PFK1 (11 page)

one. This fall I’ll watch football at the tavern.

* * * *

April 22, 1978

Wrote another ten pages last night but got too tired to continue. I

fell into bed about 11:30 PM and slept for fifteen hours straight. I

plan to finish the notebook draft of Chap. 49 today, come hell or high

water. The high water thing is an actual possibility. It rained last

night. It poured last night. It fucking came down so hard it even

woke me from my wine-drunk sleep a couple times. An incredible

deep rumbling sound on the roof. The streets are awash in water this

morning.

I must finish this goddamn novel.

I’m sick of it, almost. I feel like writing something else.

Anything else.

* * * *

April 27, 1978

Last night, at 11:15 PM, I officially completed the draft of the

novel I am calling
The Dark City
. There is still much work to be done

on it, polishing and whatnot, but the big push is done. A complete

rewrite. A much better, tighter, more subtle, and far more cohesive

version of my great masterpiece.

It looks fucking beautiful.

I must work the beginning over again in a few spots. I’m not

completely satisfied. During next few weeks I intend to polish it into

marketable shape.

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Then I will try to sell it. Yes, I plan to unleash my creation on the

world! What will the reaction will be?

Probably ho hum yawn.

The manuscript is 184 double spaced pages, about 60,000 words

altogether. Five weeks should be plenty of time to get it ready. The

initial marketing phase will commence sometime in June. I’m

compiling a list of possibilities from various sources and then I’ll start

spreading it around.

Another book will soon follow. A sexy romance novel, with the

working title something like Permission or The Girl and The Boy.

Get it out of my system. Pen a serious, mature work of erotic fiction.

Perhaps even a classic of the genre.

* * * *

April 30, 1978

The clocks got changed to Daylight Savings this AM and I was

apparently the last person on earth to spring forward. I am now no

longer a full hour behind everybody else in town.

Been reading the manuscript over and over again, touching it up.

There is not much more I can do with it. It has evolved very neatly. I

am so pleased with this project.

I’ll have the finished typescript in my hands within a month. It

looks as though I should only need to fine tune the first 40 pages or

so. Probably should have begun doing the notebook drafts sooner

than I did.

I had a ball working on it. The most fun I have ever had! At times

like this I wonder why I would ever consider hooking up with another

woman. In return for a physical connection, you must devote all your

time and energy to them. At least that’s the message I got from Polly

Ellsworth.

I would never have gotten this far this fast if I had been in a

relationship with her. No way.

Right now, I am still on a complete and total high from my amazing

writing feat.

Think of it – 60,000 words cranked out in five months. While I

worked full time! That is discipline.

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Oh, it will be easy to say bad things about it. Even to me it still

seems a trifle clumsy. I’m working on it. For laughs, I like big

industrial words from time to time – like "perambulation," and

"rhomboid."

It’s a joke, like something W. C. Fields would say.

Not sure I have the technique down yet. I’m sure there will be

many who are willing to tear it down.

To them I say:

"Show me your 60,000 word manuscript."

Meanwhile, I’ve learned that life itself cannot be touched, let alone

approximated. All you can do is write. Try to do it in an entertaining

fashion. Reality itself is writ too large for a primate with a typewriter.

My works are strictly entertainment.

At times I think
The Dark City
is merely a vehicle for my sense of

humor. You know humor really is the truth. I’m not sure if I’m

capable of doing anything really exalted, like Dr. Zhivago or Gone

With The Wind. Essentially I just try to make outrageous statements

in a light, though deadpan fashion.

I was so disappointed in the first version. It simply didn’t hang

together very well, wasn’t coherent. I should have known better, but I

felt that I had wasted my time. But anything worth doing is worth

doing poorly at first. No doubt I should have rewritten it sooner than I

did. It might have been substantially better. Instead I stewed about it

and waited. Whatever is my process, I think now the final product is

really good.

Still, it’s not perfect. However, it is the very best I can do at this

particular moment. I put everything I had into it.
The Dark City
. My

first novel.

Life is a dream, says Kerouac. Someday we’re gonna wake up in

heaven.

Later: re-reading goes on. And on. I’ve gone over it twice and

there isn’t much more I can do. I am very close to having a finished

manuscript.

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Soon I will get a phone so the typist can call me about questions

and clarifications as she works. I want to closely monitor the product

it as it is typed. I like to work on things right down to the end.

Lately I’ve been reading my journal again. Also a book by Sara

Davidson called Loose Change, her memoir of three women living in

the 1960s. Sara had a boyfriend who used to call her up and invite her

over by saying:

"Hey Sara, let’s get together tonight. We can eat and drink and

fuck and suck."

Another book, Cell 2455, Death Row, by Caryl Chessman, was

irresistible this morning. Couldn’t stop reading it. I love true stories.

My leisurely weekends are read-a-thons and I love every minute of

them. Now, if only I could quit smoking.

Made myself an excellent dinner tonight. A small sirloin steak,

fluffy white rice, a huge green salad with mushrooms and tomatoes,

carrot sticks and a glass of milk. It really hit the spot. I like to cook

but it’s no fun eating by myself. I mostly like to cook when there’s a

woman around. If you make her warm and mellow with good food

and drink she is much more amenable to a nice long session of

physicality in the rack. I would say that Ms. Davidson’s boyfriend

knew his girl.

Need to take better care of myself. Need to calm down, be less

driven, less brittle, less emotional.

Intend to polish up the script in a slow, deliberate manner. No

sense punishing myself. It is done and I don’t have anything to worry

about anymore. There is plenty of fuel in my literary engine, more

than enough. I must preserve the vehicle of my talent, such as it is.

Going to bed early tonight. Sometimes I lay awake thinking about

women I have known. Lately it’s been Marie Susan Montambeault.

It’s because I came across one of her letters recently, in a folder in my

black trunk. There were a bunch of other letters of hers, too. I

thought I got rid of them. Guess not. This one was dated July 16,

1975.

It reads in part:

71

Patrick, you should fucking come to Florida. There’s plenty of

room in my apartment and in my bed. I’m making almost 500 net a

month. Enough to feed us both until you get one of those big shit

jobs. How long can you handle cutting roses?

It wouldn’t take you long to save up for a plane ticket if you put

your mind to it. I think you should consider it seriously and think

objectively about the comforts of home and old friends.

Hey, your beard looks great in the photo you sent. I’m glad you’re

letting it grow again. Was it taken at Manuel’s in Atlanta? I wonder

what it would feel like between my thighs. (You’re not the only one

with lecherous thoughts.)

There’s more along those lines but that’s all I can transcribe

without getting pissed at myself all over again. The thing is, when

Marie wrote that to me I was already six weeks into my disastrous

affair with Polly. Talk about bad timing.

I wonder how Marie is doing? Such a sweet and sexy woman. So

smart and so much fun to talk to and be with. I sure hope she found

someone who truly loves her. I have since kicked myself at least a

thousand times for blowing her off as I did. I’d call her right now if I

wasn’t still so ashamed.

For example, whenever I think of that first time I went up to her

cabin in Northern Georgia four years ago, I feel a shudder and start to

curse myself.

One beautiful, eerie photograph from that weekend still exists

among my things, a picture of me and Marie standing in front of her

little blue VW, our arms around each other. It was taken by Marie’s

roommate Carolyn, and I can’t look at it for more than a few seconds

before I start to think that I am insane.

After spending all those years with Leanne (1970-73) I became

convinced that I would probably never find a woman who liked me on

a permanent basis.

Leanne liked me at first, then she disliked me, and eventually it

became impossible to tell whether she liked me or not. In retrospect, I

think the fundamental issue was that the chemistry between us just

wasn’t right.

72

That was definitely not the case with me and Marie. We hit it off

immediately, and as lovers, were as compatible as a couple can be.

The sex was fantastic from the start, as Marie reciprocated my

enthusiasm in every way. For birth control, we had to use what Marie

called "yucky" foam, but that did not seem to interfere with the

pleasures of our lovemaking.

It was a real revelation to be with a woman who got off on me as

much as I got off on her.

Before the weekend at her cabin, we had made love in Atlanta

where I lived, but those had been hurried affairs, conducted in less

than perfect surroundings. Then I visited Marie at her place in the

woods. I had no fucking idea how sweet sex could be until that series

of hot (in more ways than one) July nights.

Marie had a covered porch in the front of her cabin, with a screen to

keep the bugs out. The sun went down in a blaze of red and gold as

Marie fed me dinner and glass after glass of red wine. Her Napa

Valley origins were evident in the fact that she seemed to know her

way around wine, far exceeding me in the level of her sophistication.

"I bought this table wine in Atlanta when I was there," Marie said.

"There is nothing remotely drinkable around here."

"This wine tastes very good," I said, swigging it from one of the

long stemmed glasses Marie brought from home when she joined

VISTA.

That was another thing about Marie. The way she went through

life, it seemed almost effortless. Although her cabin was small and

kind of ramshackle, Marie and her roommate Carolyn kept the place

perfectly and had it nicely appointed with many attractive feminine

touches.

There was a Persian run on the shiplap floor in front of the fireplace

and the furniture was well-worn but clean. Window dressings of lace

and chintz gave the place a comforting feel, as did the abundance of

flowers, incense, and candles.

Moreover, and this was perhaps the most engaging thing, there was

always plenty of delicious food on hand when Marie was around.

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And, skinny as she was, Marie wasn’t shy about eating. A woman

of good appetite who remains slender, sleek, and eminently fuckable

is truly a prize. In my previous relationship with Leanne, the prize

had eluded me. Not so with Marie.

Man, oh man, did Marie love to fuck! And I loved to fuck her.

When my cock was in her pussy, it was in heaven. I also loved

kissing her and sucking her nipples, not to mention the shapely breasts

they crowned.

And there was her hair. Both up top and down below, her hair was

long, thick, soft, and luxurious…

All right, enough! Back to the present.

I loved Marie, but I just couldn’t bring myself to move in with her

after my unfortunate affair with Ms. Ellsworth. I was still suffering

from aftershock. I honestly believed that I was in love with Polly.

What a fool. I’m not always the best judge of where my interests lie.

Sometimes I think if Marie had lobbied me a little harder – maybe