New York
Ira Glass called to say that Morning Edition would like to broadcast my “SantaLand Diary.” They’ll pay me $500 and give him $200 to produce it. So tomorrow I go to a recording studio.
December 24, 1992
Raleigh
Yesterday morning my story aired on NPR’s Morning Edition. Ira and I had been on the phone the night before, trying to decide which cuts to make. I have an allergic reaction to my voice, but the singing was all right. Hugh’s friend Marian phoned after the 7:40 broadcast and said how much she liked it. A minute later I got a call from a switchboard operator who was late for work on account of sitting in her parked car and listening to me. She said she’d already phoned NPR to say good things but thought she’d reach out to me as well. They played the story again at 9:40, and then I was called by William, Allyn, and several strangers. The moment I’d start talking to someone, call-waiting would act up. At ten I left for the first of today’s four cleaning jobs, and when I returned at six, my machine was full of messages, most of them from people I don’t know who’d looked me up in the phone book. A woman from Oregon called, a guy who runs a theater in Philadelphia, a writer for a TV show; two NPR stations left messages saying they were flooded—their word—with calls from people wanting to get in touch with me. A stranger from Rochester called, stuttering, asking for a tape. It was all I ever wanted. Then Hugh and I left for the airport.
1993
January 16, 1993
New York
Helen’s forty-two-year-old nephew was a public-school teacher and today he died of AIDS. I said I was sorry to hear it and Helen said, “The bastard. Thought he was Mr. Big because he had an education, but where’s him and his college degree now? In the ground, that’s where. The last time I saw him, I called out, ‘Tommy!’ but he kept on walking. I say, ‘Fuck you, Mr. Smart.’ Yeah, we all know how smart he was now.”
February 24, 1993
New York
This was an amazing New York day. In the morning I met with Geoff Kloske, the editorial assistant from Little, Brown who called a few weeks back to ask if he could read my manuscript. He’s only twenty-three, a kid, and has a grandmother in Jacksonville, North Carolina. We had coffee and afterward he took me to meet his boss, Roger, a big, good-looking chain-smoker who said that he, too, liked my manuscript and hopes to get back to me within a week or two.
Afterward I went to our play rehearsal (for Stump the Host). We open a week from tomorrow.
March 8, 1993
New York
The night before the play opened (at La MaMa), William dropped out, saying he wasn’t having much fun. “And if it’s no fun, why bother?”
I spent some time panicking and then decided to take the part myself, seeing as I know the lines. So I performed on Thursday, Friday, and Saturday. Opening night we had fourteen people in the audience. On Friday, there were forty, and on Saturday we were sold out. Meryl has extended our run, and thankfully Paul Dinello has agreed to take over my part. Hugh and Amy say, “Oh, you know you love being onstage.”
But they’re wrong. I don’t. Not like that, anyway.
March 9, 1993
New York
Roger Donald called from Little, Brown to say he would like to negotiate a two-book deal. To celebrate, I bought a denim shirt and thought it amazing how quickly one’s life can change. I never thought I’d want a denim shirt.
March 13, 1993
New York
I met on Thursday afternoon with Don Congdon, the agent Roger Donald recommended. He proposed lunch and took me to Le Madri, an Italian place near his office and the fanciest restaurant I’ve been to in New York. Don is in his late seventies and was very elegantly dressed. A fine suit, a Pucci tie, a topcoat, even a black beret. The maître d’ knew him. “Right this way, Mr. Congdon.”
Our waiter poured olive oil onto a plate and then gave us bread, which I guessed we were supposed to dip into it. I had thinly carved steak arranged into a turban with grilled radicchio and endive. Don had pasta that he didn’t finish.
While eating, I learned that he represents William Styron, Russell Baker, Ellen Gilchrist, and Thomas Berger. He represented Lillian Hellman for a production of The Little Foxes in, I think, Russia, and Frank O’Connor. He told stories about wandering through the Village with J. D. Salinger, whom he called Jerry, and recounted the night the two of them went to hear Billie Holiday. I heard of the time Don was arrested by the vice squad during Prohibition, and then something about Dashiell Hammett. The problem was that it was all about the past. That said, I liked his language, especially his old-fashioned slang.
April 30, 1993
New York
Between cleaning jobs, I bought a coffee and sat in Union Square Park to read for a while. The benches there are sectioned off with armrests—this to prevent people from stretching out and sleeping, I imagine. I’d just lit a cigarette when a guy approached—wiry, around my age, wearing soiled white jeans and a Metallica T-shirt. His hair fell to his shoulders, he had a sketchy mustache, and he was carrying a paper bag. Ex-convict, I thought. It was a snap assessment, but I’m sticking by it.
The guy asked for a cigarette, and when I handed him one, he took it without thanking me. Then he pointed to my bag of cleaning supplies, made a sweeping gesture with his hand, and said, “I’m going to sit down there.”
There were plenty of other benches, so I said no.
“Goddamn it,” he said. “I told you to move your fucking shit.”
I got up and left, knowing that if I hadn’t moved my bag, he would have thrown it. If, on the other hand, I had moved it, he would have sat beside me and continued asking for things. All afternoon I thought about it and wished that I knew how to fight.
May 2, 1993
New York
Yesterday I rode my bike across the bridge to Brooklyn. On the way back, I got a flat tire, so I was beat by the time I returned home. This morning I looked in the mirror beside our bed and saw a whale—a fur-bearing one—looking back at me. A very tired fur-bearing whale with a cat beside him. The cat looked familiar.
May 12, 1993
New York
Bart and I went to Long Island City to clean the loft that was used to film a recent Marilyn Chambers movie. The crew finished yesterday, and I went, expecting to find a lot of semen. On our way, Bart told me that many years earlier, while working in fashion, he was sent on business to Tucson. One thing led to another and on his second night, he wound up drunk and stranded. It was downtown, late, and as he tried to find a cab, a car stopped and offered him a ride. The people inside were Mexican, so he brought out all his high school Spanish, saying, “Muchas gracias” and “Su automóvil es muy grande y bonito tambien.”
The driver passed Bart’s hotel and took him into the desert. There the group of four beat Bart beyond recognition. They broke his nose. They held him down and kicked him in the ribs and stomach. They drove Bart’s bloody face into the dirt, and when he ran away, he fell into a cactus. One of the men had taken his room key, so while Bart crawled bleeding across the dark road, they went to his hotel and stole everything. Afterward his nose was so swollen he couldn’t wear glasses. The medical report stated his blood-alcohol level, and when his boss learned of it, he fired him.
The loft was the entire floor of a building owned by an interior decorator. A pale fellow with a ponytail gave us a roll of paper towels, some Windex, and a spray bottle of oil soap. It wasn’t much, but aside from two sofas and a copper bathtub, the loft was empty. I swept for an hour and a half and then mopped for an hour and a half.
While mopping, I imagined that I was in the navy and was cleaning a battleship. When that wore off, I pretended that this was my loft, though it lasted only a few minutes, as who wants to live in Queens? The only thing I came across was a small triangle of fabric attached to some fishing wire. It was smeared with makeup, so I guess it was—what, a costume?
May 20, 1993
New York
This morning Bart told me ab
out a woman he used to clean for. “The filthiest house I’ve ever seen,” he said.
I asked how filthy and he told me that the first time he vacuumed her carpet, he collected $38 in change. He knew the exact amount because he kept it.
June 10, 1993
New York
At around midnight Hugh and I took a walk, ending up at the park on Thompson and Spring, where we sat and ate some ice cream. As we were doing so, two young men came around the corner. One of them said to the other, “I need to talk about this shit now.” To punctuate, he used his elbow to smash the window of a parked car. The guy’s friend walked to an empty table, and after standing there for a moment and rubbing his elbow, the guy who’d smashed the window joined him.
I came home and called the police, who said, “Would you like to leave your name, ma’am?”
The police always think I’m a woman.
June 19, 1993
New York
I talked to Paul this morning. While on the phone, he told me he was scrubbing his toes with a pumice stone, trying to rub away some Magic Marker.
“Why do you have Magic Marker on your toes?” I asked.
He told me that on Thursday night he’d attended a Live After Five concert on the mall in Raleigh. There he had five beers. These were followed later by shots in some bar, and that’s the last thing he remembers. The next day he was covered with Magic Marker. His friends did it, and though it’s a pain to wipe off, he still feels lucky. “The last guy who passed out had a bull’s-eye painted on his butt and a Cheeto stuffed up his asshole.”
June 21, 1993
New York
Amy has moved into a new apartment in Chicago, and last night she called to tell me about it. She lives above a husband and wife, a couple in their mid-forties who are taking care of their infant granddaughter, Amber. The woman, Brandi, has a shag haircut and several tattoos, one of which reads Brandi loves…The name has been rubbed out. Her son is twenty-five, and his wife walked out on him after the baby was born.
“And you never saw her again?” Amy asked.
“Oh, she came around once, but my son beat the shit out of her and tolt her never to come back,” Brandi explained.
The son is now planning to marry a thirty-year-old prostitute. “I tolt him, you find a good piece of ass, you should stick to it.”
Brandi has trouble sleeping and often comes up to complain about the noise Amy makes. Yesterday she said, “If you don’t turn down that radio I’ll break your legs.”
June 22, 1993
New York
Last night I went to the park to buy some pot. I told Hugh I was walking to the store for milk, but my long absence must have tipped him off. I came home to find a sign taped to the front door of our apartment that read NO DRUGS. He’d put up the chain and I explained through the crack that I had gone for milk and run into Dale on the way back.
“And what did you two talk about?” he asked.
“Oh, this and that.” The only Dale I know is an obese, ragged-looking dog Hugh and I saw in the park a few months ago. It was me who decided that’s what his name was, and I refer to him all the time. “I got another letter from Dale,” I’ll say. “He told me to tell you hello.”
I should have thought of another name, as this did nothing to get me back into the house.
July 1, 1993
New York
Because of the radio, the New York Times is doing a profile on me. Yesterday the reporter called Amy, who said, “I’m not telling you shit about that son of a bitch until he pays for that abortion he made me have.”
July 2, 1993
New York
I was drunk and stoned, watching the twenty-four-hour Twilight Zone marathon at three a.m., when a commercial came on. The man in it pointed his finger at me and said, “What are you doing watching TV this time of night? You’re drunk, you’re stoned, you’re a wreck, and you’re destroying the lives of everyone around you.”
It was like he could see me.
1994
January 8, 1994
New York
Stitches (our play) opened Thursday night to an audience of fifty. La MaMa can squeeze in 120, so this wasn’t so bad. Friday was sold out, as was tonight. The Times came last night; tonight it was Newsday and the Voice. I want to tell them we were just joking. It’s not a real play, it’s what comes from doodling while you’re holding a bong. Whatever they have to say, it’s out of my control now and in the hands of the actors. My job is to play the host and greet people at the door as they enter.
January 11, 1994
New York
It seems that Amy and I have pulled this off. Today the reviews came out in the Times, Newsday, and the Voice. Newsday was great and said good things about everyone, especially Amy. The Times criticized the play for being too long, but other than that the review was fantastic. La MaMa has extended our run and said that several producers have called about possibly moving us to a bigger theater. I can’t believe people took us seriously. Amy and I got everything we wanted from this show: the Talent Family name used in reviews, big crowds, an extension. Since opening week, we’ve cut out seven minutes and rewritten two scenes. This is just the happiest day.
January 18, 1994
New York
The New York Daily News review came out yesterday and reads, in part, “As any nine-year-old can tell you, there’s nothing quite so funny as a face hideously deformed by bungled plastic surgery, unless it’s the spectacle of an amputee trying to play the guitar. For those of you who are forever nine, the greatest gross-out in New York right now, the show in the worst possible taste—is Stitches.”
January 30, 1994
New York
Six people walked out of the show Friday night. They were all over the age of sixty, and noticing them in the lobby as they collected their tickets, I thought how nice it was to have such a wide range of ages in the audience. As they left, I heard one of them on the stairs, saying, “You’d have to be a moron.”
February 26, 1994
New York
I went to the corner to buy Helen some cigarettes and when I returned she sat me down to discuss the Winter Olympics. “Did you see it on the TV? That Tonya Harding? I never liked her. She’s a street fighter is what she is, a dirty snot. Nancy Kerrigan I like, but not that street fighter.”
Tonya Harding really is something else. I resisted the story until I saw a picture of her. With her fierce makeup, she looks like a child’s drawing of an angry babysitter. Whatever else, she’s succeeded in capturing my imagination. She doesn’t strike me as mean. Rather, she’s seems like the type to whom everything is unfair.
February 28, 1994
New York
Helen knocked this morning and asked me to mail some shit for her. Literally. “It’s a stool sample,” she said.
April 4, 1994
New York
On the radio today I heard a story about an American living in Singapore who was convicted of spraying graffiti on parked cars. As punishment, he’s been fined and sentenced to a caning. An official described the process: “A pad is placed over the kidney so as not to cause serious damage. We tell the men to aim for the buttocks.”
American diplomats are trying to appeal the punishment, but I think it’s reasonable enough. Spray-paint cars and the least they should be able to do is spank you.
April 19, 1994
New York
At the library I found Pimp: The Story of My Life by Iceberg Slim. It’s the kind of book you have to read from the beginning, otherwise you can’t understand the slang. One chapter is titled “To Gain a Stable,” and in it he teaches you how to turn out a whore by breaking her will. (He suggests beating her with a straightened-out coat hanger.)
April 22, 1994
New York
All Helen talks about is her pain. Every time I see her she goes on and on and I’m tired of it. Other people’s pain is uninteresting. My own, though, is spellbinding. I went to bed at midnight and didn’
t fall asleep until seven a.m. My knee hurt so much I couldn’t do anything but moan. While awake I read an entire issue of the Source, which bills itself as “the Magazine of Hip-Hop Music, Culture, and Politics.”
My favorite bit was an interview with Warren G. “I was finished with almost the whole album, but I took everything back,” he said. “Now I can have DJ Pooh and QD3 and Bobcat and all of them see how it sounds compared to what I had. I ain’t with all that bullshit, you know the shit how motherfuckers be trying to punk motherfuckers and shit. I ain’t with that shit.”
May 5, 1994
New York
As part of the publicity I’m doing for the book (Barrel Fever), I was interviewed and photographed for Avenue magazine. The talking part I’m fine with, but I hate having my picture taken. First the photographer had me pose with Dennis (my cat) while wearing a cat mask. Then she had me pretend to hang from the antlers in the living room. Next I was told to close the louvered doors on my neck and then to hold my freeze-dried turkey head up to my nose. Just as she was running out of film, the photographer said, “Can we try something silly?”
May 10, 1994
New York
Walking down Broome Street I saw a couple massaging their Labrador retriever’s asshole. Then the man stuck his finger in and coaxed out a clot of shit. He wasn’t wearing gloves or anything. Dog people.
Theft by Finding Page 25
