PFK1 (16 page)

Denise swallowed it with gumption, and for all appearances seemed

to enjoy it, gazing up at me with a smiling expression on her face. At

least that’s what I thought.

Then we stretched out on the bed, lying side-by-side. It was over

for now. After a minute or two, Denise began to complain that she

was getting the "Whirlies."

"The what?" I asked.

Jumping up, Denise ran out of the bedroom and darted into the

bathroom. I could hear her throwing up. Into the toilet went the

Budweiser and nachos I had purchased for her at Sneaky Pete’s, along

with millions of perfectly innocent sperm.

I found my briefs, put them on, and knocked on the bathroom door.

"Denise? Are you okay?"

The door opened a crack. I pushed it open further, seeing the poor

naked girl hunched over the porcelain, as pathetic as I have ever seen

a person look. I hope I am wrong, but I have a strong suspicion that it

might have been my semen that helped launch The Whirlies.

"Close the door, please," Denise said, with a grunt. "I don’t want

you seeing me like this."

That was a reasonable request, and I closed the door, leaving poor

Denise alone. I, on the other hand, felt great.

Ever since that time Chesley and I had been on the verge of scoring

with those two chicks at the bar on NE Going Street last year, it’s

been my policy to drink only moderately in situations where sexual

congress might occur.

On that occasion, like poor Denise, I too threw up, spoiling what

might have been a wonderful interlude with Chesley and those two

recently divorced older babes.

On this occasion, three beers was all I’d drunk, although I bought

five for Denise, and let her swig from my bottle as well.

Meanwhile, things were quieting down in Debbie’s room. I walked

down the hall and knocked on the door.

"Are you guys decent?" I asked.

"Yeah, sure. C’mon in," Chesley replied.

100

"What?" I heard Debbie hurriedly scramble onto the bed.

I entered. In Debbie’s room, the only light was from the street

lamp outside her window, overlooking Glisan.

But I could still see the both of them pretty clearly. Chesley had

the bedspread pulled to his waist. Debbie had it all the way up to her

neck.

Geez. Debbie was huge. At least a third larger than Denise, and

actually fat, rather than merely voluptuous. Black hair, dark brown

eyes, and a face that would have been very pretty if she weighed

maybe sixty pounds less than she did.

I sat down in a chair across from the bed and asked Chesley if I

could bum a cigarette. He tossed his pack of Viceroy Rich Lights to

me and some matches.

"There’s an ashtray on top of the bureau," Debbie said, helpfully.

"Okay." I got up and got the ashtray as I lit the cigarette.

"So, fucking you made Denise barf?" Chesley said.

"Don’t be mean, Chesley," Debbie said.

"No. I think she had too much to drink," I answered.

"You’re likely right," Debbie said. "Denise’s been drinking a lot

ever since Rolfe dumped her. This isn’t the first time she’s thrown

up, either."

"Poor girl," I said.

The three of us talked for a while.

Then there was some movement under the covers that I could not

discern, on account of the poor lighting.

"Are you trying to get me horny again?" Debbie asked.

"I was thinking about it," Chesley answered.

"I’m going to take off," I said, stubbing out the cigarette. "Say

goodbye to Denise for me. I’m sorry she got sick."

"Here’s the key to my apartment," Chesley said. "I’ll come up later

on."

"Okay." I got dressed in the living room, where most of my clothes

still were. Denise was back in her room, and the light was off.

Probably asleep. I left the apartment and went upstairs.

101

That was Friday. Saturday night featured a wacky poker game at

Michael D.’s house where Lloyd cleaned out the others and then I

cleaned out Lloyd. Of course, I also had the assistance of an uncanny

streak of luck.

Part of the reason I got lucky was because I wanted to talk, but

Lloyd insisted that we gamble. So we gambled. Beating the pants off

of him was actually quite fun, now that I think about it. He was

undone by his own greed. There was about $50 at stake in that final

pot.

Usually I’m not such a great poker player. I’m pretty sure Lloyd

thinks I suckered him, but I didn’t. I just got lucky.

The funniest part was when we played Indian Poker, much to

Lloyd’s chagrin. That was a scream, although it irked him no end.

Ah well, fuck it.

Writing some new poetry. How’s this for a title:

Love Poems to Break Your Heart.

* * * *

June 5, 1978

Nobody ever wanted to succeed more than me. But so far I am not

doing so swell. Marketing this book is a real fucking chore. The

effort weighs heavily on me. Now I have to turn myself into a

salesman. What a drag. But I have to do it.

A horrible, horrible thought.

Watch me. See what I am doing? I want to sell this novel. Others

have done it, why not me?

What a laugh. My chances are one in a million. Who am I,

anyway? Just a stupid twit.

I’ve picked out twenty publishers from the Literary Market Place.

I’m going to finish writing my synopsis. I need another twenty copies

of the sample chapter to go with it.

Here goes nothing. The big push.

My political plans are proceeding smoothly. I have 206 names on

the precinct mailing list. It will go out as soon as I get the letter

printed. Should be a nice stroke. I’m a bit worried about getting it

out in time.

102

The organizational meeting is coming up soon. Because of the tax

check off law, there is money to fight over. Politicians love money

more than almost anything, so this year’s meeting ought to be a real

brawl.

The typist says she will get started on the manuscript right away. It

will be difficult to sandwich these two projects together, but I have

resolved to do them both. I must do many things at the same time. I

often feel pressured, that there is too much on my agenda, that I want

too many things.

But so fucking what?

Charles and Chesley spent this past weekend with me. Nick hung

around most of the time they were here. He really got off on their

company. Nick is a great guy, as is Harry. Both have been good

friends here. We all had dinner at Harry’s house on Saturday night.

The main dish was red mussels we picked from the rocks by the jetty.

It was accompanied by big bowls of steamed white rice, two different

salads, a loaf of olive bread, and several bottles of Harry’s superb

Bordeaux.

We ate a mountain of food.

More than once I thought about how restrictive it is when women

are around. They tend to dominate, taking over your life and energy.

Without women, nobody pouted, nobody fussed, nobody sulked.

Nobody put anybody down or made a scene.

The women weren’t there to spoil our fun.

It was nothing like your typical party where women are in

attendance. On those occasions you can feel people judging you,

putting you down in their thoughts.

We had a great time – talking, eating, drinking, laughing. I can

think of at least half a dozen other guys who would have enjoyed

partying with us. But I honestly can’t think of a single woman I’ve

known (with the possible exception of Marie) who would have

approved of me spending an entire weekend hanging out with "the

boys."

Polly Ellsworth I’m sure would have been totally pissed.

Oh well. Such is life.

103

At times I wonder if Chesley and I try Charles’s patience. I must

admit we are frankly juvenile in our behavior. Our romp with

Chesley’s two chubby neighbors up in Portland was proof of that. But

who did we hurt? Nobody.

The really huge fat one named Debbie that Chesley had sex with

gave him the address of her new apartment in Southeast Portland so

he could come visit her again.

I think she likes him. They made an awfully cute couple.

The one I was with – Denise – apologized for throwing up

afterwards and promised she wouldn’t get so drunk the next time we

get together. I have her phone number in my pack.

I told Chesley on Saturday that I thought those two babes really

enjoyed showing us off to their equally chubby pals at Sneaky Pete’s.

You wouldn’t know it to look at them I suppose, but those phone

operator chicks can be pretty fucking wild. Denise’s fellatio was

really quite fine before she started getting all whirly on me.

Oh well.

I don’t know what it is about Chesley that always slays me so

much. I think it’s because no one else can match his wild excitement.

I always feel super invigorated when he is around. It’s been like that

ever since we were at college, as freshmen together in the dorm.

Charles was a treat as well. He is utterly the gentle soul, a person

of true artistic temperament. Live and let live is his motto. He is the

most tolerant man I have ever known. I like him a lot and admire him

just as much.

Publishing my book would be a great accomplishment. I think

about it all the time.

Next I’m going to start writing a brief pitch to the precinct people,

asking them to elect me to the state central committee. More check

off money is available than ever before. We must direct it to

candidates who will support human rights, political reform, renewable

energy, an end to destructive development, and a healthy economy

based on the conservation of resources. That should just about cover

it.

104

June 6, 1978

If only I could walk my book around to the publishers, let them see

my face, I know it would make a big difference. As it stands now, the

task seems nearly impossible.

And yet I persist.

Had an interview with the local library board tonight. It was my

usual performance: A fumbling start culminating in an outstanding

finish.

I often make a poor first impression. But I always make a great last

impression.

Being stoned and slightly drunk probably did not help matters

much. Harry and Nick insisted on getting me wasted before I went.

Those two scamps are incorrigible. It’s because Harry’s ex-wife

Shana is on the library board. I kept looking at her and wondering if

all the things Harry says about her weird sexual appetites are true.

So I smiled at Shana and we talked about books, meanwhile

wondering if she really enjoys getting spanked before fucking.

The whole scene was really very strange.

* * * *

June 11, 1978

It’s just a lot of self-torture. I know it is. I’m staying at Lori

Sanchez’s house in Eugene this evening. Late last night I rummaged

through a few letters she had on her desk to see if there was anything

from Ms. Ellsworth that might throw a little light on her more or less

enigmatic behavior.

Am I insane? Of course I am.

But there was nothing. I felt ashamed for even looking. I’m

thinking I might write to Ms. Ellsworth again. Why, I do not know. I

think maybe because I’m still in love with her.

It’s crazy, isn’t it? What did she do to me? I must resist this

irrational impulse.

105

Still sort of drunk from before. Slowly sobering up. Been in town

all weekend. Thinking about what it would be like to get Ms.

Ellsworth pregnant, trying to imagine it.

Doing it deliberately, I mean, instead of by accident. Saw that

Natalie Wood movie,
Love with A Proper Stranger
, with Lori and her

(still hanging around) boyfriend Bill. Natalie’s in the film with a guy

whose name I can never remember. It’s about an unplanned

pregnancy and what happens afterwards.

Very well done, for the time.

Ms. Ellsworth wanted a husband, a baby, a home, security, the

whole middle class bit. That other guy hasn’t come through yet

either. What a fucking dork.

My mind takes strange turns of late. Gave Bill a copy of my

manuscript. I have several now. Uh huh. I’m releasing it to the

reading public. Probably a mistake, but that’s how it goes.

The Road to Rio with Bing and Bob is on the tube right now. Gotta

smoke some dope to appreciate it fully.

I hate you. I loathe you. I despise you.