PFK1 (27 page)

It all happened so fast. A huge wave lifted me up and pushed me

down. The air went out of my lungs and salt water poured in. I was

fucking drowning!

A pure cold terror enveloped me. I was going down, down, down.

My feet touched the ragged gravel at the bottom. Oh Jesus! Holy

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shit! Sonofabitch! As I began losing consciousness, I felt myself

once again being picked up by the waves for another slam into the

rocks.

Drowning was just as I thought it would be. A horrible, terrifying

way to die. The water all was around me and I had no idea which way

was up.

Glug glug glug.

Then it was over.

Just like that. Over.

I found myself lying face down beside The Churn. In the pit of my

stomach was a rock about the size of a bowling ball. I was coughing

up salt water and getting the sweet air back into my lungs. How long

I had been there I do not know.

A minute, maybe less. As suddenly as it had sucked me in, Devil’s

Churn had spit me out.

I was totally wasted, wrung out, bruised, and stunned. Also

surprised as hell that I was still alive. Ironically, I ended up at almost

exactly the same spot where I went in.

My right shoe was missing, but my wallet was still in my back

pocket. My clothes were soaking wet, my shoulder was sore and I

was very thoroughly shaken, but otherwise unhurt. I was also

suddenly sober as an eagle.

Devil’s Churn had rejected Patrick J. Compton.

Thinking about it now, a day later, I shake my head. I know not

what malevolent spirit animates the universe. However, it is not

interested in taking my life. Not yet, anyhow. On the other hand, it

certainly isn’t above kicking the shit out of me.

My shoulder hurt like a sonofabitch but nothing felt broken. Very

slowly, I pulled myself together and wobbled up the trail, back to my

vehicle. The lone sneaker on my left foot squished water as I shuffled

along.

I felt exactly like the fool I truly am. Nothing had changed except

that I nearly got myself killed. Good grief. As a consequence, I have

resolved to never go swimming in Devil’s Churn again. It was a poor

idea at best.

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My flirtation with high-risk water sports is now officially over. No

one will ever know about it but me. As I got in my VW, I decided

that I hate living as much as ever and despise humanity, but I will

nevertheless go on. There will be no further life-threatening nighttime

adventures.

This I solemnly promise. From now on "Venice-easy" will mean

slogging it out no matter what. If I ever really feel like risking my life

again, I will simply move to Los Angeles, where life is death by

another name.

Too bad about my missing shoe.

Those Adidas were my favorites.

Meanwhile, back to reality. My hair was still damp by the time I

arrived home. Hmmm. Wet hair from Devil’s Churn. Sounds like a

short story. Something X-rated perhaps, with a detailed description of

moist pubic hair following a round of inventive intercourse.

When I got home, I changed my clothes and sat down at the kitchen

table to swill beer and puff on a cigarette. I was already working

away at my Olivetti when there came a knock at the screen door.

What the shit? A visitor? Better not be those damn Moonies again, I

thought.

It wasn’t the Moonies. Much to my surprise, it was Megan.

"Can I talk to you?" she said. "It’s very important. I was here

earlier but you weren’t home."

I opened the screen door.

"Sure, come on in," I said.

Megan stepped inside. She seemed all excited and charged up

about something. She began pacing the living room.

"I’ve left Mark," she said. "My marriage is over. Today I moved

in with Josie and I’m not going back. Mark is staying in Eugene with

friends while we sort out how and when we are going to get a

divorce."

This was a big surprise. A shock, in fact.

My cigarette was still burning in the ashtray. I stubbed it out and

opened the refrigerator.

"Can I get you something to drink? A beer?"

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Megan shook her head.

"I’m sorry about your marriage," I said, closing the door.

"Don’t be sorry," she said. "It’s been a long time coming and

divorce was probably inevitable."

"I don’t know what to say."

Megan came toward me, standing a few feet away. She took a long

look at me. I stood there, looking back at her. What the hell?

Goddamn, she looked beautiful, with her long blond hair and sea-blue

eyes. But I also saw a little bit of wildness in her eyes, a look I had

not seen before.

Megan was dressed in tight jeans, sandals, and a soft white cable

knit sweater. She seemed more radiant, more compelling, more

gorgeous than ever.

"Did you just take a shower? Your hair looks wet," she said

suddenly.

"Nah. I went swimming in the ocean."

"At night? In the dark?"

"It was a spontaneous thing," I said.

Megan came up to me, moving in close, very close. Our bodies

were nearly touching. Her face was an inch from mine.

"I’m thinking about doing something spontaneous," she said.

"What would that be?"

She put her arms around me.

I returned her embrace. The soreness in my shoulder had

miraculously disappeared.

Our lips met in the sweetest of kisses.

* * * *

August 26, 1978

The entry above was written a week ago. I have not had a chance

to write since. Now I’ll pick it up where I left off.

Megan and I talked all night, making out in between times. We

rolled around on my bed, necking like teenagers. To put it mildly, her

kisses induced a state of high excitement.

There is this intense chemistry between us that cannot be denied.

We both can feel it. On Saturday morning she left at dawn. We did

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not do it, though. Later on I had to go run a few errands. I was in a

pretty good mood. I turned the VW’s radio on. I let Nick use my bus

last Thursday to get some stuff to fix his house. He must have

changed the radio tuner from the news station to the classic rock

station. Oldies.

Fontella Bass began singing Rescue Me. Normally, I would have

shut it off. This time I let it play.

Megan has been back every night since. But we have not done it.

Not yet, anyway. Even if Megan said it was okay, I’d like to be a

little clearer about what is going on between us before that happens.

It’s difficult to explain.

Before, I’ve let physical relationships develop before I knew where

I was headed emotionally. I don’t think that’s such a good idea

anymore.

Years ago, back when I was in high school, you could count on

women to show a little bit of restraint, to hold off on the sex.

That is no longer the case. Nowadays, it is all too often fuck first,

ask questions later. I want to be more cautious now.

Besides, after working together for the past six months, we know

each other really well but at the same time I wonder how well we

really know each other. Sex makes things complicated and I’m

concerned about getting sucked in again only to have it fall apart

miserably. You know what I mean.

In truth, I am not so resilient emotionally as I once was, and things

are beginning to affect me. This is my one, my only, tiny little life.

Already it has been plenty screwed up. Every mistake you can

possibly make I have made. Some mistakes twice. I see things as

they are it scares the fucking bejeebers outta me.

This is something I don’t want to screw up.

Megan is absolutely the last thing I expected to have happen,

Honest. I figured we might flirt but that is all. Eventually, I figured

Mark would find some nice upwardly mobile type job and they would

move out of town to a nice middle class suburb somewhere. That’s

how I saw it.

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Therefore I believe it a poor idea to go all the way with Megan until

I am sure which way she is going.

Chesley is here today, the fool. We are going to the Folies at the

Beachcomber tonight. The all-nude show, with dancers from Portland

and Eugene.

Megan laughed when I told her we’ve had our tickets for weeks.

She is attending a quilt show in Yachats with Josie so I won’t see her

again until tomorrow night.

Right now Chesley is down at Harry’s house, shooting the breeze

with him and Nick. I am up here at my cabin getting stoned and

scribbling in my new journal book. We’re going to make a big dinner

tonight before we go out to the show – baked Chicken Dijon with

scalloped potatoes au gratin, loaves of Italian bread and a green salad.

We’ll top it off with wine, beer, whiskey, and Marlboros. The works.

We have front row seats at the Folies. I plan to get good and drunk

on Harry’s fine red wine before we go.

"Show me some tits and ass," Chesley keeps saying, over and over

again. Harry and Nick really dig him. Chesley is quite the popular

one, isn’t he?

Finished the final revisions to
The Dark City
and turned it over to

the typist. I really let that piddly small stuff drag out for a long time.

I wish I could talk about it to some sort of literary professional.

Everyone is sick of me and my stupid book. Oh well. I can’t say I

blame them. I’m pretty sick of it myself. I’ll try not to read the damn

thing again unless I get a nibble. Publication would be nice, I must

admit.

* * * *

August 31, 1978

Megan and I are getting closer. The time I spend alone with her is

the best part of my day. I suddenly realized this afternoon while we

were chatting at work that I am happy.

For the first time in a long time, I actually feel happy. My slow

downward spiral has been arrested. A little bit of wind is starting to

fill my sails.

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At the last possible instant, the aircraft known as Patrick One pulled

out of its screaming dive.

Later: Megan just left an hour ago and now I am getting ready for

work. We slept together in my double bed last night but we did not do

it. She kept her panties on (she rarely wears a bra) and I also wore my

briefs but I don’t know how much actual sleep we got. The sexual

tension was so thick you couldn’t have cut it even with a ginsu knife.

Jesus, what a bod that Megan has! Holy Moley! The dancers at the

Folies last week were great, really nice to look at. Big breasts and

legs and solid, fleshy bodies.

But Megan is really something special. She is just out of this world

beautiful, sexy, slender, and passionate. All of a sudden, sex is

everywhere. I’m not sure what the hell I am doing, but so far it feels

pretty good. In twenty minutes we will meet at work and pretend like

we are just seeing each other.

We will do a little of this and a little of that. Then we will go to the

Cafe for breakfast with Josie and a couple of others. Only Josie

knows what is going on.

Nearly finished with my psilocybin mushroom article. It has gone

rather well. There are two magazines I want to send it to. The writing

has a Carlos Castaneda-like feel but is otherwise lucid. It’s both fun

and serious at the same time.

Nick knows this guy, Gary Menser, who has published a book

about finding and identifying psilocybin mushrooms. He says Gary

will show us where zillions of these psilocybe cyanescens mushrooms

grow.

Megan says she wants to come with us.

* * * *

September 5, 1978

Completed the mushroom article tonight. I kept trying to end it but

it ran a full 12 pages. Then it stopped of its own accord, with all bases

covered. I really like it.

The piece took a whole month to write, off and on. The success I

had writing it makes me want to go back and finish a bunch of other

projects I’ve started but then stalled out on.

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I love it when the ideas start to outpace my ability to get them

down. The story was a single draft effort, from some rough notes.

The mushroom photos I’ve had made using Mick’s slides look

incredibly gorgeous. He’s an excellent photographer. I’ll be jumping

for joy if my story gets accepted for publication.

The typing of
The Dark City
is going along well. The typist says

it’ll be ready September 15. How nice. I plan to send it to a couple of

different publishers right away.

A guy can hope, can’t he?