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Now. I would give up but there doesn’t seem to be any reason to

  give up yet. Right now there is no one in my life who even comes

  close.

  Believe me. I’ve gone through scads of different women since I

  arrived back in Cyanide City. They are everywhere. I’ve given others

  every chance to show that they have intelligence, class, warmth, and

  the ability to laugh.

  But nothing. It is so discouraging. The young women in this town

  are losers – unhappy, desperate losers. Just like the men.

  I’ve tried hard to connect, but without success.

  Although many are superficially attractive, it goes downhill fast

  once they start to talk. It’s so depressing to listen to them sometimes.

  Like younger versions of my mother.

  With Polly it was more than just sex. There was a magical quality,

  a special chemistry between us. I felt it from the start, back in 1971.

  Polly had intelligent things to say. She was funny and interesting. All

  20

  I wanted was for her not to be so bullying, so bitchy, and so

  goddamned needy all the time.

  It was very unsettling when she acted that way. But I honestly did

  love her. I did truly. Right now if I had to choose between her and

  this book I’m writing, I’ d chuck the whole manuscript in the wood

  stove without a qualm.

  * * * *

  February 5, 1978

  Notes for a letter:

  My Dear Polly: Let me begin at the beginning…

  * * * *

  February 8, 1978

  Ignore the majority of that shit written above. Ditto for the sections

  in the other book, I’m breaking a rule here, and tearing out some

  pages. Yet I did glean from them a nice little piece of word play. It is

  a letter to Polly, dated today. It took a lot out of me because I have a

  hard time dealing with my emotions honestly. They are difficult to

  express.

  I tried to strike exactly the right balance. I hope that it means

  something to her. I tried to say what my heart feels:

  The truth.

  * * * *

  February 12, 1978

  I take great solace in writing. In many respects I believe it reflects

  the truest part of me. It is my own way, my Tao. I am what these

  words say I am. But of course I am more than words, for no human

  life can ever be fully recorded. The words are notes played on my

  instrument. The melody is the music of my soul.

  Man, I am really fucking stoned tonight.

  How can I write such shit?

  I don’t know why I do anything I do. I went to Tillamook on

  Friday for another job interview. It went okay, I suppose. Who

  knows? On Saturday I was at the Multnomah County Demo-rat Party

  convention. Ho hum.

  21

  A clown convention. We should have all been jammed into a little

  car. Nothing worth reporting there. On Friday, I borrowed a hand

  truck from work.

  On Sunday, I moved the junked out appliances from the basement

  of my mother’s house. Why does she accumulate so much crap?

  What is the point? You should see the place. Talk about a pack rat.

  As I expected, her "small" favor turned into another strenuous all day

  backbreaking ordeal, as chores for her invariably are.

  Mario returned my Mr. Zippy comix. He went with me on the trip

  to Vancouver. I recruited him last night when he and his pal Butch

  came by for drinks. I used up the last of our Bombay gin on them,

  making some veddy, veddy dry martinis. Chesley is in Pittsburg

  visiting his relatives.

  If he were here, he’d pitch a fit, seeing me share out our best liquor.

  What should I do if I get a positive response from Ms. Ellsworth?

  Well, I’ll try not to screw things up with stupid, pointless remarks

  about the past, for starters.

  There is only The Future. We could have one.

  Oooohhhh. It’s so boring living like this, alone. I want to have

  somebody in my life. Yes. It has to be between two people. When it

  is good, it is out of this world. It makes everything else pale by

  comparison. It has to be with another person.

  Saw Farewell, My Lovely with Robert Mitchum, playing an aging

  Philip Marlowe on the tube last night. Lloyd Schenzler called to

  remind me it was on.

  I love Marlowe’s description of Moose Malloy:

  "Even on Central Avenue, not the quietest dressed street in the

  world, he looked about as inconspicuous as a tarantula on a slice of

  angel food."

  Chandler is everywhere these days. Or maybe it’s just me.

  Finished The Long Goodbye last Thursday. Very sad.

  Marlowe mourns for a lost friendship, a friendship poisoned by

  events beyond his control.

  Bad things just happen.

  22

  I may purchase several other Chandler novels – The High Window,

  The Lady In The Lake, Playback. I want to read all of them. Chandler

  was a wonderful writer. I dig him.

  Got a lot of stuff done this past weekend. A zillion ideas in my

  head about writing, about books I want to write. Have an idea for an

  alien sex comedy based on the works of H. P. Lovecraft. Now there

  was one strange cat.

  A true antiquarian.

  "Writing for Weird Tales magazine has given me human contact!"

  Lovecraft exulted.

  Chapter 22 meanwhile is giving me fits. Wonder if maybe I should

  drop whole segments entirely. A bolt from the blue is sorely needed

  here. Let inspiration strike.

  Try this: Ding A Ling is next. A typical American childhood. One

  part Huck Finn, one part Hitler Youth, one part Outer Limits. I

  envision 50 relatively short chapters, about ten pages long, a series of

  vignettes.

  Sort of. Accompanied by a sudsy, overlapping story that cleans the

  dirty laundry like a Maytag on methedrine. Don’t worry about it. Just

  write it. Take Brautigan one step further. He made a mistake,

  changing his original style to dabble in artificial stuff. I intend to stick

  with what I do best. Wallow in grimness, fear, pain, loss, isolation,

  and despair. That’s me.

  An alternate title: This Death Camp Earth. (Nobody gets out

  alive!)

  Got elected delegate to the State DemoRatic Convention. Really, it

  was tough. A mob of 90 people showed up to claim a mere 196 slots.

  This rabid political enthusiasm is a wonder to behold. I blame Jimmy

  Carter. He’s gotta be ditched.

  Throughout 1979, I intend to work on Ding A Ling, barring

  unforeseen circumstances. In 1980 I’d like to work for Jerry Brown

  or maybe run for office myself.

  I’ll also be thinking about her.

  Back to work.

  * * * *

  23

  February 13, 1978

  Another workday come and gone. Today I had to put together eight

  bookcases for a giant sale Trudy made to this newly rich stereo store

  king up in the west hills.

  My brain fortunately went numb. I gotta get a different job soon,

  one that is not quite so mindless. The monotonous grind is killing my

  brain cells left and right. I am grateful to Barry’s Dad for giving me

  this job and paying me decently, but I
gotta move on.

  Watching a Martin Luther King special on TV right now, It’s well

  done, although it requires a major suspension of disbelief. They want

  us to believe the federal government had nothing to do with King’s

  murder. Oh, come off it!

  J. Edgar Hog was all over King, and everybody knows it. If the

  FBI didn’t hand the killer the gun, they might as well have. King’s

  murder should be laid at the doorstep of corrupt Federal agents. A

  southern cracker like James Earl Ray was too dumb to pull it off by

  his lonesome. Hoover’s job was to supply a plausible patsy similar to

  Lee Harvey Oswald.

  Did I mention that I saw Ron Madison at the DemoRat convention?

  Geez. Man, he’s like fucking game show host. I wish I could run

  against him this election. I want that seat in SE Portland. But too

  many other matters occupy my attention.

  * * * *

  February 14, 1978 Valentine’s Day

  Got the job at the beach, if I want it. I do want it. I will have to

  talk to Barry’s dad at the furniture store because they want me to

  show up in Florence next week. Pronto. Right now. If it works out,

  I’ll handle the transition as follows:

  Friday – drive down and find a place to live, preferably a place that

  doesn’t cost too much.

  Saturday – return home and pack. Get a new voltage regulator

  installed on the bus.

  Sunday – borrow truck from work and move my stuff. Return

  home.

  Monday – drive down again with small items.

  24

  Tuesday – report to work at my new job.

  Later: All set up, for better or worse. I have a new job. While I’m

  down there, I must find a place to live and move in. This weekend

  should be a huge ordeal.

  The water in the faucet has been running red and tastes like rust.

  I’ll have to tell Chesley about it.

  Chesley ... hmmm. I have to call him and tell him the news. I

  don’t think I’ll be able to give him the March rent money. He is going

  to be surprised.

  Later again: Talked to Barry’s dad at work.

  He said one word:

  Go.

  Whew. All my carefully rehearsed arguments to justify the short

  notice were unnecessary. What a great guy. He also says I can use

  the truck to move there, if I need to. I thanked him for everything.

  Profusely.

  Tried to call Chesley’s parents so as to warn him I will be gone.

  No answer. They must be in Palm Springs again. Oh well.

  My head is being squeezed out of shape.

  Life is mostly just hard work.

  A story title: "Krazy Kids."

  We were birthed, raised in suburbia, watched endless hours of TV,

  and then swarmed all over the country en masse. I cannot explain it, I

  can only describe it. How it happened, how it will happen. I won’t

  consider myself a true adult until I turn 28. A woman peaks at age 26,

  according to this Cosmopolitan article I read at the Safeway checkout

  stand yesterday.

  How do you like that? Polly Ellsworth has been over the hill since

  last summer.

  Wonder Bread builds bodies 12 ways. Arms, legs, head, chest,

  penis, balls, and ass. An age younger or older is no good unless…

  Unless what? I want to write truly of life, not make up shit like all

  those other books full of lies. I want to write it while it is fresh. Then

  I want to go on and on, in chronological order. Writing an outline

  25

  first might be a good idea. The word blitz that characterized The Dark

  City needed considerable revision, almost a complete re-writing.

  I would like to limit the number of drafts on a new work to two or

  three or four. Use an outline in place of the first draft. Make it

  spontaneous, though. Not too rigid. A riff here and a riff there.

  Every day I have new ideas about it.

  But first I must finish The Dark City.

  Unfortunately, this little move to the seashore is going to put me

  behind in my writing schedule. I’ll get acclimated and then get right

  back to work. I should have a lot more time. By March 15 (the Ides)

  I’d like to be up to page 100.

  Is that too much to ask?

  * * * *

  February 17, 1978

  Must drive to Florence tomorrow and find a place to live. Got all

  my chores taken care of today, and got through my last day at work. I

  feel good about leaving, as I always do when I am leaving someplace.

  A peace and tranquility. Dale (the truck driver) says he will help me

  move on Sunday, if I find a place.

  Completed Chapter 22 on the typewriter tonight. The prose flowed

  very well. I am now up to page 60, which means I am about one third

  of the way through on this draft. I’m surprised I’ve come this far. It

  was a long chapter – close to five pages, single-spaced. Should be

  about 2,500 words altogether. I have a special feeling about this

  project, I really do.

  A four day struggle awaits me. I go to sleep thinking about my life,

  about the days and years of my life.

  Later: 9:30 AM

  On my way to Florence. The mileage reads 46600.

  Later again: I’m sitting in the bar at Dave’s Beachcomber tavern

  waiting for a call from a potential landlord. It’s the only place that

  even seems to remotely fit the bill. Matter of fact, it’s perfect. All the

  real estate places were dead ends. This one was advertised in the local

  newspaper. A one bedroom cabin. First and last month’s rent,

  26

  payable in advance. Plus a $50 deposit. I have just enough money to

  cover it.

  Please hurry up and call me. I want to finish this business before I

  leave town tonight.

  I wish I had taken the working copy of my book with me. It would

  give me something to do while I sit here twiddling my thumbs.

  Almost 6:00 PM and no call yet.

  The phone just rang.

  Done! Yes! I’ve got a place to live! Just paid the deposit and

  everything. Florence, here I come!

  My new address is 324 Juniper Street. I move in tomorrow. The

  pieces are all falling into place. I have a (new) job, a new place to

  live, and perhaps the solitude I need to finish my book. I wish I could

  get ahold of Chesley. I feel kind of guilty about dropping this on him

  the minute he gets back. I’ve tried calling his parents repeatedly,

  without success.

  Maybe this year. Maybe next. I could go to Los Angeles or New

  York, maybe even Mexico. Ha! I can do anything I want, if it pleases

  the Lord. (Ha ha.)

  My day was a short story.

  Suspense, tension, crisis, resolution. Gotta buy some more

  Raymond Chandler novels before I leave Cyanide City.

  Plenty of Chandler.

  * * * *

  February 18, 1978

  On my way to the beach. Stopped by Meredith’s old place at 7428

  SE 71st. Here I am, staring at the house as I write this. I kissed my

  first real girlfriend inside that house. What a lovely, dark-eyed

  darling she was. How small her old house is.

  Also, the place is now very run down, not neat and tidy like it was

  wh
en Merry lived there with her mom.

  A hell of a contrast 13 years makes. What sweet memories I have

  of her. She was a doll beyond words.

  Cripes. Merry was such a delightful and beautiful girl and I treated

  her like shit. What the fuck was wrong with me?

  27

  She’s married to some other guy now. I hear they have two kids.

  Ooops! Now some sullen fat broad is glaring at me from the window.

  Therefore I must leave.

  It is just as well.

  Farewell, Cyanide City.

  28

  CHAPTER TWO

  These Tawny Beaches

  February 20, 1978

  The fool is now in living at the beach. It has not completely sunk

  in yet, but here I am, for better or worse. I hated to leave Chesley in

  the lurch like I did, but what else could I do? He never left a phone

  number where I could reach him.

  When I finally got through to his mother she gave me a bunch of

  shit about leaving her son "high and dry."

  The hell with that old biddy. Chesley is a big boy, an adult.

  Despite what mommy thinks, he can take care of himself, handle

  matters. I’ve even seen it happen.

  The trip down was uneventful. I drove the bus like a madman,

  thinking about her.

  I believe this house could be quite nice if I deodorize it and make it

  a little more like me. The place does have possibilities, although to be

  perfectly functional it needs a decent carpet and a better refrigerator.

  Oh well. Time to smoke some reefer and reflect on my new digs. I

  am going to finish the cigarettes I brought and then kick the habit for a

  while. Maybe for good. I can handle this job for a year, maybe two.

  I lasted 14 months (count ‘em – 14) at the furniture store. Now on to

  something better.

  Or at least different. I got mostly unpacked tonight, except for a

  few books and some other minor stuff. I keep looking around at

  everything, assuring myself that I’m here, really here.

  When Chesley teases me, he always calls me God’s Lonely Man.

  Now the tease is actually true.

  Still on page 60 of the manuscript. Haven’t done a thing since

  Thursday. Tomorrow I start my new job.

  Wowie Zowie. Can’t be any tougher than the job I just left and it