Authors: U
new to retort. I may have left some words out of some sentences but
9
since you knew me, (in the Biblical, as well as the regular sense) I
give you complete license to fill in any missing information.
Yours until Niagara Falls,
Polly
What the hell am I supposed to make of that shit? I go back and
forth. I’m thinking of hopping in my bus and driving down to see her.
Just to see her. It’s been more than a year since the last time I tried to
contact her.
Unfortunately, that previous trip went nowhere. But I’m in a
quandary. Is she just setting me up to act the fool again? What
happens if I go down there and she makes out like I’m insane for
coming down? It would just kill me. If only she would give me some
clear signal that she wanted to see me I would drop everything and go.
That is essentially what I asked her when I wrote. I said how about us
talking face to face? But she did not respond to that. And this is,
well, so weird…
I just don’t get it.
* * * *
November 13, 1977
I’ve decided not to drive down to Ashland to see Polly. I do not
believe she is being serious. I’ve asked her if we could see each other
and she sends me crap like the above letter. I must therefore conclude
she is not serious.
I am serious, but she is not. Oh, how roles have reversed! I’ll
probably write her again, I suppose, but I expect nothing.
* * * *
November 30, 1977 Monday
From my bedroom window I can see the bank tower, downtown,
the river, all the way to the west hills. Looking out the window
yesterday I was positive I saw Polly Ellsworth pull up in front of our
house. A blue Volkswagen slowed down and then stopped across the
street. I was absolutely sure it was her at the wheel. That face I
would know anywhere.
I ran downstairs right away but the car was already gone. If it
wasn’t Polly my name is Ronald McDonald.
10
Could it possibly have been a figment of my overactive
imagination? Who knows? I wrote to her right after I got her last
letter, telling her that I am available for a meeting any time she wants
to get together. But I’ve heard nothing since.
I swear I am going crazy here in Portland.
My mother lives one mile away and pesters me constantly for
favors, errands, money, home repairs, money, or simply to yak my ear
off. I wouldn’t mind doing work but she is a total slug who won’t lift
a finger, is horrible to listen to, and treats me like a slave.
I’d listen politely except for the fact that her conversation is nothing
but venom and self pity. The old hag acts like she is on her deathbed.
Though perfectly healthy, she refuses to work and lives off the Social
Security payments she gets for my sister Ruthie, age 16. You would
think she is 93 years old instead of only 53. I fucking hate her.
My writing goes very slowly. Six short chapters in three days.
However, I am pleased with the quality. Must keep plugging away on
this new draft of
The Dark City
.
Have made a decision to write about only significant events in this
journal from now on. Less drivel, more action.
* * * *
December 8, 1977
Far fucking out. I have the whole place to myself.
* * * *
December 9, 1977
Did not get too far with yesterday’s entry. Too many people, too
many interruptions. In and out, in and out. Boys, girls, beer, reefer,
and loud, wild talk. The whole place was jammed with people at one
point. Why are we so popular? I do everything I can to discourage
them, but without success.
Nevertheless, late at night, after everyone was gone, I got a bunch
of stuff done on the book. I’m now up to page 26. These re-writes
are terribly difficult. Every sentence is a major project, with
blueprints, competitive bids, forklifts, and guys in hard hats shouting
orders.
11
Having lots of trouble with Chap. 7 right now. Will substitute all
new material, I think. A whole different slant is needed and I believe
the word they used to describe him was "incorrigible," meaning there
is no hope for him.
Wrote my brother Mick a letter today. Complained about nearly
everything. Don’t know what good it will do but I got it off my chest.
Yadda yadda yadda. That’s an expression Chesley has been using for
the past week or so.
Yadda yadda yadda. Whenever I use it, it sounds stupid. He can
get away with it, though. I don’t know why. Chesley wants to have a
Christmas party. Between him and me, the guest list will run
somewhere around 100. While reviewing the list of people I proposed
to invite, Chesley objected strenuously to about ten different names. I
agreed to take them off but will restore them when I take the invites to
Postal Instant Press.
Screw him.
Unless I’m writing, I can’t think of anything but sex. I wish I could
suppress this unholy urge that constantly distracts me. Sex and
sexibility. Because of it, I waste time with women I would never
otherwise hang around with in a million years.
What I want, I think, is irresponsible promiscuity. Forget all that
other junk I said. I did not mean it. I am after the one-night stand,
casual sex, intimate acts with total strangers. There can be nothing
more emotionally rewarding than fucking someone you hardly know.
Chesley wants me to date Alison, who is the best friend of his new
girlfriend Sue. Apparently Alison has been asking about me. Chesley
says he will score big with Sue if he can deliver me to Alison. Just to
put him off, I said under no circumstances would I go out with Alison
unless I was sure she would consent to sexual intercourse on the first
date.
That, I figured, would definitely kibosh it.
To my dismay, Chesley said that would be no problem. Here’s the
scenario: After our double date, we come back here for drinks and
Chesley and Sue will disappear into his bedroom. Left alone, I would
then be seduced by femme fatale Alison.
12
Oh shit!
It’s not Alison, its me. She seems genuinely sweet, if a little on the
chubby side. If I started sleeping with her, I’d never get rid of her
without a whole lot of trouble, I am sure.
Besides, I need time to work on my book. Most women don’t
consider what I am doing serious. They think my writing is some sort
of quaint hobby. Granted, I have gone nowhere with it so far but my
writing is definitely not a quaint hobby. It is an insanity preventive. I
use it to fill my empty spaces, which are many and deep. Women, on
the other hand, want to fill my empty spaces with themselves.
* * * *
December 19, 1977
Writing in red ink is bothersome but I can’t find my regular pen,
goddammit. Think Chesley stole it. Quiet weekend. Went out
drinking with Randy Thune on Friday night. Went out drinking with
Mario and Butch on Saturday night.
A really gorgeous woman hit on me at Kingston’s while I was with
Randy on Friday.
Uncanny how much she resembled Marie Montambeault. A very
similar laugh, the same liquid grey eyes. Her name was Darlene. For
some reason I like that name and Darlene herself seemed quite smart
and hip.
Also very slender and sexy. Without me even asking, Darlene gave
me her phone number and said I should call her. However, it is
unlikely that I will do so any time soon.
In fact I know I won’t. I want to work on my book. Darlene wants
me to work on her. I’m now up to Chap. 9, which ought to be a real
challenge. So it goes. I struggle and struggle.
Look at the calendar. My poor black puppy has been dead for
exactly a year today. My former girlfriend Leanne would never agree
to handle La Pooch in a responsible fashion.
So while Leanne was away on a work trip, Patrice trotted on over to
my old house.
13
The current tenants there promptly turned her over to animal
control. After only three days in the pound, those fuckers put her to
death, her dog tags notwithstanding.
Leanne went to get her as soon as she returned but the deed had
already been done. After only three fucking days!
Goddamn them! Such a sad thing. Such a sweet puppy. Our coal
black Labrador Retriever. I really loved that poor mutt. All I have
left is her engraved Milk Bone dog tag from 312 E. 16th with her
name misspelled "Patrise".
Leanne made me take it because she can’t bear to look at it
anymore. A tear just rolled down my cheek.
And another.
Goddamn, I hate the fucking world.
* * * *
December 21, 1977
I think of things like this: Two years ago today I last slept with
Polly Ellsworth. Now we are coming to the January date, which
signaled our permanent split. Now I must come to realize what is
necessary, and complete the emotional break. I must not keep on
thinking about her.
It must end.
In truth, it has not been all that bad, being alone. I’ve gotten a lot
of work done. I intend to remain alone.
Winter’s day.
In a deep and dark December. I am alone. Hiding in my room.
Deep within my womb. I touch no one and no one touches me. The
snow falls outside. Softly.
A freshly fallen silent shroud of crystallized water.
* * * *
December 27, 1977
The party came and went.
What my book needs, I’ve decided, is a really true description of
mental illness. I just realized how incoherent I am on that subject.
Hallucinate. A visual TV fantasy through the years, a pair of
flickering blue parents.
14
* * * *
December 29, 1977
Rotten day at work.
At home alone. I don’t know what I would do without these
Fridays off. Who am I? What am I? When he makes fun of me,
Chesley calls me God’s Lonely Man. He claims that I secretly yearn
to get married and it is his considered opinion that I am overdue for
such a connection. However, I suspect it’s only projection on his part.
Chesley is the one who wants to get married. My ambitions are of
an entirely different nature.
Have to get another load of wood for the stove. A five dollar
bundle in the VW from those poor kids off Foster Road.
The whole fall’s been cold, not especially wet, but cold.
Worked on sabotaging the party a little bit over the weekend. Put
all of the crossed off invitees back on the list and told them to bring
their friends. If Chesley bitches about it, I’ll just threaten to squeal on
him about something.
There is an endless array of misdeeds to blackmail him about.
He is such a total double dealer I have many different angles I can
torture him with. The raft of shit he gave me about giving Randy
some Jarlsberg after our party is but one example.
What else?
I was upstairs peeing when Chesley and Randy came back from
playing racquetball at the Y. They were reading my stuff at the table
when I came down and took turns ridiculing it.
Honestly, I don’t care. It is fucking hard work, writing words
down. Writing is hard, very hard. I don’t care what anybody says.
They both laughed when I said nobody else has the guts to do it. Fuck
‘em.
I’m good at what I am doing and I have something to say.
* * * *
December 30, 1977
At home alone. I don’t know what I would do without these
Fridays off. Have I said that before? Sent another letter to the state,
asking them to renew my listing for eligibility worker.
15
Now I’ll settle down to read a good book. Shit, somebody is at the
door downstairs! If it is Sue with Alison in tow again I swear I will
hide in the basement.
* * * *
January 20, 1978
There’s just too much happening to keep abreast of things. Almost
three weeks have passed without me writing in this book.
On the female front, it appears I have a natural gift for screwing up
potential relationships, especially with women I care about. If pissing
women off was an Olympic event, I’d be a fucking gold medalist.
The more I care about them, the less capable I seem of making it
work.
Superficially, there is always a strong attraction. Once we get to
know each other, however, the honeymoon comes crashing down and
they end up giving me the finger.
Take Jill Deskins, for example. I received a letter from her