by U
scudding overhead, from west to east. Nick’s sister Lisa came by to
wash clothes. We talked for a while. Nick and Lisa are so different
you can hardly believe they are relatives, let alone brother and sister.
Nick ran around meanwhile, getting new gutters for the house. I let
Nick use my VW bus, which for some reason he loves to drive and is
always asking to borrow. The lender says Nick must upgrade the
house before he can have the money he needs to finish buying out
Clarice.
The rainstorm is really belting the joint right now. Lisa is
downstairs, listening to Rod Stewart. The first cut is the deepest.
Baby, I know. The first cut is the deepest.
Rod’s cover of an anthem of lost love.
Actually, he’s wrong, though.
It’s the last cut that is truly the deepest.
Feeling better. No longer so sick. Dreaming away the day,
thinking about Megan and life in general. Just about ready to fire up a
reefer and start typing. I fucking love to write.
2 47
What else is there for me to do? At times I feel very lucky, very
gifted. A writer. Yep. That’s me. As Art Carney once said on an old
Honeymooners episode:
"Why oh why were these two hands gifted with such amazing
talent?" Of course, he was talking about playing the piano but the
concept is the same.
Work yesterday was an absolute and total bitch. I nearly quit and
walked out the door. Going up to Portland for a visit next weekend.
Gotta get out of here.
* * * *
February 19, 1979
At German Auto in Portland getting the bus worked on. A wheel
bearing went dry. Man, what a racket it made. Metal on metal.
These vehicles are always breaking down. I’ve had this stupid
machine for two years now and have burned $1500 on a variety of
repairs.
Saw Michael, Lloyd, and Randy yesterday.
We got stoned and ate these giant hamburgers at Stanich’s on NE
45th. Big beef patties with cheddar and a hard fried egg. We drank a
couple pitchers of beer, and then played pool at Sam’s Billiards.
Lloyd is really whipped on his new Jean girlfriend. He had to call her
twice from the pool hall, apparently to obtain permission to go wee-
wee.
My friends, with the exceptional of Michael, (who appears to be
asexual) are all getting into these heavy monogamous relationships.
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 dec
line. 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
CHAPTER TWELVE
We Are Reborn
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 Fac
e," "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
pictures. She was the official photographer. Nick plans to put one of
her photos in the Siuslaw News. No doubt they will be razor sharp
and artfully composed, as usual. Megan is a whiz with that black-
bodied camera. She has a way of making even me look like a
goddamn magazine model.
Tough yet vulnerable is what she says I look like. She teased me a
couple times into giving her what she calls my "Beautiful Bad Boy"
look. That’s where I stare directly into the lens and tilt my head to the
right, with sullen expression.
Later: I just finished sucking on a reefer and now am going to finish
this entry. Then I am going to read Armageddon #2, my favorite
underground comic book.
Kim Stafford was wonderful but the biggest hit of the night by far
was Nick himself. Late in the evening, when everybody was well
wined and dined, Nick read (I should say performed) his latest poem,
"A Prayer of Morning Gratitude." It was an absolute smash.
The end goes like this:
If I could have but one wish granted
255
it would be
to live in a universe like this one
in a time like the present
with friends like the ones I have now
and be myself
with the empty, original mind
I have always had
using time
to keep it all
from happening at once
