PFK1 (10 page)

you hear me?"

"Not a word," I promised.

Then we talked about life and relationships and all their attendant

problems. I had already described in detail how things went wrong

between Polly Ellsworth and me, expressing the wish that I had the

chance to do it over again.

"That skinny brunette who went to nursing school?" Leanne said.

"Your brother Mick told me about her."

"Yeah? He did?"

Leanne shook her head and said not to worry, that any woman who

got down on me the way Polly did had no idea what the hell she was

talking about.

"What do you mean?" I said.

"Patrick, you were 19 and I was 18 when we moved into that house

in Springfield. Remember? You and I lived together for two and a

half years. I know you. I’ve seen you at your best and at your worst.

Your best was simply wonderful. And at your worst you never did

anything that made me feel scared or unloved. From the beginning, I

knew I was safe around you and liked you as a person. You were also

very, very attractive. I saw how other women looked at you. Part of

the reason why I broke up with you was to let you find a woman who

was more your type, which I was realistic enough to know that I am

not. I figured you would scurry on back to that Marie woman you

were so hot for in Atlanta but for some reason you stuck around here

instead."

"I probably should have gone back," I said, "given the way things

turned out. Instead I blew Marie off."

Leanne shrugged. "Well, what’s done is done. I know you and I

are way too different to make a go of it. That’s why we should never

have gotten together in the first place. But Patrick, I’d be less than

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honest if I didn’t confess that I will always be a tiny bit jealous of any

woman that you fall in love with."

"That’s pretty sweet of you to say, Leanne. You know, I’m

remembering why I fell in love with you in the first place."

Leanne kissed me tenderly on the cheek.

"Don’t worry. You’ll find her, whoever she is," Leanne said.

"You’re a special guy, Patrick. The woman you fall for next time

should consider herself very lucky."

"I fell in love with Polly Ellsworth," I said. "But I don’t think she

considered herself lucky. You know, it happened so fast on the heels

of our breakup I was still leery about becoming too involved too fast.

I just wanted her to slow down a little but somehow or other I let her

slip through my fingers."

"Patrick, that chick was a fool to let you slip through her fingers,"

Leanne said. "I saw her enough times to know. She was real pretty

and smart maybe, but a fool. There’s no way she could have done

better than you. Never in a million years."

"You think so? She’s with some doctor now," I said.

Leanne snorted. "Probably a loser in spite of that."

I told Leanne I was sorry about being such an ass when we broke

up and she just laughed.

"You weren’t such an ass. Actually, I thought it was sort of

flattering how upset you got. You said some stuff that I felt was

uncalled for but on the whole, I could tell you didn’t hate me or

anything like that. Did you think I hated you?"

"Well no," I admitted, "but I did hate that fucking Eduardo."

"If it’s any consolation, I hate him too. Turned out he was an even

bigger criminal than I thought he was. I’m sorry I ever got involved

with him. But I’m not sorry about you."

"Hey, you’ve got a good eye for losers," I said.

Leanne laughed merrily.

"Stop it," she said. "You’re no loser. And you could always make

me laugh. I really loved that about you."

As the night wore on, we talked about old times, only the good

stuff, and not the bad stuff, until we fell asleep. The next morning, we

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took turns showering, got dressed, and had breakfast together at the

Florence Café.

Then we said goodbye.

Leanne is on her way to Gold Beach, where she is setting up a new

Best Buy outlet store. That girl is really going places. All in all, I’d

have to say she’s one of the best friends I’ve ever had.

Meanwhile, I’m up to page 148 now. I plan to finish Chap. 47

today, right after I’m done washing clothes. Yesterday I wrote Chap.

46 and also did the typing on Chap. 45. Things are still moving along

well, though not at blinding speed. Just keep going, I tell myself.

Yep, it looks like one more draft after all. I will have to keeping

working it through the summer, I suppose. But it must be perfect.

August 1 looks like the final target date, perhaps a little later. I’ve

been pushing myself very hard these past few months, writing for long

hours in the evening besides holding down a regular forty hour per

week job.

At times, I think I’m going to crack. After this draft I intend to let

up a bit and take a look at it critically. It is essentially worked out and

putting it in final form is all that remains. I just want to have a salable

manuscript.

The Dark City
. My first book. My first real book.

I called Katrine today and asked her over for a weekend of sensual

amusement. How’s that for crazy? I can’t help myself. When I go

without female companionship for any length of time, all I do is work

and drink and smoke cigarettes and get stoned out of my fucking

mind. There just seems to be nothing else to do. I’d prefer not kill

myself just yet, although I always hold it out as a distinct possibility.

In the meantime, I feel like sleeping with a real live woman and on

that score Katrine sort of qualifies. I’m single. She’s single. I’m an

adult. She’s an adult. There seems to be no reason why I shouldn’t

invite her for the weekend.

Each day I spend alone. Each day I die a little. At work Megan is

delightful and we have much fun talking but she is married. And

while it is true that I respect almost nothing in life, marriage is an

exception. I do respect marriage.

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Recently, Megan took some 35MM photographs of me sitting at my

desk at work. She says I make an interesting subject.

"Just keep right on working," she said. "Pay no attention to the

camera." I heard the shutter click several times. Megan’s father is a

professional photographer and he’s taught her how to take pictures.

She’s a whiz with that single lens reflex camera. You should see this

one picture she took of a post sticking out of the sand at the beach,

surrounded by grass and flowers.

Looks just like an oil painting. She’s got this black-bodied

Olympus OM-1 35MM camera that does it all. She says if I ever want

to learn how to use it she’ll teach me. It’s a beautiful piece of

equipment, solid and weighty.

I might take her up on the offer.

Went looking for some mushrooms today but found none. I am

seeking the fabled psilocybin of the great Northwest, either the

psilocybe semilanceata, the cyanescens, or the supremely potent

baeocystis. But instead of finding any legendary mushrooms, I

tumbled into a bog filled with foul-smelling muck, and ended up cold,

dirty and wet. Blech.

Most of the magic psilocybes are autumn mushrooms, but there are

a few exceptions. I will go hunting in the deep dark woods outside

town again this weekend.

Cranking along on Chap. 47. Should be no problem.

* * * *

April 19, 1978

Probably won’t write the childhood novel for a long time, I have

now decided. Need to put it off until later. Need some more

perspective. We were not treated well as children, I am sorry to say.

The two idiots who brought us into the world despised us afterwards

for the crime of being around. We were inconvenient to them,

interfering with their golfing, bowling, partying, drinking, and drug

use.

There is nothing about them that I will forget to include, I’m sure.

My accursed memory retains everything, much of which I’d prefer to

65

forget. I’m going to be very balanced though. My goal is to depict

absolute reality in a fictional form.

Not sure what to do after
The Dark City
. Maybe I should simply

check out of existence entirely. In all honesty, I don’t see much point

in living. It’s just drudgery, shame, misery, humiliation, absurdity,

and struggle. We are inmates of a planet-wide death camp.

Auschwitz Earth.

Only my work interests me.

Later: Knocked off Chap. 48 tonight. I like the result quite well. I

want to complete the final climax chapter by Saturday night. I want

this whole draft done by Sunday night.

It won’t be long now!

Reading Thomas Wolfe’s
You Can’t Go Home Again
. A little

stuffy in parts, but some pretty good material throughout. He’s wrong

about going home, though. Like I told Megan, you can go home again

but expect to be treated like shit when you get there. That’s pretty

much what happened to me when I came back from Atlanta in 1975.

I’m also reading Dostoevsky’s
Notes From Underground
. That

man was utterly insane, cutting capers left and right. He’s pretty

funny but hard to fathom. I suspect a lot gets lost in translation from

the Russian.

Thanks to Megan, work is going well. I know, I know. It’s just a

lousy job. I thank Megan for making it palatable at all. For some

reason, extremely smart women are an incredible turn on for me. The

smarter the better, as far as I am concerned. There are many things I

don’t like about working at the welfare office, but Megan is not one of

them. Truly, I just look forward to seeing her, talking with her.

Meanwhile, I try not to dwell on the petty intrigues or be drawn

into the bullshit, but they are always there nonetheless. Blech.

I’ve got to write a letter to Mick. He is in the Peace Corps in

Africa. What a trip. Also need to write to Lloyd, Barry Ascot, Mario,

Michael, and possibly Katrine. Haven’t yet heard from Ms.

Ellsworth. Nor do I really expect to. Such is life.

66

When I finish this current draft, I’m going to quit smoking again.

When I finish this draft, I’m going to do a lot of things, not the least of

which is get good and fucking drunk.

On page 156 of the manuscript. It will probably run no more than

ten pages longer than the original. However, it will be a whole hell of

a lot better.

* * * *

April 20, 1978

About to begin work on Chap. 49. Still reading You Can’t Go

Home Again. Wolfe speaks of a philosophy of life that he does not

share. I feel the same way. I have no beliefs or philosophy of life

save one: "Where’s my check?"

* * * *

April 21, 1978

I’m re-writing Chap. 49 tonight, getting it ready for the typewriter

tomorrow. I’m having a lot of fun with this part. My satisfaction

grows with each completed sentence. This draft is undoubtedly the

finest writing I have ever done.

I am so proud of my work. Although I am aware that it may not be

the best writing in the world (yet) it is mine, and my pleasure in it is

boundless.

Took a long walk on the beach near Heceta this evening. It was

raining and I walked for miles, thinking about things. I was soaking

wet by the time I got back to the bus, so I stripped down to my briefs

and ran back to jump in the ocean. There was nobody around to see

me. What the hell. I find that a dip in the chilly seawater can be very

bracing.

Back to the primordial womb.

Right now, at this moment, I’m drinking red wine and chain

smoking cigarettes. I am laughing at myself and the life I have lived

so far. What a stupid fucking idiot I am. I learn the key lesson the

exact instant after I have made the irreparable error. I have made

every mistake a man can make, some of them twice.

That is why I hate myself.

That is why I am unloved.

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My sense of humor is still razor sharp, though. Crystalline. I am in

awe of what I am putting on paper. I do not know yet if my writing is

publishable, but it sings, man, it fucking sings.

Confident, ain’t I? I look around and see no one writing the stuff I

am writing, taking the risks I am taking. The books I see in stores are

boring, so meaningless. It’s all just shit.

Where is the real thing, man? Huh? The true stories. I have no

competition. Writing is hard work. Watching TV is much easier. I

gave my television to Chesley Harlan. I don’t intend to buy another