PFK1 (22 page)

yet for me to go on punishing myself.

Goddamn. I really drank myself into a stupor last night. At work

today Megan kept asking me if something was wrong, saying that I

seemed depressed. I told her I had a crushing hangover but the truth

is my problems run deeper than that.

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This isn’t my world. I am in it, but I am not of it. It really belongs

to the criminals. Creatures like Adolph Hitler, Nixon, the Khmer

Rouge, and my mother are very much at home on planet earth. The

rest of us serve in some way the purposes of evil, either as victims or

accomplices.

Myself, I am nothing – my worst crimes are indecision and

carelessness. It’s the big criminals who run the show.

Lately, these posters have shown up in stores and restaurants up

and down the valley, warning women to beware of this "Ted" killer.

Dozens of young women across the country have apparently

disappeared after being seen with him. No doubt this Ted guy is

having a lot of fun these days, spreading terror and death wherever he

goes.

It’s a Ted Ted Ted Ted world.

What few sweet women there are have to live in fear of their lives,

day in and day out. And it’s not just Ted but countless criminals like

him. Women are always fearful, always afraid. Yeah, that’s really a

fine thing.

All around me everywhere, the terrified women. Oh, it really raises

the level of human existence, doesn’t it? Oh, happy day. I am so

happy to be alive, enjoying a beautiful world, imagining a knife at my

throat, if I was a woman.

* * * *

July 25, 1978

At the laundromat washing clothes, something I spend a lot of time

doing. Wrote another letter to a literary agent tonight. Don’t think I

will leave a single stone unturned. Sent a note to Ms. Ellsworth also,

requesting return of my manuscript. I need to make a few slight

changes before I turn it over to the typist. Planning to put a telephone

in here soon. Yuck.

I’m also getting ready to start a new book. I can feel one coming

on. Like a bowel movement.

Will probably start it earlier than I initially planned. Maybe next

month around August 15, if I’m still alive.

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Writing up notes even now. It will be called Ding A Ling. Such a

stupid title.

I love it.

La-la-la-la-la-la life goes on. My writing style is developing a

certain unique tone. I can’t tell if it’s an improvement.

The previous note that I wrote to Ms. Ellsworth I failed to send. It

wasn’t quite right, didn’t say things the right way. Wish I knew why I

care about her opinion. Sometimes I suspect I am not behaving

rationally.

As an alternate, I didn’t get to vote at the State Central Committee

meeting at Fern Ridge over the weekend. Not that it mattered.

Kozlowski won, as the opponent that John Thomas lined up against

him, Rod ReZell, surely made the most insane speech I have ever

heard. The guy went absolutely bonkers. I could have run against

Kozlowski myself and done a better job than that dipshit Rod ReZell

did.

Afterwards, nobody was more disappointed than John. We talked

later about splitting from the Democrats and forming a third party.

The political party of Roosevelt and Kennedy is now the domain of

totally worthless hacks.

And it is likely to continue that way.

If they don’t nominate Jerry Brown in 1980, I’m going to drop out

of the club. The people running the party are nothing but jerks. It’s a

waste of time trying to work within the system. What John and I

really want to do is steal the dollar check-off money.

Sent away for some newsprint paper to use for the first draft of my

new book and also ordered up some manuscript mailers, just in case I

need to send
The Dark City
out.

Had words with some teenagers this evening. They tried to bully

me with their car as I stepped out into the crosswalk.

I had the light in my favor but they were in a big hurry to turn right.

Apparently, I was supposed to hang back and wait for them to zoom

through the crosswalk.

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I think maybe I frightened them by how angry I got. I had the

passenger by the shirt, reaching through the window to grab him. But

the punk stammered an apology and I let him go.

Can’t believe how close I came to punching his face. Fucking little

shits leave much to be desired. I guess they don’t realize how much

on edge I am, how I little concern I presently have for myself. This is

a small town, with a lot of little punks.

Probably like small towns everywhere. Nick and Clarice lived in

Ashland for a while, a place Nick describes as a hick town with a

sprinkling of Shakespeare. He calls this place a beach town with a

dash of dilettantes.

Small towns are for losers. Which I guess explains why I am here

in the first place.

My life is totally meaningless. I am bored sick, of myself and

everything else.

Lately I have had Marie Montambeault much on my mind again.

It’s been over two years since I cruelly blew her off. I would have

returned to her on bended knee long ago if I weren’t so goddamned

ashamed of myself.

What good has it done me to remain alone? My record with

women is not enviable. The first and last woman I slept with is

Leanne, for crying out loud. Can you beat that? Of course we didn’t

fuck while she was here but we still spent the night together. That

must count for something.

The thing is I don’t want to settle for just anybody, like my friend

Chesley seems to be doing in Portland. You should see the wretched

hag he spends time with nowadays. I swear Nurse Shirley is a fucking

carbon copy of Chesley’s hideous mother.

Talk about desperation.

I want somebody I can love and respect, a woman I can trust and

who in turn trusts me. Do you hear that, Polly Ellsworth? Does the

word "trust" mean anything to you? You fucking cunt. You lied to

me without a shred of remorse, didn’t you?

* * * *

July 26, 1978

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Life at the welfare office. It really drags me down and makes me

wonder what the fuck I am doing here. I have to say no to people

because I can’t always give them what they want. Then they act like I

am stealing from them. One of my clients left the office in tears today

because I had to explain the facts of life to her. I tried to be gentle,

but that was wasted.

The facts of life state that she may not collect a welfare check and

pocket her ex-husband’s child support payments at the same time.

Absolutely, no way. It’s gotta be one or the other, not both. That’s

the deal she signed.

"But what about my daughters?" she said tearfully. "I need money

for their school clothes and shoes. How are we supposed get by on

welfare?"

"You gotta look for a job," I said.

She acted like I was trying to snatch her purse. A job? Work? She

prefers to stay at home.

I told her that option went out the door when her former husband

moved in with his girlfriend. She seems to think that state welfare

exists to prop up her middle class lifestyle and that is simply not the

case.

We’re here to hand out a few peanuts, lady, not to make the

payments on your new car.

She is one of a whole bunch of women whose cases we had to close

recently for collecting money they haven’t reported. They always

seem shocked to learn that giving birth does not come with an

automatic exemption from salaried employment.

Somebody (not me) should tell my mother that. She has been

laboring under the same delusion for years.

Still, being the bearer of bad tidings drags me down. Megan

doesn’t like it much either. But I don’t know what else to do.

Nothing, I guess. I got another huge bill on my student loans today.

They want a make-up payment for when I was behind on them two

years ago. Sonofabitch.

Oh well. I never figured it would be easy, working and trying to

write at the same time. I ain’t Kerouac, for crying out loud. I fully

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intend to support myself, come what may. Kerouac lived off his

mommy most of his adult life. Much as I love his words, the leechy

aspect of Kerouac’s life is always in the background when I read his

stuff. Sure am glad I read that Ann Charters biography of Kerouac

two years ago.

Cleared up a lot of things in my head. Otherwise, I’d still be as

naive about writing as I was in the summer of 1975.

* * * *

July 29, 1978

Picked up my VW in Eugene yesterday. Megan and I went

together and smoked dope on the way. Nothing much happened at the

office while we were gone.

We got very stoned and wound up talking about why she and Mark

never had kids. They have been married for five years.

Turns out Mark doesn’t want children. He’s adamant about it. No

Children. Meanwhile, Megan’s been on the pill for six years and is

concerned about what it is doing to her.

Geez. Mark is a whole lot dumber than I thought he was. If I were

in his place, it would take me no time at all to knock Megan up, if

that’s what she wanted. She is a remarkable woman. Without her, I

would really hate my job and probably wouldn’t be able to drag

myself there at all. Seeing her is about all I look forward to.

Harry and Nick have noticed my affection for her and keep teasing

me about it. They try to encourage me to have a sneaky little affair

with her. But I have no interest in an affair with a married woman.

It would be immoral and wrong and all that kind of shit and I like

her too much to even consider it. If she went along with it I might

lose respect for her and in truth, I don’t think she would go for it.

That kind of thing is just not like Megan.

Or me.

On the other hand, if Megan weren’t married, well, I don’t think

you could hold me back.

The Volkswagen has a new generator and a new regulator but still

doesn’t seem to run smoothly.

I think the battery isn’t holding a charge.

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May need a new one.

* * * *

July 30, 1978

Put 1,000 words on the typer tonight. That’s what Bukowski calls

it. The typer. On Friday in Eugene I bought a copy of his new poetry

collection,
The Days Run Away
Like Wild Horses Over the Hills.

Megan seemed quite interested in it, having been an English major

in college. She asked if she could borrow it when I’m done. I said

sure. I really like the title. It says it all. The days run away like wild

horses over the hills...

Now that’s poetry. Also bought Chandler’s mystery novel
The

Lady in the Lake
. Read the whole thing in a couple of hours this

afternoon.

Wrote three letters to publishers today, in addition to my regular

work. Where it all goes is anybody’s guess. The current letter count

is twelve.

There will be some evolutionary changes in the next dozen query

letters, I’m sure. The important thing is to have a nice clean copy of

the book ready in case I get a nibble.

Soon I will be starting a new book, possibly in the next couple of

weeks. I’ll be using my new manuscript paper when it arrives. I’ve

got the story pretty solid in my mind already, so there shouldn’t be

much problem getting it underway.

This is how it goes. Write write write. One thousand words per

day, just like Jack London. You look forward to doing your little

stint. You enjoy it immensely.

The truth is, I do enjoy writing. I have no intention of giving it up

or of slowing down. This is my thing.

Ms. Ellsworth must have gotten my letter by now. I would imagine

she’ll be sending the manuscript back to me. I’d like to make a few

adjustments before handing it over to the typist.

I slept for five hours today – from afternoon until early evening.

Then I put my clothes in the wash at the laundromat and took a spin

down to the beach. I just had to see the stars and smell the ocean on

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this gorgeous summer evening. The weather this past week has been

incredibly beautiful.

Somehow or other I feel like I am ready for a change. What it is, I

do not know. I plan to put my energy into a new book but there’s

something else going on inside me as well. However, what that

something is I cannot say.

Back to the job tomorrow. Thank goodness I got some real work