you might
think we were married.
Although she struck numerous fetching poses, I refused to touch
her. Officially it’s all over with the husband again, or so she says.
She requested my forgiveness for her "lapse," as she calls it. She
swears she is going through with the divorce now, no matter what.
She said that going back to Mark was an error in judgment on her part
and that I should just forget about it.
"Okay, so I’m not perfect," Megan said. "I made a mistake. I’m
sorry. What more do you want me to say?"
230
I told her there was nothing more to say because there is no fucking
way I am ever taking her back. She pouted and sulked about that.
Got good and drunk right after she left. Typed a little on my
manuscript but a poor effort overall. Work is getting worse, not
better.
On another front, Nick is going to sponsor a poetry reading and
invite his friend Kim Stafford here as the featured guest. He intends
to host it at the Kyle Building, which is the oldest building on Bay
Street. It consists of a big main building plus an annex.