PFK1 (39 page)

Why, I do not know. Myself, I am feeling pretty burned out on the

female of the species. I feel a lack of connection with the women I

have known. To me, they are all alike. One woman is every woman.

They are complete animals. Practically all they want (it seems to

me) are money and babies, the first to finance the second.

Oh, there are exceptions, but those also come with their own special

sets of problems.

Otherwise, it seems like most women are unable to think

independently. No creativity. No ambition. No serious interest in

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anything other than what some guy can do for them. I think if they

ran the world, we’d be living in mud huts and worshipping the moon.

To me, this lack of drive explains why in many cases women get

pushed around so much.

At the same time they are vicious. Randy told me privately that

Wilma has pulled his hair, punched him, and knocked his glasses off

when they have argued. He does not strike back. Randy said if he

ever pulled the same shit on her she would scream for the cops.

Randy wanted to go see a Werner Herzog movie with me on Friday

but Wilma wouldn’t let him. She didn’t want to go but she didn’t

want him to go either.

He says she complains incessantly about his Tuesday night Y

racquetball games. Meanwhile, she’s a stagnant slug who munches

chips and swills sodas in front of the boob tube, night after night,

stoned on reefer.

From her indent on the sofa, Wilma complains bitterly about

Randy’s efforts to stay in shape.

I told Randy he is a battered husband and that it is not good to have

a woman who hates everything about you, and who feels free to strike

you. She is saying something. Randy won’t do anything about it,

though. He is way too chickenshit to stand up to her. What a pussy.

The same with Chesley. If he should marry Shirley, I don’t think it

will last. She doesn’t love him, I can tell. I think she just wants to

have a baby with a guy who has a job. That puts her a notch above

the welfare crew, who have babies with guys who don’t even have

jobs.

Such beauty. Such depth. Such inspiration. It’s all so terribly,

terribly romantic. The opposite of a fucking Harlequin romance

novel. The exact same thing in reverse.

The true Bizarro world of romance.

There are a lot of available women. Why trouble yourself? Falling

in love is a big mistake. If love is like this, why not stick to the sex

alone?

* * * *

February 23, 1979

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The VW finally made it to the big union meeting in Salem. I’m

staying with John Thomas and McNeese at their place on 18th Street

NE in Salem. It’s a good house but reeks of gas fumes. Everybody is

up in arms over the nuclear power issue. Close down Trojan, they

say. Screw the utility companies.

John has changed jobs and now works for a different State

Representative, Russ Bulger. McNeese works for a State Senator,

Knute Winton. They dash around like maniacs, getting ready for the

big anti-nuke demonstration set for April 15.

John wants to run his guy for Congress up in Portland next year.

Says he’s got it all worked out. McNeese meanwhile thinks his

Senator pal would make a great Attorney General. The sky’s the limit

for these guys.

Maybe politics would be good for me as well. I get bored of

thinking only about myself. Too much introspection is probably what

drove Kerouac nuts. It is pretty depressing sometimes to see yourself

as you truly are.

In my case: a self-centered, dim-witted, blond-haired dork.

* * * *

February 24, 1979

At the big union meeting in Salem:

They are mad as hell and not going to take it anymore.

Or so they say.

Fear among clerical staffers.

Grievances filed.

Contract must be signed by June 30th.

Or else we go on strike!

Sexual harassment identified as a major issue.

State managers stalling.

Bill Whitehead earns $30,000 per year, the lousy fuck.

The union will not go down. Negotiations are turning into a game.

We want a package to take to the legislature now!

Money! More Money!

Patrick, you are such a fucking hypocrite.

Another meeting next month.

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* * * *

February 25, 1979

Watching Jerry Brown on TV. Yes! Advance America’s

technological lead. Computers. Communications revolution.

Rejuvenate our productive capacity. Scale down entitlements, but be

selective. Economic stagnation. America in decline. Put people back

to work. Harness alternate energies. Bullet trains. Space exploration.

Balance budget. Reduce the deficit. Control excess. Stop

inflationary spiral. Educational programs.

Buzzwords. Buzz buzz buzzwords. Get a transcript of the

interview. Washington address follows.

* * * *

February 27, 1979

Goddamn! Sonofabitch! I’ve been diagnosed with chlamydia

(again) and I’m so pissed off I can hardly fucking see straight.

That makes twice I’ve had this lousy pestilence infecting me.

Down at the base of my penis is where I feel it. I am sick, way down

deep inside. The contact for it must be either Jill or Mary Wong.

They are the only two women I have slept with.

The first time I got this I’m pretty sure it came from the Dharma

Queen, back in June, 1975.

Goddamn, I wish I’d never touched her. It was a fucking one-night

stand and I wound up with chlamydia, which I promptly passed on to

the other one.

When she broke up with me in December of that year, she said one

reason was because I gave her infections.

Well, no shit, bitch. For a fucking nursing student, she was

remarkably dense in her approach to medicine. You know, I would

have been eternally grateful for a suggestion to get checked out that

was not couched in terms of a cruel insult. Thank you very much.

By the middle of 1977, I noticed that it was getting really difficult

to pee after three or four beers.

Next stop was Dr. Roberts, the family physician who treated me as

a child. Dr. Roberts gave me the biggest tetracycline capsules I have

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ever seen in my whole life and told me I had a venereal disease. Two

years had gone by without me knowing what was wrong.

Jesus Christ.

This time when it became difficult to pee, I went directly to Dr.

Jim up at the Siuslaw Rural Health Center. Same goddamn curse and

same goddamn cure. He gave me his lecture about using condoms

again.

Fuck shit sonofabitch.

No beer for the next two weeks. Otherwise it will interfere with the

action of the antibiotics.

At least I still have reefer.

* * * *

March 2, 1979

Getting ready for the big poetry fest at the Kyle Building tomorrow.

Today we had a going away party after work for Josie. It was so sad

to see her leave.

The branch manager avoided the party, no doubt because she feels

guilty about driving Josie off the farm. That fucking old bitch did

Josie wrong, in my opinion.

It’s amazing to me how the state lets these fat ass managers run

roughshod over hard-working, dedicated employees. It is truly a

crime. Josie would still be doing her caseload as per usual if she

didn’t suspect (quite rightly) that the managers were out to get her.

They are so fucking mean and weird I can’t believe it.

What will Josie do now? How will she survive? She says she will

go back to selling real estate and claims she has money stashed away,

but I really wonder. It is very worrisome.

The job is joyless, especially now that Megan and I are on the outs.

I have to keep working here, however, because what would I do

without a job?

Over two months now since I last touched Megan. It’s just as well,

I suppose, because if I had slept with her, I would have given her

chlamydia too.

Had a big argument with Nick regarding Mary Wong a couple of

days ago. This was right after I told him to get checked for

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chlamydia. He says I am wasting my time with her and that I should

be making up with Megan. I told him that he only wants fuck Mary

himself. He became very exasperated at that, so I think maybe I hit a

nerve.

Truth be told, I ain’t too thrilled about living here anymore. I know

he’s right that I’m wasting my time with Mary but I’m not going to

admit that to him because I suspect he immediately feeds stuff to

Megan behind my back.

Megan seems to know way more about my activities than if she had

to rely strictly on me for information.

Nick says it’s fine if I take Megan to the poetry fest but I am not

allowed to bring Mary. I told him that won’t be a problem because

Mary is going to be in Eugene for some art function that night

anyway. Megan is coming here before it starts and the four of us

(Nick is taking Eleanor) will attend together.

I’m almost completely stymied on
The Dark City
at this point. I

haven’t had the desire to write on it. Too many things drain my

energy and people won’t leave me alone.

Put $400 on my old student loan today. Not only am I caught up, I

am substantially ahead. They won’t be able to steal my tax refunds. I

hate the way those motherfuckers have been doing that to me, year

after year.

No word yet from any publisher on
The Dark City
. The poor sad

crazy book is probably as dead as a doornail.

253

March 4, 1979

At the end of a long, wet weekend at the beach. The poetry fest

was a huge success. Over eighty paying customers crowded into the

Kyle Building annex. We earned more than enough money to pay

Kim Stafford’s fee, cover the costs, and spring for refreshments.

Nick even pocketed a tidy sum as the promoter and Master of

Ceremonies. He’s already talking about doing another one.

Everybody who is anybody in town was there. All the so-called

poets, artists, writers, dopers, bores, hacks, flakes, phonies, and

garden variety dilettantes showed up in droves. Guess which

adjective fits me?

More than half the attendees were women, many young, single,

attractive, available. Nick’s new girlfriend Eleanor brought a whole

slew of her young teacher buddies from the middle school, several of

whom were quite comely.

Megan wore this incredibly cute blue jumpsuit and white blouse

combination that drew a ton of stares. She has got one hell of a

gorgeous bod on her, I must say.

Geez, I’m getting an erection just thinking about her right now.

She has this amazing effect on me. You wouldn’t believe how much

willpower it takes to refrain from taking her in my arms and kissing

her. But I won’t do it, dammit.

Absolutely not.

Why? Because Megan pissed me off and when I get pissed I stay

pissed off, for a good long time. I never forget and I rarely forgive.

That’s the way I am.

Before the festivities began, people were all milling around making

small talk. Kim Stafford wasn’t there yet nor had the food arrived.

Megan asked Nick if she could play this piano they had in the corner

of the annex for a little background music. He said by all means do.

I had no idea the girl could play the piano just like fucking

Liberace. That kind of stuff really impresses the hell out of me.

254

Megan played these Christian religious tunes that were perfect for the

occasion, like "Face to Face," "Come to the Savior," and "Jesus Shall

Reign."

Megan was just finishing up Amazing Grace when Kim Stafford

and the refreshments arrived simultaneously. Then the poetry fest got

underway in earnest.

Nick tried several times to get me to read some of my stuff, but I

adamantly refused. He especially wanted me to do my comedy poem

Love Among the Upwardly Mobile, like I did last summer at Harry’s

house when I was drunk. I said no. My poems are to be read, not

performed.

There was a ton of food but I can never eat at these functions

because I’m too busy socializing. Besides, I had to take care of the

money, which I later handed over to Harry since he sprung for the

deposits.

Megan brought her Olympus 35MM camera, wide-angle lens, and

flash unit. At Nick’s request, she took a whole series of color