the past week or so.
Yadda yadda yadda. Whenever I use it, it sounds stupid. He can
get away with it, though. I don’t know why. Chesley wants to have a
Christmas party. Between him and me, the guest list will run
somewhere around 100. While reviewing the list of people I proposed
to invite, Chesley objected strenuously to about ten different names. I
agreed to take them off but will restore them when I take the invites to
Postal Instant Press.
Screw him.
Unless I’m writing, I can’t think of anything but sex. I wish I could
suppress this unholy urge that constantly distracts me. Sex and
sexibility. Because of it, I waste time with women I would never
otherwise hang around with in a million years.
What I want, I think, is irresponsible promiscuity. Forget all that
other junk I said. I did not mean it. I am after the one-night stand,
casual sex, intimate acts with total strangers. There can be nothing
more emotionally rewarding than fucking someone you hardly know.
Chesley wants me to date Alison, who is the best friend of his new
girlfriend Sue. Apparently Alison has been asking about me. Chesley
says he will score big with Sue if he can deliver me to Alison. Just to
put him off, I said under no circumstances would I go out with Alison
unless I was sure she would consent to sexual intercourse on the first
date.
That, I figured, would definitely kibosh it.
To my dismay, Chesley said that would be no problem. Here’s the
scenario: After our double date, we come back here for drinks and
Chesley and Sue will disappear into his bedroom. Left alone, I would
then be seduced by femme fatale Alison.
12
Oh shit!
It’s not Alison, its me. She seems genuinely sweet, if a little on the
chubby side. If I started sleeping with her, I’d never get rid of her
without a whole lot of trouble, I am sure.
Besides, I need time to work on my book. Most women don’t
consider what I am doing serious. They think my writing is some sort
of quaint hobby. Granted, I have gone nowhere with it so far but my
writing is definitely not a quaint hobby. It is an insanity preventive. I
use it to fill my empty spaces, which are many and deep. Women, on
the other hand, want to fill my empty spaces with themselves.
* * * *
December 19, 1977
Writing in red ink is bothersome but I can’t find my regular pen,
goddammit. Think Chesley stole it. Quiet weekend. Went out
drinking with Randy Thune on Friday night. Went out drinking with
Mario and Butch on Saturday night.
A really gorgeous woman hit on me at Kingston’s while I was with
Randy on Friday.
Uncanny how much she resembled Marie Montambeault. A very
similar laugh, the same liquid grey eyes. Her name was Darlene. For
some reason I like that name and Darlene herself seemed quite smart
and hip.
Also very slender and sexy. Without me even asking, Darlene gave
me her phone number and said I should call her. However, it is
unlikely that I will do so any time soon.
In fact I know I won’t. I want to work on my book. Darlene wants
me to work on her. I’m now up to Chap. 9, which ought to be a real
challenge. So it goes. I struggle and struggle.
Look at the calendar. My poor black puppy has been dead for
exactly a year today. My former girlfriend Leanne would never agree
to handle La Pooch in a responsible fashion.
So while Leanne was away on a work trip, Patrice trotted on over to
my old house.
13
The current tenants there promptly turned her over to animal
control. After only three days in the pound, those fuckers put her to
death, her dog tags notwithstanding.
Leanne went to get her as soon as she returned but the deed had
already been done. After only three fucking days!
Goddamn them! Such a sad thing. Such a sweet puppy. Our coal
black Labrador Retriever. I really loved that poor mutt. All I have
left is her engraved Milk Bone dog tag from 312 E. 16th with her
name misspelled "Patrise".
Leanne made me take it because she can’t bear to look at it
anymore. A tear just rolled down my cheek.
And another.
Goddamn, I hate the fucking world.
* * * *
December 21, 1977
I think of things like this: Two years ago today I last slept with
Polly Ellsworth. Now we are coming to the January date, which
signaled our permanent split. Now I must come to realize what is
necessary, and complete the emotional break. I must not keep on
thinking about her.
It must end.
In truth, it has not been all that bad, being alone. I’ve gotten a lot
of work done. I intend to remain alone.
Winter’s day.
In a deep and dark December. I am alone. Hiding in my room.
Deep within my womb. I touch no one and no one touches me. The
snow falls outside. Softly.
A freshly fallen silent shroud of crystallized water.
* * * *
December 27, 1977
The party came and went.
What my book needs, I’ve decided, is a really true description of
mental illness. I just realized how incoherent I am on that subject.
Hallucinate. A visual TV fantasy through the years, a pair of
flickering blue parents.
14
* * * *
December 29, 1977
Rotten day at work.
At home alone. I don’t know what I would do without these
Fridays off. Who am I? What am I? When he makes fun of me,
Chesley calls me God’s Lonely Man. He claims that I secretly yearn
to get married and it is his considered opinion that I am overdue for
such a connection. However, I suspect it’s only projection on his part.
Chesley is the one who wants to get married. My ambitions are of
an entirely different nature.
Have to get another load of wood for the stove. A five dollar
bundle in the VW from those poor kids off Foster Road.
The whole fall’s been cold, not especially wet, but cold.
Worked on sabotaging the party a little bit over the weekend. Put
all of the crossed off invitees back on the list and told them to bring
their friends. If Chesley bitches about it, I’ll just threaten to squeal on
him about something.
There is an endless array of misdeeds to blackmail him about.
He is such a total double dealer I have many different angles I can
torture him with. The raft of shit he gave me about giving Randy
some Jarlsberg after our party is but one example.
What else?
I was upstairs peeing when Chesley and Randy came back from
playing racquetball at the Y. They were reading my stuff at the table
when I came down and took turns ridiculing it.
Honestly, I don’t care. It is fucking hard work, writing words
down. Writing is hard, very hard. I don’t care what anybody says.
They both laughed when I said nobody else has the guts to do it. Fuck
‘em.
I’m good at what I am doing and I have something to sa
y.
* * * *
December 30, 1977
At home alone. I don’t know what I would do without these
Fridays off. Have I said that before? Sent another letter to the state,
asking them to renew my listing for eligibility worker.
15
Now I’ll settle down to read a good book. Shit, somebody is at the
door downstairs! If it is Sue with Alison in tow again I swear I will
hide in the basement.
* * * *
January 20, 1978
There’s just too much happening to keep abreast of things. Almost
three weeks have passed without me writing in this book.
On the female front, it appears I have a natural gift for screwing up
potential relationships, especially with women I care about. If pissing
women off was an Olympic event, I’d be a fucking gold medalist.
The more I care about them, the less capable I seem of making it
work.
Superficially, there is always a strong attraction. Once we get to
know each other, however, the honeymoon comes crashing down and
they end up giving me the finger.
Take Jill Deskins, for example. I received a letter from her
yesterday telling me that the reason she hasn’t written lately is
because she wants nothing more to do with me.
Before she got around to that, however, she hammered me for
telling her about Jim Kozlowski dumping his wife. I passed the info
on to Jill in early November but did not do so "happily" as she accuses
me of doing.
All I wanted was for her to know what an absolute asshole Mr.
Kozlowski is. I wasn’t trying to upset Jill or hurt poor Ann
Kozlowski in any manner, shape, or form.
I just wanted Jill to know the truth.
You see, Jill thought very highly of Kozlowski’s former wife and
seems to think I am pleased about their failed marriage. I’m not but
that’s beside the point.
It gets worse. When we spoke last time I told Jill that a life of
promiscuity was an empty one and that I thought we’d both be a lot
better off in a more serious relationship. (Hint, hint.) I also told her
that I didn’t want her fucking other guys if she was fucking me as
well.
16
To that end, I offered to make our on-and-off relationship an
exclusive one. Why not? Jill is beautiful, sexy and (I thought)
intelligent. Granted, she is a touch brittle but then so was Ms.
Ellsworth. I am used to that.
But Jill told me that she didn’t want an exclusive relationship and
that if I wanted one I should look elsewhere. I said okay.
Next we argued about sex. She got really wigged out when I told
her that she was sexually selfish. For example, I pointed out that she
constantly wants oral sex to orgasm but will not give it in return. She
wants her feet rubbed, her legs rubbed, her back rubbed, her tits
rubbed – you name it. She likes getting rubbed. Never offers to
return the favor. Only wants to receive, never wants to give. I told
her that.
Expressed it in words. I cited specific examples, which got her
even more pissed off. Apparently, I was not supposed to notice these
things.
Following that argument, I heard nothing from Jill for nearly three
months, even though I wrote her twice.
Then comes yesterday. Here is what she wrote:
Patrick,
here is your long awaited letter. It’ll probably be a disappointment
but most things in life usually are. One of the reasons why I didn’t
write you or contact you the last time I was in Portland was because of
the gossip you so happily passed on about Ann Kozlowski.
I’ll admit I didn’t want it to be true because it meant she would
leave as she did. I was pissed at you for being the bearer of bad
tidings and apparently relishing the role. I know you really didn’t
care for her but you were aware that I idolized her. Treating the
situation as you did was like turning the knife you stuck in my back.
So there.
Bob, the engineer I was living with recently, bought me a vibrator.
I find I prefer sex with an inanimate object in order to avoid all the
head games, hassles, and expectations of someone like you. Should I
change my mind, the railroad offers unlimited opportunities for sex.
17
I do occasionally sleep with one or the other of three sterile men
that I know AND WILL CONTINUE TO DO SO.
I just figured out my taxes and I should have $800 coming back.
That should finance my tubal ligation. I’m sure I will experience an
increase in my promiscuity as I test my new freedom. I intend to have
it done around the end of February or early March.
In the absence of Ann K., I have done nothing political and have no
interest in the Democratic Party. I still keep my hand in with the
Women’s Political Caucus but for the most part I am content to pursue
a young, single, middle class life style.
My co-workers are a real education for me.
The obnoxious conservative majority.
I went to my first union meeting and received plenty of attention.
As the first female member of the "Brotherhood" of Locomotive
Engineers, I made sure that I wore a blouse that showed my braless
breasts and also wore heels to make me appear even taller than I am at
5’ 10".
I’m thinking of running for union office, as the pay for secretary is
Right now I’m making a lot of money and the freedom and
independence I am enjoying make this one of the happiest times in my
life.
If you are ever in the town of Eugene, you may drop by and see me.
I will admit that I have always enjoyed your company. We can go
have a drink at the Vet’s club for old times’ sake.
But that doesn’t mean I am looking to continue our relationship on
a sexual basis.
I have all the sexual relationships I might ever need available to me
now and none of them try to make me feel like all I am doing is taking
with no giving on my part, like the way you made me feel. I’m not
masochistic enough to enjoy guilt trips.
Therefore a sexual relationship between us is definitely over.
Otherwise, I hope things are going well with you.
As ever, Jill
* * * *
18
Several times as I read her letter I winced. Is it just me or does she
seem a trifle dense? Somehow there is always something I am doing
wrong, but I’ll be damned if I know what it is. It changes from
woman to woman.
With Jill, I tried to handle her the way Polly Ellsworth said she
wanted to be handled, and the whole effort backfired.
I’m only guessing here, but I somehow suspect that women who
want a love affair believe I am only out for an easy fuck, while
women who are out for an easy fuck believe that I want a love affair.
I know what I want. But I refuse to say it. I’ll keep it inside, where
it belongs. Polly and Marie Montambeault helped put it there. Also
Jill to a lesser (reverse) extent. On the other hand, what I don’t want
is to play the fool agai
n.
What is wrong here? Twice in the last year I have tried to develop
relationships with particular women, using what I believed was an
honest approach, only to have it blow up in my face. What I have told
them in effect was that if you want to be with me, I want to be with
you.
Just you. They have said, in reply, fuck off.
* * * *
February 3, 1978
About to leave for the beach for a job interview at the welfare
office there. The mileage on the bus reads: 45,787. Too many delays.
Gotta get rolling.
* * * *
February 4, 1978
After many trials, tribulations, and hassles, I finally made it to my
job interview. It went okay, but not great. I don’t think I’ll get the
job. Oh well. Stayed overnight in Eugene with Charles and Arianna.
It was kind of fun drinking whiskey with them at the Vet’s Club. Did
not bother to call Jill.
Later I crashed a party hosted by Donald. We spoke briefly before
he left with this extremely tall, buck-toothed woman I surmised was
his new girlfriend. Still later I smoked dope with Ed Thompson and
watched the last ten minutes of the movie The Big Sleep. It’s the one
19
where Philip Marlowe is played by Humphrey Bogart, a case of
perfect casting if ever there was one. Eddie Marrs gets it in the end.
Rat-a-tat-tat.
When I got back from my trip I found a letter from Polly Ellsworth
awaiting me. It was a long time coming. From what I gather, our
correspondence may continue as long as I don’t flick her any shit. I
would like to see her again, although she seems to believe that I’d be
disappointed by the real article.
I am confident that her fears are groundless, but who knows? I am
sure she wonders why I still have feelings for her.
She may be weakening. In her letter she described her life in terms
of disappointment and "worm shit." I think her feelings stem not from
geography but from the person she spends her time with. I want to
arrange a meeting.
I want to see her again, not as an idea or memory, but as a physical
person. I must go carefully so as not to scare her off. I may not know
much, but I know what I want.
I want her.