PFK1

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.

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  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.

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  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

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  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