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  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

  an extra $320 per month.

  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.