PFK1 Read online

  pair. Of that I have no doubt.

  Unfortunately, Ms. Ellsworth always was a bit of a chicken, afraid

  to stick her neck out, afraid to take risks.

  Ashamed to return to her organic chemistry class just because a few

  dorks had seen her cute little tits. Afraid to stand up to her mother

  Prude. Afraid to go it alone. Afraid of the truth. Afraid to play it

  straight with me, a man who loved her with a burning passion, a man

  who likely would have done anything for her except let her bully and

  nag him.

  I suspect that if Polly had screwed up her courage, we would be

  together again. She never could resist my physical presence,

  goddammit, and by that I don’t simply mean sex.

  By that I simply mean me.

  I could look into her eyes and feel the chemistry, the elemental

  attraction of mutual magnetic forces. Words that came out of Polly’s

  mouth were words I wanted to hear, from a voice that made me glad I

  was alive.

  I believe that I had pretty much the same effect on her. Polly’s

  rejection of me I have therefore never quite figured out.

  I don’t think she honestly knows either. Every time she tries to

  explain it, she comes up with an entirely new set of reasons. In

  rejecting me, I always thought she was rejecting something about

  herself as well, something pretty important.

  Fuck! When we made love, it wasn’t just bodies in motion, a

  mechanical friction. It was more like nuclear fusion, imploding atoms

  in a searing cataclysm that had the power destroy worlds and affect

  faraway galaxies.

  And I’m not exaggerating, either.

  38

  I suppose Polly can make light of it now, deluding herself with

  smarmy opinions and verbal cheap shots. Well, that’s really too bad.

  I wish it were different.

  The price she pays for her cowardice will grow exponentially. She

  will never completely escape my influence. She will never know any

  man like me. I know it. I just know it.

  Polly’s life will likely be spent some with financially stable,

  crashingly dull creep. That is what I believe. All I wanted was to be

  able to trust her. If there was a lot she wanted from me, okay, there

  was a certain amount I wanted from her as well. As soon as I was

  sure of her love, I would have given her my all.

  Proof of her love. That’s what I was after. Not just the words, but

  the fact. She demanded it from me, but was never willing to supply it

  herself. What I have left is the knowledge that I loved her with a true

  and honest heart.

  That’s all there is to say.

  I won’t write to her again.

  So what else is new? A lot. Megan is teaching me how to do this

  stupid welfare bullshit, showing me which forms to fill out and how to

  authorize payments. She’s already done it before, at the West Eugene

  branch office, until August of 1976.

  First, Megan was a unit clerk, a crummy job if ever there was one,

  she says. Unlike the worker jobs, which pay more, the unit clerk must

  be able to type. Right before she moved to Pendleton with Mark, they

  finally gave Megan the worker job she wanted.

  "A woman who had a baby decided she didn’t want to come back

  to work," Megan said. "So they let me have it."

  Although Megan looks exactly like a slender Barbie doll and

  dresses stylishly, her looks are deceiving. She’s an unrepentant rebel

  who hates authority almost as much as I do.

  Megan tells me she rues the day that she ever learned to type

  because it confined her to a job rut that she feared she would never

  escape. Despite her college degree, they have never given her a

  chance. This is her big opportunity to escape the clerical ghetto.

  39

  As a bonus, she gets to teach me how to be a worker. There could

  not be a more apt or willing pupil.

  I don’t know about this. Being in such close proximity to this

  beautiful woman all day long. She stands beside me at my desk and

  points out things I’m supposed to complete on the 403B forms. I can

  feel the warmth of her body near me and I drink in this lavender

  perfume she wears.

  Megan dresses like the thoroughbred she is. Holy Fucking Moley.

  Sometimes I think she often unwittingly feeds me these sub sensory

  attractant sexual chemicals that penetrate deeply into my primitive

  testosterone-soaked male brain.

  I am powerless to resist them. In the meantime, Megan is so

  beautiful and capable I can’t fucking believe my luck.

  By the end of the day, I’ve usually got a hard on a cat couldn’t

  scratch.

  Yesterday, I had to masturbate almost as soon as I got home so I

  could settle down and get back to work on my book.

  However, in her company I behave like the perfect gentleman I am.

  Believe it or not, I do know how to behave myself around women. It

  has never been my habit to stare, leer, or otherwise lech after them in

  an unseemly fashion. The simple knowledge that an intense physical

  attraction exists is more than enough for me. Be relaxed and natural is

  my way. Make clean jokes and be fun. Do be a nice boy. Don’t be a

  jackass. I guess I can thank my Catholic School upbringing for

  something, anyway.

  In addition, in the course of fashioning this journal, I have gained

  extra experience in how to divorce my thoughts from my actions. I

  am no longer as impulsive as I once was.

  Besides, inasmuch as I look forward seeing Megan at work in the

  morning, I won’t let anything distract me from my writing project. It

  is of paramount importance.

  * * * *

  March 8, 1978

  Despite my recent vow to the contrary, I sent a response to Ms.

  Ellsworth after writing it twice and typing it once. I really don’t

  40

  expect an immediate reply. In essence, I’m just swapping ideas with a

  woman I once knew.

  One thing I did do was ask her to stop insulting Chesley in our

  correspondence.

  She has no call making snitty put-downs of my friends, especially a

  person she hardly knows. It is interesting that she can take me to task

  for writing negative stuff about people and then turn around and do it

  herself.

  In nearly three years of knowing her, I have learned that the rules

  she invents for others do not necessarily apply to her.

  But I had to laugh at her fears. They are not of me but of herself.

  Surely she knows the last thing I wish for her is harm. During our

  affair I was much too casual and nonchalant about her – I admit that.

  It dawned on me way too late how truly serious she was. In

  retrospect, I think I would have preferred a good long discussion

  about The Future before we became physically intimate. A full, frank

  discussion beforehand might have given me food for thought.

  Instead, we just started fucking.

  Come to think of it, I did have a conversation like that once with

  this Sarah I. woman I knew back in Atlanta. I met her right as I was

  about ready to leave town in 1975.

  We made out at a party, but that was all. Still, it
was some pretty

  passionate necking. Real deep tongue action. Sarah liked kissing me,

  I could tell, and I liked kissing her. A lot. But Sarah insisted she

  would not be intimate with a guy unless he agreed to an exclusive

  relationship first.

  "Oh, I’m not saying we have to immediately get married," Sarah

  said. "But if I am with a guy he is only with me. Nobody else."

  Sarah said that had to be the deal, right up front. She also added

  that she was no prude and liked sex, but it must be in the context of an

  exclusive relationship. Now that I look back, I think maybe she was

  on to something.

  Perhaps if I had gone through such a discussion with Polly, I might

  not have misread so many of her desperate signals.

  41

  At this late stage, I am beginning to believe that couples probably

  ought to get to know each other a little better before they start fucking.

  Having at least some idea of what you are getting into with someone

  might smooth the adjustment.

  Ah, hindsight.

  Finished Chap. 28 tonight. I did not think it needed a notebook

  rewrite so I just wrote it straight. It went fine. The Vladimir Lanolin

  radicalization vignette brought the manuscript up to page 82. I’m

  hitting my stride at last, working without interruption. I might even

  finish ahead of schedule.

  I’d like to get through this thing without having to do a complete

  third draft, if at all possible. Also need to index the names so that

  they will be consistent in the final version. I keep changing them so

  often they remind me of party hats. You take them off as soon as the

  candles are blown out.

  Planning a trip to Eugene this weekend.

  Need to do a few things there.

  * * * *

  March 9, 1978

  Then again, the damn thing will probably need a complete third

  draft after all. Oh well. Finished Chap. 29 this evening, bringing it up

  to page 86. At this rate I may be done by the end of the month. I sure

  hope so.

  Tomorrow I intend to clean house, wash clothes, and get ready for

  my trip to Eugene. Also need to get some money.

  Work is going okay.

  Got a letter telling me that my tax refund is being held again for

  overdue student loans.

  Those fucks. I will never get out from under those old college

  loans at this rate. That is the reason why I will not and do not plan to

  attend law school. To do it, I would have to borrow more money. I

  say to hell with that shit.

  So many people I run across wonder why I seem to be paranoid

  about money. These comments invariably come from people who

  have never been without it, people who have led very comfortable

  42

  lives. In my experience, it takes a special person to be someone who

  has money but does not treat everyone else like shit. I have yet to

  meet such a person. Certainly no one in my acquaintance would

  qualify.

  Gotta finish my book.

  Need to get some decent reefer while I am in Eugene. Maybe I can

  ask John Thomas.

  * * * *

  March 13, 1978

  The weekend turned out well for the most part. Got my original

  manuscript back and made a date with Annie. Bought a little dope

  from a guy John Thomas knows but I will have to wait to the end of

  the month to get more. It is hard for me to do without cannabis sativa.

  I use it to explore my inner self.

  Went to a party. Saw a lot of Eugene people and had a pretty good

  time. The bus needs some transmission work done, I am beginning to

  suspect. There is a grinding noise in second gear. Got another letter

  from Mick. Have already sent him a long letter, even before I got his.

  May swap houses with Charles and Arianna the weekend of the 1st.

  That could be fun. Only missed Saturday as a workday on the book

  this weekend. Cranked out Chap. 30 on Sunday, bringing the page

  total up to 92. I’d like to get this current draft completed before the

  state Democratic Party Convention.

  The book the book the book. I get so tired of working on it

  sometimes I want to scream.

  But it’s fun too.

  * * * *

  March 16, 1978

  There was a certified letter notice in the mail today. I wonder if it

  was about the tax refund Oxygen State stole from me. I wish they’d

  send it. I’m almost broke again. I have about $12 left in my checking

  account. I spent $9 on groceries today alone. The money slips away

  so quickly.

  Annie was here for a couple of nights. She’s going to make some

  suggestions concerning the book. I’ve asked her to help me out.

  43

  After all, Annie does have a master’s degree in comparative lit with a

  special emphasis on French (or is it Italian?) literature.

  Annie drove up to my beach cabin in her new Renault Le Car that

  she bought earlier this year. I must admit it’s a cute little vehicle, and

  Annie looked pretty darned cute herself behind the wheel.

  The girl is a rising academic, poised to get ahead and looking the

  part as well. As soon as Annie pulled up, she glanced out the window

  to see me, standing on the porch. The warmest of smiles greeted me

  as she pushed open her car door, saying.

  "Your directions were perfect."

  I opened the car door as Annie climbed out, and then waited while

  she popped the hatchback.

  "Mmmm…" I said. "You’re looking good."

  "Thank you."

  Indeed Annie was looking good, dressed in a white cable knit

  sweater and a brown skirt that hugged her hips tightly. Her hair was

  long and thick, cut in a flattering wavy style.

  We kissed, and Annie’s kiss was a potent mixture of passion and

  affection. Then she broke the kiss.

  "Need help with anything?" I asked.

  "You can carry my bag," she said, raising the hatchback door. "I’d

  like to bring it in."

  "I’d be delighted."

  My initial impression of her loveliness was accurate in every

  aspect. If anything, she was ten to fifteen pounds lighter than at any

  previous time I’d known her. Additionally, Annie has this exotic

  voluptuous beauty, with a pretty face and a surprisingly small, perky

  nose hovering over a pair of sweet, pouty lips.

  And then there are her big, deep, dark brown eyes. Annie’s eyes

  radiate intelligence like a barbecue grill radiates heat.

  Consequently, I tried to make it a point not to lie to her too much,

  on account of the fact that she could always pick apart my

  prevarications sooner or later (most likely sooner.)

  44

  What I especially loved about Annie though, was her thick mane of

  brunette hair, which she had recently grown long, cascading down to

  the middle of her back.

  It has a beautiful blue-black glow.

  After Annie locked her car, I led her into the cabin, carrying her

  overnight bag.

  I couldn’t take my eyes off her, to tell the truth. Her hair was, as

  usual, a gorgeous contrast to her flawless white skin. After careful

  examination, I can report that she had only one
mole that I was able to

  discern, a tiny one on the small of her back, a flattish protrusion

  maybe a quarter of an inch across, the color of milk chocolate.

  Once I had Annie in the cabin and the door closed, we kissed.

  She was the one who broke the kiss.

  "So," she said, gently pushing me away, "when do you want to talk

  about your manuscript?"

  "Let’s start now," I said. "How about a drink first?"

  "What do you have?"

  "That white wine you like. Chablis."

  "Sounds good."

  I went to the refrigerator and got the bottle out, pouring us each an

  extra large glass.

  The other thing about Annie that I had to keep in mind was that as

  far as sex was concerned, I had to go slow. She was definitely not a

  "Fuck now, talk later," kind of girl. As poised and confident as she

  was in discussing intellectual or academic subjects, she’s kinda

  skittish about the dirty deed.

  That didn’t mean that Annie wasn’t going to put out, once I had her

  ensconced in my bed. On the contrary, it was evident that she wanted

  to fuck and happens to be quite adept at it.

  But before she would consent to giving her best effort in that

  regard, she had to be well and thoroughly entertained. Having her talk

  about my book, listening to her ideas, and responding to suggestions,

  was a lot of fun for both of us.

  I actually think she understands what I’m trying to do.

  45

  So far the things Annie has said are right on the money. She seems

  to realize what I am trying to do here and I am very appreciative of

  her help as an unofficial editor. Just the right balance must be struck

  between comedy and seriousness, Annie says. Let the grim truth

  emerge naturally as part of the jokes, the satire, the wisecracks, and

  the parody.

  Annie agrees that it is tough balance to strike.

  We were near the bottom of our second glass of wine when I

  suggested that we go to a restaurant on Bay Street called The Manly

  Mussel. Annie was more than agreeable.

  Our beer-battered halibut, fries and clam chowder had not yet

  graced the table when Annie began talking a blue streak about this

  graduate program she is in at Case Western and the politics involved