PFK1 (23 page)

done today. Otherwise I’d be stuck with this feeling of emptiness.

Can’t wait to begin my new novel. Then I’ll really have something to

think about.

Don’t know what I would do if I didn’t have the writing. I’d

probably go crazy or simply kill myself. I couldn’t survive here

without this outlet for my emotional energy.

But perhaps writing is too good an outlet. I am getting rather

withdrawn away from the job. Practically the only people I see

outside of work are my neighbors, Harry and Nick.

We had dinner and drinks again last night. I have forbidden them

to bring up the subject of Megan so our conversation was somewhat

stilted. Nick played his Tom Waits records and also a bunch of other

stuff. He is a popular music fanatic.

I liked this Dave Mason album Nick played several times,

Mariposa De Oro
. One song in particular, "The Words," really gets to

me. I first heard it sung by Foxe at Duffy’s tavern. According to the

liner notes, it’s written by a guy named Jim Kreuger. Very

compelling. My own anthem.

Where do the words come

from when you need them?

They make themselves so

hard to use.

Well I wouldn’t have a date

With the blues if

I could only find the words…

Dinner was excellent. I did all the cooking. We ate broiled pork

chops garnished with a brown sugar/apple sauce glaze, baked baby

red potatoes with ranch dressing and chives, a huge green salad, fresh

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broccoli, whiskey, wine, beer, weed, and Marlboros. A well-balanced

meal, comprising virtually all of the major food groups and then

some.

Don’t tell Megan I was eating meat. She’s a vegetarian and quite

strict about it. I know carrion is disgusting but those chops were

really juicy and I broiled them to a fucking turn. Harry says I should

quit my stupid state job and go to cooking school. He says top chefs

make lots of money. I said that I am a writer first and last and that I

only cook for my friends.

Goodnight.

* * * *

August 2, 1978

Got the book back from Ms. Ellsworth today. A short letter,

written more than a month ago, came along with it. At first it felt like

a punch in the stomach, but now that I’ve had time to reflect on it, I

just don’t know what to think...

Here it is:

Patrick,

I received your letter last week. I was going to burn it before I read

it or return it unopened to you, but curiosity got the best of me. I was

very surprised to see that your sentiments toward me had changed

again.

The main thing I would communicate to you is that you have

imagined too much (or too little) of my life at present. I don’t have

your letter with me right now so I may miss a few points but moving

to an apartment of my own did not bring about the end of my

relationship with Keith.

On the contrary.

He is the only man I am with and the relationship has been

perfectly monogamous these last 2 years. True, I do not have all my

belongings at his house anymore but I spend as much time with him

as before. I think about marrying Keith a lot, but feel no need to turn

the thought into actuality.

As for the blank you draw on him, I think that’s OK – I doubt that

you would like him much. He is extremely strict about maintaining

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order in his immediate environment. In that respect he is a lot like

Lori Sanchez’s boyfriend, Bill Beckwith.

Keith is also practical to a fault, quite punctual, and very

pessimistic about the future 50-100 years.

However, he is financially stable. Although he has so much income

he puts a good bit of it in tax shelters and re-invests still more, we

almost always pay our own way when we go out. Thus, he is also

parsimonious. He does the dishes immediately after every meal and

vacuums (vacuums sp?) and cleans his house every other day.

The only concession I make is that I do the laundry and mop the

kitchen floor every month (or longer if I can slob by). There now.

That should be enough to feed your fertile imagination – you will, of

course, probably add on other characteristics to fit your need for your

next character sketch.

As for my work, I continue to like it. And, as I have told you

before, I probably never would have gone to nursing school if you had

asked me to stay with you in Eugene. Then you would not have

written your book, because if we had stayed together, I would have

nagged you into some boring regular job, because, just beneath my

liberal exterior, I am hopelessly upwardly mobile. Because, if we had

stayed together in Eugene, I would have kept my dumpy library job or

worse, and eventually I would have nagged you into marriage

(perhaps via an unplanned pregnancy as a surety) out of boredom or

frustration with what I had made of my life. And (pardon the sentence

structure here, as this is your basic stream of consciousness) with this

life pattern – CAN’T YOU JUST SEE US?!!

You with your crummy furniture store job in Portland, me at home

with the little one, probably living with your mother until we could

find a place of our own. Of course, I would want us to BUY a home,

which would necessitate me going back to the job jungle with my

hated one and only marketable skill – typing – AAAUGH – what a

nightmare – and don’t kid yourself, Patrick, you’re lucky – we’re

lucky we didn’t get trapped – somebody up there was looking out for

us. It was close, very close. You used to say to your brother that I

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was different from other girls, (I suppose I was a girl then) that I

wasn’t just out for a guy for his money.

Well Patrick, somewhere in the short span of 3 months from Sept.

to Dec. 1975, I became quite cognizant of the fact that I was definitely

upwardly-mobile. I suppose that was part of the reason why I decided

to "give you the axe," as you put it.

But I know that the other part was that I wanted to spare you the

bullshit you’d have to deal with, with me. I don’t think you would

have stood for my nagging you to try for the big bucks. Granted,

perhaps someday you may be a millionaire from your writing, and

nurses might get $2.00 per hour under socialized medicine. But, just

as I have you to thank for pushing me toward nursing school, you

have me to thank for leaving you alone to comfortably create.

Regarding your expression of the thought that I am the only woman

you have truly loved, I’ll say 2 things: 1) Hopefully that will change.

2) If it doesn’t change life will go on (as you have already no doubt

noticed). As a matter of fact, I also have some experience with

unrequited love with a person who was both near to and far from me

in the years 1967-71. Such is life.

Another thing I’d like to get clear – I do not feel guilty about the

times we spent together, although I HAVE felt guilty about breaking

"things" off with you, which is bullshit.

I don’t deserve to feel guilty about that.

As for your book, I am no literati. Your vocabulary seems to get in

the way of your style somewhat. I get the feeling that you are talking

like a 60 year old English professor when the vocabulary of a 17-19

year old you would suffice. Your story seems real enough, though,

and contains a goodly amount of humor.

However, I must tell you this. If your initial thought was to write

about your background in those formative years, thinking that you

were markedly different, experienced things more vividly, or had

more strange happenings, you are wrong. I hold myself as a case in

point.

What does set you apart is that ten years after the fact you have

accurately recorded this time. True, you have embellished the facts a

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little to make them more colorful for your audience. But as the

memory of those confusing times (I know that sounds trite) fades, you

actually have it recorded. That is very special. Hmmm. At any rate,

I’m writing this with many interruptions and it seems that my

thoughts aren’t too focused – plus I’m stoned.

Anyway, I’m assuming that you sent me your writings to read and

then return to you. I will send them back in a few weeks because I

procrastinate so often. I guess the main thing that bothers me about

The Dark City
is that one of my letters to you was partially

reproduced without my permission. Did you have to get that last turn

of the knife?

I’m tired of writing.

Polly

* * * *

August 3, 1978

Still trying to digest the delightful little missive Ms. Ellsworth sent

me. Think I will have more extensive comments on it later. Or

maybe not. If I had any thought that she might be flattered by my use

of her words, it would appear that I was wrong.

In the meantime, I have received two rejections on the book. The

first accused me of being "excessively visual" in my writing and the

second just looks like a rip off. At least the sample chapters from the

first are in still in good enough shape so I can re-cycle them to another

publisher.

Starting to lose some of my interest in this project. Of course I still

need to get the beast cleanly typed but I keep making revisions, which

delays things.

Undecided about whether I should go to Portland or not. I have a

potential date there with this Jeanette woman I met at a work thing

back in June. I’m going to need some new threads. No more of these

second-hand clothes if I want to make a good impression. Jeanette is

very cute and appeared eager to get together with me again.

Perhaps Jeanette will want to have sex. That might be fun. I plan

to keep my expectations low, however. I don’t trust anybody

anymore.

149

Starting with myself.

Later: It’s official. I have a date in Portland with Jeanette. I just

called her on the state WATS line and it’s a go. Jeanette is pretty,

funny, and smart, with medium length brown hair and light green

eyes. Also has a nicely developed, shapely little bod. I’m pretty sure

she’s never met anyone like me.

I’m sort of licking my lips, thinking about her.

* * * *

August 5, 1978

At the Multnomah County Central Library. Our Democratic

Senatorial nominee, Milt Netboy, sits across from me at another table.

Milt looks he’s nursing a crushing hangover, holding his head as he

peruses a worn copy of the Congressional Quarterly. No doubt Milt is

hunting for dirt on his opponent.

Judging by the expression on Milt’s face, he isn’t finding much.

Meanwhile, I am going through the Manhattan phone directory for the

addresses of literary agents.

Need about a dozen of them. So far, so good. Outside is a

beautiful warm sunny day. The streets of Portland on this languid

morning are scented with flowers, and quite serene, as life goes on in

Lompoc.

I sit here thinking about the letter Polly Ellsworth sent me. I have it

here in my pack. Words cannot adequately express how depressing I

find most of her remarks. All of her most neurotic qualities are

abundantly evident in this latest missive. If she is trying to drive me

away with this, it is working. It is working very well.

Maybe that is all she is doing, driving me away. How is it that I

always fall in love with the wrong woman? Why does that happen?

Where do I go wrong? I cannot keep making mistakes of this

magnitude. They are devastating to me.

At the same time, I must try to get my book published. These

agencies are my next step. I’m determined to see
The Dark City
in

print. I swear it will happen.

* * * *

August 7, 1978

150

Here goes the bad news. In Portland my date with Jeanette was a

complete bust. A more unhappy evening I have not spent in a long

time. Things were going great at first. We were just settling in on the

sofa as a preliminary to making out when Jeanette used that phrase

"upwardly-mobile" as a description of herself.

Her exact words. I practically choked. I suppose Jeanette was not

aware that she was offending me with her Polly Ellsworth-style prattle

but she got the hint when I abruptly jumped up and told her I had to

leave.

I couldn’t help it.

Right after saying "upwardly-mobile" Jeanette used this other

odious phrase – "financially stable" – to describe her previous