PFK1 (4 page)

angel food."

Chandler is everywhere these days. Or maybe it’s just me.

Finished
The Long Goodbye
last Thursday. Very sad.

Marlowe mourns for a lost friendship, a friendship poisoned by

events beyond his control.

Bad things just happen.

22

I may purchase several other Chandler novels –
The High Window
,

The Lady In The Lake, Playback
. I want to read all of them. Chandler

was a wonderful writer. I dig him.

Got a lot of stuff done this past weekend. A zillion ideas in my

head about writing, about books I want to write. Have an idea for an

alien sex comedy based on the works of H. P. Lovecraft. Now there

was one strange cat.

A true antiquarian.

"Writing for Weird Tales magazine has given me human contact!"

Lovecraft exulted.

Chapter 22 meanwhile is giving me fits. Wonder if maybe I should

drop whole segments entirely. A bolt from the blue is sorely needed

here. Let inspiration strike.

Try this:
Ding A Ling
is next. A typical American childhood. One

part Huck Finn, one part Hitler Youth, one part
Outer Limits
. I

envision 50 relatively short chapters, about ten pages long, a series of

vignettes.

Sort of. Accompanied by a sudsy, overlapping story that cleans the

dirty laundry like a Maytag on methedrine. Don’t worry about it. Just

write it. Take Brautigan one step further. He made a mistake,

changing his original style to dabble in artificial stuff. I intend to stick

with what I do best. Wallow in grimness, fear, pain, loss, isolation,

and despair. That’s me.

An alternate title:
This Death Camp Earth
. (Nobody gets out

alive!)

Got elected delegate to the State DemoRatic Convention. Really, it

was tough. A mob of 90 people showed up to claim a mere 196 slots.

This rabid political enthusiasm is a wonder to behold. I blame Jimmy

Carter. He’s gotta be ditched.

Throughout 1979, I intend to work on
Ding A Ling
, barring

unforeseen circumstances. In 1980 I’d like to work for Jerry Brown

or maybe run for office myself.

I’ll also be thinking about her.

Back to work.

* * * *

23

February 13, 1978

Another workday come and gone. Today I had to put together eight

bookcases for a giant sale Trudy made to this newly rich stereo store

king up in the west hills.

My brain fortunately went numb. I gotta get a different job soon,

one that is not quite so mindless. The monotonous grind is killing my

brain cells left and right. I am grateful to Barry’s Dad for giving me

this job and paying me decently, but I gotta move on.

Watching a Martin Luther King special on TV right now, It’s well

done, although it requires a major suspension of disbelief. They want

us to believe the federal government had nothing to do with King’s

murder. Oh, come off it!

J. Edgar Hog was all over King, and everybody knows it. If the

FBI didn’t hand the killer the gun, they might as well have. King’s

murder should be laid at the doorstep of corrupt Federal agents. A

southern cracker like James Earl Ray was too dumb to pull it off by

his lonesome. Hoover’s job was to supply a plausible patsy similar to

Lee Harvey Oswald.

Did I mention that I saw Ron Madison at the DemoRat convention?

Geez. Man, he’s like fucking game show host. I wish I could run

against him this election. I want that seat in SE Portland. But too

many other matters occupy my attention.

* * * *

February 14, 1978 Valentine’s Day

Got the job at the beach, if I want it. I do want it. I will have to

talk to Barry’s dad at the furniture store because they want me to

show up in Florence next week. Pronto. Right now. If it works out,

I’ll handle the transition as follows:

Friday – drive down and find a place to live, preferably a place that

doesn’t cost too much.

Saturday – return home and pack. Get a new voltage regulator

installed on the bus.

Sunday – borrow truck from work and move my stuff. Return

home.

Monday – drive down again with small items.

24

Tuesday – report to work at my new job.

Later: All set up, for better or worse. I have a new job. While I’m

down there, I must find a place to live and move in. This weekend

should be a huge ordeal.

The water in the faucet has been running red and tastes like rust.

I’ll have to tell Chesley about it.

Chesley ... hmmm. I have to call him and tell him the news. I

don’t think I’ll be able to give him the March rent money. He is going

to be surprised.

Later again: Talked to Barry’s dad at work.

He said one word:

Go.

Whew. All my carefully rehearsed arguments to justify the short

notice were unnecessary. What a great guy. He also says I can use

the truck to move there, if I need to. I thanked him for everything.

Profusely.

Tried to call Chesley’s parents so as to warn him I will be gone.

No answer. They must be in Palm Springs again. Oh well.

My head is being squeezed out of shape.

Life is mostly just hard work.

A story title: "Krazy Kids."

We were birthed, raised in suburbia, watched endless hours of TV,

and then swarmed all over the country en masse. I cannot explain it, I

can only describe it. How it happened, how it will happen. I won’t

consider myself a true adult until I turn 28. A woman peaks at age 26,

according to this Cosmopolitan article I read at the Safeway checkout

stand yesterday.

How do you like that? Polly Ellsworth has been over the hill since

last summer.

Wonder Bread builds bodies 12 ways. Arms, legs, head, chest,

penis, balls, and ass. An age younger or older is no good unless…

Unless what? I want to write truly of life, not make up shit like all

those other books full of lies. I want to write it while it is fresh. Then

I want to go on and on, in chronological order. Writing an outline

25

first might be a good idea. The word blitz that characterized
The Dark

City
needed considerable revision, almost a complete re-writing.

I would like to limit the number of drafts on a new work to two or

three or four. Use an outline in place of the first draft. Make it

spontaneous, though. Not too rigid. A riff here and a riff there.

Every day I have new ideas about it.

But first I must finish
The Dark City
.

Unfortunately, this little move to the seashore is going to put me

behind in my writing schedule. I’ll get acclimated and then get right

back to work. I should have a lot more time. By March 15 (the Ides)

I’d like to be up to page 100.

Is that too much to ask?

* * * *

February 17, 1978

Must drive to Florence tomorrow and find a place to live. Got all

my chores taken care of today, and got through my last day at work. I

feel good about leaving, as I always do when I am leaving someplace.

A peace and tranquility. Dale (the truck driver) says he will help me

move on Sunday, if I find a place.

Completed Chapter 22 on the typewriter tonight. The prose flowed

very well. I am now up to page 60, which means I am about one third

of the way through on this draft. I’m surprised I’ve come this far. It

was a long chapter – close to five pages, single-spaced. Should be

about 2,500 words altogether. I have a special feeling about this

project, I really do.

A four day struggle awaits me. I go to sleep thinking about my life,

about the days and years of my life.

Later: 9:30 AM

On my way to Florence. The mileage reads 46600.

Later again: I’m sitting in the bar at Dave’s Beachcomber tavern

waiting for a call from a potential landlord. It’s the only place that

even seems to remotely fit the bill. Matter of fact, it’s perfect. All the

real estate places were dead ends. This one was advertised in the local

newspaper. A one bedroom cabin. First and last month’s rent,

26

payable in advance. Plus a $50 deposit. I have just enough money to

cover it.

Please hurry up and call me. I want to finish this business before I

leave town tonight.

I wish I had taken the working copy of my book with me. It would

give me something to do while I sit here twiddling my thumbs.

Almost 6:00 PM and no call yet.

The phone just rang.

Done! Yes! I’ve got a place to live! Just paid the deposit and

everything. Florence, here I come!

My new address is 324 Juniper Street. I move in tomorrow. The

pieces are all falling into place. I have a (new) job, a new place to

live, and perhaps the solitude I need to finish my book. I wish I could

get ahold of Chesley. I feel kind of guilty about dropping this on him

the minute he gets back. I’ve tried calling his parents repeatedly,

without success.

Maybe this year. Maybe next. I could go to Los Angeles or New

York, maybe even Mexico. Ha! I can do anything I want, if it pleases

the Lord. (Ha ha.)

My day was a short story.

Suspense, tension, crisis, resolution. Gotta buy some more

Raymond Chandler novels before I leave Cyanide City.

Plenty of Chandler.

* * * *

February 18, 1978

On my way to the beach. Stopped by Meredith’s old place at 7428

SE 71st. Here I am, staring at the house as I write this. I kissed my

first real girlfriend inside that house. What a lovely, dark-eyed

darling she was. How small her old house is.

Also, the place is now very run down, not neat and tidy like it was

when Merry lived there with her mom.

A hell of a contrast 13 years makes. What sweet memories I have

of her. She was a doll beyond words.

Cripes. Merry was such a delightful and beautiful girl and I treated

her like shit. What the fuck was wrong with me?

27

She’s married to some other guy now. I hear they have two kids.

Ooops! Now some sullen fat broad is glaring at me from the window.

Therefore I must leave.

It is just as well.

Farewell, Cyanide City.

28

February 20, 1978

The fool is now in living at the beach. It has not completely sunk

in yet, but here I am, for better or worse. I hated to leave Chesley in

the lurch like I did, but what else could I do? He never left a phone

number where I could reach him.

When I finally got through to his mother she gave me a bunch of

shit about leaving her son "high and dry."

The hell with that old biddy. Chesley is a big boy, an adult.

Despite what mommy thinks, he can take care of himself, handle

matters. I’ve even seen it happen.

The trip down was uneventful. I drove the bus like a madman,

thinking about her.

I believe this house could be quite nice if I deodorize it and make it

a little more like me. The place does have possibilities, although to be

perfectly functional it needs a decent carpet and a better refrigerator.

Oh well. Time to smoke some reefer and reflect on my new digs. I

am going to finish the cigarettes I brought and then kick the habit for a

while. Maybe for good. I can handle this job for a year, maybe two.

I lasted 14 months (count ‘em – 14) at the furniture store. Now on to

something better.

Or at least different. I got mostly unpacked tonight, except for a

few books and some other minor stuff. I keep looking around at

everything, assuring myself that I’m here, really here.

When Chesley teases me, he always calls me God’s Lonely Man.

Now the tease is actually true.

Still on page 60 of the manuscript. Haven’t done a thing since

Thursday. Tomorrow I start my new job.

Wowie Zowie. Can’t be any tougher than the job I just left and it

pays substantially more.

* * * *

February 21, 1978

29

Spent my first working day on the job and it was a breeze. It could

get difficult in the future maybe, but I don’t see how. It is abundantly

clear that nobody ever died from overwork in the employ of the State

of Oregon.

* * * *

February 22, 1978

I have decided after day two that this new job stinks. But I don’t

hate it as much as I hated my previous jobs. Last night I got back to

work on the book again.

Finally. Deep into the drug freak out segment. Seemed sort of dull

this time around so I’m punching it up with some colorful new