PFK1

by U

  Nick spoke each line slowly, like he was making it up as he went

  along. The crowd went wild at the end, clapping and cheering. It will

  probably take weeks of sarcastic comments to deflate his ego back to

  a normal level. All in all, the poetry fest, like Nick’s poem, was a

  huge success.

  Of course, it was not without its negative side. Mary Wong left me

  a note afterwards permanently terminating our friendship. She is

  angry because I took Megan to the poetry fest instead of her. Mary

  seems to believe (wrongly, I might add) that Megan and I slept

  together afterwards.

  Goddamn. These women are so possessive, so jealous. It gets to

  be pretty old. I know Mary has other boyfriends. She has told me as

  much. So why does she give me shit about Megan?

  I don’t get it.

  Up to page 62 on The Dark City. It has taken me a whole month to

  complete a five page chapter, Chap. 11. I wrote it twice, as a matter

  of fact, just to make sure I had it right.

  When I was up in Portland, I showed parts of the manuscript to

  Lloyd and Randy. They thought it was absolutely nuts. Lloyd said

  the sex and violence read like a pulp fiction story.

  That is exactly the effect I want to achieve. Lloyd is actually pretty

  literate. It was he who first introduced me to Bukowski. However, I

  don’t know who I am writing The Dark City for exactly. Myself, I

  guess. Basically, I would classify myself as a kind of comic novelist,

  still trying to refine my jokes.

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  Only comedy and exaggeration work for me at this point. If I were

  a musician I would be a punk rocker. Call me the poet of punk lit.

  Teach me three chords and let me annoy people. The hell with

  technique, revision, craft, all that bullshit. I prefer cut and paste.

  I like typos. I like to see grimy, dirty, ripped, torn, ratty, beer-

  stained pages. Gimme blood, guts, kinky sex, violence, murder, flesh-

  eating plants, cannibal aliens, zombies, murder, horror, sadism,

  perversion, and madness. Let it all hang out. Barf it all up. Be lurid

  as hell.

  A comic book using words alone.

  Don’t they get the point? I want it grotesque.

  Everything we’ve been fed is a lie. Who killed the Kennedys? The

  criminals are on top. They rule the world. Fuck the System.

  Freedom is Slavery. War is Peace. Life is Death. Love is Hate.

  The Dark City comes straight from my subconscious mind, a

  message from the id. I am not quite sure what impels this work, but it

  arrives.

  Slowly, but it arrives.

  In the future, I feel like writing some more poetry. Once The Dark

  City is complete, I will write scads of poems. This constant prose

  writing is like a turd blocking the pipes. I need the poem like a

  plumber’s helper to send things down.

  Got a nasty letter from Katrine last week. She demands to know

  why I never return her calls. The next letter I get from her I will

  return unopened. I have no energy for her anymore. I’m sorry that I

  ever tried to have a relationship with her.

  It simply didn’t work.

  She is exquisitely beautiful but her personality makes for tiresome

  company. Too many demands. Too needy. I want a woman with

  fewer problems than I have, not more.

  I’ve told the receptionist never to put Katrine through to me. I

  can’t talk to her. I don’t want to talk to her. I refuse to talk to her. I

  just want her to leave me alone.

  * * * *

  March 8, 1979

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  Work. I drive to my job every day and work. Megan has left

  again, ostensibly to make arrangements for her divorce. Meanwhile

  the job has been a total bitch because she and Josie are both gone

  now. I have to do all three caseloads by myself. A total of 459 cases

  – mine, all mine. I blame the idiot managers for running Josie off the

  farm. The fucking clients have me coming and going.

  It’s a goddamned zoo.

  Got a letter yesterday regarding my ten year high school class

  reunion. Has that much time passed already? I have no enthusiasm

  whatsoever for this affair. Can’t we just let the past die? It all seems

  so pointless. I have no desire to see the "winners" or listen to their

  success stories.

  Of course, it’s probably because I have no success stories of my

  own to relate, although I do have some darned riveting failure stories.

  They could make interesting conversation whilst I hold beer in hand...

  My goals have eluded me thus far and it looks like I will die on the

  vine, a wasted talent.

  Talked to Chesley about the reunion on the phone yesterday. He

  said I should go. He says both Randy and Lloyd plan to attend. But I

  wonder: Will Andrew Cogswell be there? How about Meredith?

  They are the only two people I really care to see and Andrew is dead,

  a suicide in 1972. Meredith is married now to that guy she took up

  with after I dumped her.

  The rest mean nothing to me.

  More problems with The Dark City. It goes so slowly. Can I

  actually write it? Will I ever finish? Is it the right thing for me to

  write, right now?

  Who the fuck knows?

  * * * *

  March 13, 1979

  In Eugene at the Black Angus. Food stamp training. They are

  changing the whole goddamned program around once again and we

  must be ready for the resulting chaos. What a bore. I can barely

  maintain my interest in this stupid shit.

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  We are spending eight hours on something that is worth maybe

  twenty minutes tops. I’ve already got it all figured out and know what

  to do. Bring it on and let me get the fuck out of here. My mind is on

  other things.

  Megan is coming to the next session tomorrow. She is back from

  her confab with Mark. We haven’t spoken much since her arrival on

  Sunday. I wonder what goes.

  Stayed with Charles last night in Eugene at 312 East 16th Street. I

  really love that old house. Also enjoyed an excellent dinner with him

  and afterwards smoked dope with Ed, his neighbor. Ed’s brother

  Frank is fifteen now and goes to high school in Metairie, Louisiana.

  While talking to Charles last night I realized I am pissed off at

  Chesley for skipping our poetry fest. As soon as he got into this scene

  with Shirley he immediately blew off his friends. It’s like something

  a guy in high school would do.

  Oh, and here’s a real nugget: When Chesley tried having sex with

  Nurse Shirley for the first time, he couldn’t get a hard on, he told me.

  No stiffy. Limp as a noodle.

  Oooooh. A bad sign. A very bad sign, I said. But Chesley has

  apparently overcome this problem by seeing a shrink.

  Apparently the shrink convinced him that it was perfectly okay to

  have sex with a woman who looks, behaves, sounds, and thinks

  exactly like your horrible mother.

  Now Chesley says it is plenty good and hard when he sinks it in

  good old Shirley. I think about them doing it and I cringe. That really

  must make for great sex, fucking a carbon copy of your mom. Goo-


  goo. Remind me never to see a shrink. What a bunch of fucking

  quacks.

  I’m afraid Chesley is ignoring a red flag warning here.

  Beep! Beep! Warning! Warning, Will Robinson Harlan!

  Chesley’s penis realizes that Shirley is a scrag and responds

  accordingly. The horrid slut shrivels his dick.

  Can’t he see what’s wrong?

  One of the things Chesley and I have always had in common was

  our grossly repellent mothers. Fortunately, I failed in my efforts to

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  marry a carbon copy of Lois by resisting the other one’s corrupt,

  controlling behaviors.

  Unfortunately, Chesley may succeed where I failed.

  Exactly the opposite problem with Megan and me. She turns me on

  more than words can say but I won’t be played for a sucker. It has

  happened in the past but I refuse to let it happen again.

  I would venture to say that Chesley is even more self-destructive

  than I am. Nurse Shirley is a witch and her ankles are fatter than

  fence posts. He is insane.

  Of course I am also a mess. I think about suicide on a daily basis

  and wonder if that is normal. Even if I am a "success" someday, who

  gives a shit? Years from now no one will know or care if I ever lived

  or died. No one will know what I thought or what I did. No one.

  Poor Charles is likewise suffering from love. Dumped by Arianna,

  he spends his days doing his artwork and laying plans to move to New

  York.

  Perhaps somebody should have told him years ago that the

  beautiful and gracious Lori Sanchez was desperately in love with him.

  In my opinion, Charles would have done a lot better taking up with

  lovely Ms. Lori rather than conniving Arianna.

  * * * *

  March 15, 1979

  Had a huge fight with Megan yesterday after we went to Yachats

  for a home visit. We were at this park south of town. A beautiful

  seaside setting for our worst quarrel ever. A lot of harsh words got

  passed between us.

  No progress yet on the divorce. She denies sleeping with Mark

  again but I really wonder.

  I had to expand on what I told her earlier:

  Until she’s divorced – no dice. I distrust her emotionally and I’m

  not convinced that she isn’t still trying to use me as a club to beat him

  into line. She said that she was lying in January when she said she

  was going back to him.

  Oh? I told her that such deceptions only made things worse as far

  as I am concerned. I’m sick of feminine manipulations.

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  She’s still married. That is the bottom line. She has not hired a

  lawyer or filed for divorce. They are doing their taxes together, all

  that stuff. I suspect she wants to have it both ways, like Dona Flor

  and her two husbands. I may be stupid, but I’m not that stupid.

  The tricks and charades she is pulling to convince me only make

  me more certain that I would be better off without her. I told her that

  as long as she is still married, I am going to go right on sleeping with

  other women.

  I said that I probably wouldn’t be taking this approach except that

  her going back to Mark when she did ruined everything. I said that if

  she can do what she fucking well pleases, then so can I.

  Megan grew very angry about that. She cried and slammed the

  door of the state car before she got in and drove off. Every scene she

  throws just drives another nail in the coffin as far as I am concerned.

  Megan is really beginning to remind me of the other one, who saw

  her old boyfriend behind my back while she continually pestered me

  to declare my love for her alone. It was ridiculous how she acted,

  given the way things turned out.

  I think about it now and I seethe. How fucked up can you get?

  Women like the other one are allowed to have it both ways, but not

  men. They want to pick and choose to their heart’s content but woe

  unto you if you claim the same right.

  * * * *

  March 17, 1979

  This next part I will again write as a non-fiction novelization,

  because I’m not sure how else to approach this material.

  Yesterday afternoon I nearly left town – for good. The scene with

  Megan had me so thoroughly pissed off that I decided I was just going

  to split. Quit my job and move to California. Just like that. If

  Charles can move to New York, I can move to Los Angeles.

  Why the fuck not?

  Nick can have the furniture, I thought. He has almost none.

  Clarice got it all in the divorce. He can take my deluxe double bed,

  my overstuffed sofa, matching chair, cedar chest, waterfall vanity,

  night stand, and mirror.

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  He can have my solid oak coffee table and assorted knick knacks.

  All the cool stuff I’ve painstakingly accumulated since moving back

  from Atlanta in 1975.

  All I intended to take was my table, one straight backed chair, my

  Olivetti typewriter, clothes, books, linen, towels, photos, journals,

  papers, underground comix, sleeping bag, pillow, pots, pans, and

  cooking stuff.

  By midnight I had the bus packed and was ready to go. I went to

  work as usual in the morning. A feeling of peace and contentment

  such as I have never known settled over me. I was escaping all the

  hassles here.

  I spoke to Megan cordially twice, both times about work issues.

  Otherwise I ignored her. She was supposed to come over later in the

  evening to advise Nick about planting some herbs in the garden. By

  then, I figured, I would be long gone. At noon I came home and

  loaded the last of my stuff. On the kitchen table I left a note for Nick,

  brief and to the point.

  Moving to California, it read. Don’t expect me to return. The

  furniture is yours. Good luck in The Future.

  This is the way to do it, I thought. To hell with Megan. Fuck the

  job. Fuck this town. Fuck everything and everybody. Los Angeles is

  my next destination.

  The last items on the agenda were cleaning out my bank account

  and closing my PO Box.

  I was leaving Megan behind. That was the important thing. If she

  thought about me at all, she could ponder what went wrong during

  slow moments at the welfare office. Let her get on with her life. As

  the years go by, it would eventually become crystal clear that we were

  never meant for each other.

  No fucking way.

  Just another blip, a failed affair. My guess was that she would

  eventually wind up back with her husband, or some similar half-assed

  upwardly mobile dork.

  Such guys are a dime a dozen.

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  A song by Nicolette Larson ran through my head as I prepared to

  leave:

  salt sea air

  your windblown hair

  reflections on a dream

  thoughts of you

  with who knows who

  flow through me

  like a stream

  and I get a feeling

  I’ve seen the last of you

  Rio de Janeiro blue

  En route to the bank I stopped by the river and took one last look at

  the house on Cox Island. I read somewher
e once that that the house

  on Cox Island served as the model for the Stamper residence in Ken

  Kesey’s novel, Sometimes A Great Notion. It’s a beautiful old house,

  slowly decaying by the river. I took a B&W photograph of it as a

  keepsake. Hope it turns out.

  At the bank, I discovered that I left my goddamned passbook

  behind at Nick’s place. When I went back to retrieve it, he was

  standing in the kitchen reading my note.

  "What the hell is this all about?"

  "I’m outta here," I told him. "I’m moving to California."

  Nick shook his head.

  "Are you kidding? You need to be a little more forgiving," he said,

  "if you want to get anywhere in life."

  "What do you mean by that?" I asked. The passbook was on the

  table, beside a rubber-banded deck of cards. The nine of diamonds

  was on top, facing up.

  I picked up the passbook.

  "This is all about Megan, isn’t it?" Nick said.

  "Mostly," I admitted.

  "I can’t believe you are still pissed off because she had her moment

  of doubt. C’mon, aren’t you being a little harsh? Having doubts is

  perfectly natural for a woman. It comes with the territory. Jesus,

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  Patrick, she left her husband to take up with you. Most women would

  have played you guys off a hell of a lot longer than she did."

  "But she’s still married."

  "So what? That’s a mere formality at this point. Aren’t you doing

  exactly what you claim that other woman did to you before? Getting

  all pissed off because you wouldn’t go at her speed? Megan was in a

  much tougher spot than the one you were in, Patrick. She strikes me

  as pretty courageous, leaving him for you."

  "I don’t know. You can look at it any way you want to," I said. I

  was starting to acquire his habit of emphasizing certain words in

  sentences. Doing it annoyed me, though.

  Nick lit a cigarette and blew out the match.

  "Don’t you see? Don’t you get it?" Nick said. "Isn’t it obvious

  how ironic this is? You are doing the same thing to Megan that other

  woman did to you."

  "Oh bullshit."

  "No, it’s true. You push, she pulls away. You gotta let her take the

  lead, Patrick. Leaving your husband ain’t easy."

  Nick pointed out that Megan had said she was sorry, that she had