PFK1 (35 page)

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.

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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.

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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.

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