PFK1 (14 page)

dozen different women, I am way ahead of both of them in breadth of

experience.

Instead, they have spent the last six or so years married and they

swear to zero infidelity during that span.

I believe them. But I’m sure the same is not true of their soon-to-be

ex-wives. It is very typical of many women, I suspect, to demand

total fidelity but not to reciprocate the favor.

They both envy me for not falling into what Harry calls "The

Fucking Trap," meaning marriage. I had to laugh at that.

The Fucking Trap. I love it. We listened to Nick’s Tom Waits

records (I love that bachelor song of his) and talked a blue streak,

sometimes shouting over the music. Around midnight, Nick put his

"Mellow Hits" album on the turntable. Before I knew it, Carole King

was singing "Like a Natural Woman."

As soon as it came on, I asked Nick to change the record to

something else. It pains me to listen to it. I associate it with Polly

Ellsworth and can’t hear it without becoming depressed. I know it’s

stupid but I can’t help it.

Throughout the evening, we gabbed about women. Of course we

learned nothing new, merely confirming our worst fears and

suspicions. As men, we frankly admit we would be nowhere without

them, and it is their power over us that disturbs us. I mean really.

They are what we want.

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Given that, how in the hell are we supposed to have an equal

relationship with them? Huh? Answer me fucking that. Once you’ve

broken through sexually with a woman, you are never the same

afterwards. It’s a wonder to behold. They can have about a zillion

orgasms to your one and only (for at least a half hour) puny one. How

can you compete with that?

"It’s 1972 and I’m at this bar in Peoria," Nick said. "And I’m

telling this blond babe that I’ve got my van loaded and I’m heading

west in the morning. The next thing I know we’re fucking like minks

in her apartment. Never anything like it in all my life. She wanted it

all night long, and I mean again and again. It was like she was on fire.

We must have fucked ten times that night. Then, around 10:00 AM,

I’m loading her stuff into the van on top of mine and we’re leaving

together. On the way we get married in Reno."

"This would be Clarice, I presume?" I said.

"You got it."

Then it was Harry’s turn.

"My wedding day in Los Angeles was the worst day of my life,"

Harry said, still shuddering at the memory. "I just wanted to run. I

felt like a hunted animal who has just been treed by a pack of barking

hounds. Trapped! But there was no escape because Shana was

already fucking pregnant! The first time we ever fucked she got

knocked up."

After comparing Shana and her family to coon hounds, Harry went

on to describe the years of marriage, the almost non-existent sex life,

the terrible jobs, the fights, and the ultimate dismissal of his services.

I tapped the ash from my cigar into Harry’s giant pizza-pan sized terra

cotta ashtray, nodding in sympathy. I could picture the scenes in my

head with precise clarity. Then it was my turn to confess.

"Gentlemen," I said expansively, taking a big slug of wine. "Those

are indeed terrifying stories. However, I have tales of the perfidy of

the feminine gender that will make the very hair on your testicles

stand straight up. These ghastly horrors are so gruesome that I

hesitate to speak of them in a voice above a whisper. Have you heard

The Case of the Registered Nurse?"

88

We went on like that until almost 2:00 AM, at which point I

dragged myself back to my cabin, collapsed on the bed and slept for

thirteen hours.

I woke up feeling great, ready to roll again.

Worked on my book all day. I’m such a perfectionist. I gotta do it

my own way, like Captain Queeg, rolling those little metal balls

between his fingers.

Beginning to have misgivings about the anti-homosexual stuff in

The Dark City
. I’m not sure people will understand that I am

ridiculing the prejudice, not echoing it. I’m afraid they’ll think I’m

making fun of gays, which I’m not. Nobody understands me. That’s

because they are smart and I am stupid.

On my work table is a copy of the diary of Anais Nin. One spacey

chick, that Anais. But apparently she liked fucking.

* * * *

May 13, 1978

Took a drive out to Heceta Beach on this wet, frigid, rainy

afternoon. At the end of the south jetty I got out and walked.

Walking in the rain, bundled against the wind, thinking.

That was me. Too cold for swimming. It’s one of those days when

raindrops run down the windows all day long and you’re happy to stay

indoors.

But not me. I had to get out for a while. The woman at the Rhody

store told me this was her favorite kind of weather, and I can

understand why. On a day like this you want to have the fire burning

in the fireplace and a hot spiced wine in your hand. Better yet, you’d

like to have your squeeze snuggled up on the sofa beside you.

I have none of the above. Instead I walked in the rain for an hour,

getting soaking wet. Now I am sitting here all alone in my cabin

swilling a cold can of Bud, drying my hair and listening to the thrum

of the electric heater. I just realized that I am only happy when I am

writing. At no other time.

Typed Chap. 8 again this morning. It came out beautifully. I

should have no more trouble with it. I keep touching the story up,

89

working it over. Hmmm. Perhaps it will never be finished. What can

I say? What else can I do?

Sure would like to get it published. Sometimes I think I am really

on to something, but I am completely subjective about the product,

and therefore not reliable.

I will continue working on it as ideas occur. Soon I will put the

initial inquiries in the mail, with Chap. 49 attached. Thus I will begin

my sales campaign. Right now I have about a dozen other projects in

the planning stages as well.

My hopes are high for
The Dark City
. I am well aware of what it

means in terms of my life, how forcefully it speaks of future plans,

future schemes.

A knock at the door. Dammit!

Later: Sheee-it. Some rain-soaked devotee of the Unification

Church just pestered me for a donation. A fucking Moonie! I sent

him away. In his pathetic quest for spiritual fulfillment, the guy was

selling candy door-to-door. In the pouring rain, no less.

Oh, the things people will do when they are brainwashed by a cult!

He is about my age. Dammit. It was so depressing.

Ruined my evening.

* * * *

May 14, 1978

The structure of
The Dark City
is tight and interrelated, as befits a

confessional novel. Topics are consciously selected to suggest a

colorful subconscious world.

The novel takes the form of a search. Dale Murphy is a rebel

alienated from authority and frightened by life. He is searching for

someone or something that will give him a reason to go on. He isn’t

cruel himself but is sure that all human existence is the work of a

malevolent, not merciful, creator.

In the meantime, Dale’s search for meaning consists mainly of

smoking dope, drinking booze, and trying to score with any chick he

can lay his hands on. The daughters of Eve are all over the place. But

it is hard to find a compatible one. Most have bought into the bullshit,

90

one way or the other. But Dale does have some interesting encounters

along the way.

That is basically the whole plot.

* * * *

May 15, 1978

Yep. I gotta get cracking on this final touch up. It won’t be too

bad. The first chapters came out 99 percent perfect. Lillian Hellman

said that Dashiell Hammett took great care in the way his writing

looked on the page. I think I know what Dash was doing. The

crispness and quality of the copy is important to me, which is why I

am not completely done yet. In this, I will settle for nothing less than

my total best effort.

But I’ve slowed down the past couple of weeks. Been puffing

some powerful reefer instead. Now I better get back to work if I’m

going to have any time left to work on my tan this summer.

I estimate 45 days, 60 at the most before I’m done.

Now to light another Marlboro.

* * * *

May 18, 1978

Had a long day on the job yesterday. Did not do any work at night

because I was too wasted. Got stoned instead and just spaced out.

Met Clarice the other day, the soon-to-be ex-wife of Harry’s

roommate Nick. Hmmm.

I feel like I know her intimately already. She is rather pretty in a

hard-bitten control freak sort of way and looks as though she could be

a real bitch if she put her mind to it. But Clarice also looks like she

could fuck like a champ, under the right circumstances.

There are times when my enforced solitude appears to be a blessing

in disguise. I’ve done all the fighting I want to do with crabby, pushy

women. Most are usually too self-absorbed to argue with

successfully. You might as well argue with a cow. Moooo! It’s

practically the same thing.

Later: I just wrapped up Chap. 13 as a complete re-write. I’m sort

of jumping around, doing a little here and a little there. Small

changes. My confidence grows and shrinks.

91

I am not quite sure why I keep this up, but something tells me it is

necessary.

Finished reading
The Great Gatsby
again this evening. Also read

Hammett’s
Red Harvest
again. Love that book. Reading Lillian

Hellman’s memoir
Scoundrel Time
right now. Lillian is great. Why

can’t I meet a 26 year old version of her? Why am I always coming

across these middle class heifers who have no interests besides

calving and cud chewing?

Where is there a woman I can relate to?

More and more I admire Hammett. He’s the kind of writer I’d like

to be someday.

Randy Thune called me at work today. I told him I might come up

to Portland over Memorial Day but as I think it over, I might not go.

Money is again tight, and I’d like to spend the long weekend working

on
The Dark City
.

* * * *

May 19, 1978

The beautiful spring weather has arrived. Warm days, soft, sweet

nights. I am alone. The scent of the ocean drifts through the window.

The air is deliciously sweet, exhilarating. There is still a bit of light

now at 9:10 PM.

Guess I’ll go outside.

I’m really fucking stoned.

Voyage to the Bottom of the Id.

The Free Souls Motorcycle Club is in town. They are all here for

the annual Rhododendron festival. No doubt Polly Ellsworth and her

boyfriend are on Bay Street right now, sitting astride the saddles of

their Harley Davidsons. Heh, heh.

It is The Night the Souls Hit Town.

They are about a hundred strong, including the chicks. They are

having one hell of a party at The Beachcomber. Fireworks fly

skywards and a lot of noise drifts in through the door. On a car radio

somewhere Dylan is singing "Baby Blue." Elsewhere I hear the

sounds of the carnival midway – thrill rides, screams, explosions, and

barking dogs.

92

The hurdy gurdy of a late 1970s spring night in this small coastal

town. My novel sits on the table in front of me. The ticking of my

wind-up clock on the counter marks the seconds.

The seconds. The minutes. The hours. The days.

The years.

* * * *

May 21, 1978

This drunken weekend has given me a chance to sort out my

feelings with respect to
The Dark City
. I’m going to rewrite another

20 pages or so and then turn it over to the typist, bless her heart. It’s

almost ready to go.

As I review this manuscript, I suddenly realize I don’t need to play

around with it anymore. I’m starting to work over the same passages

again and again, changing words and sentences. One trick I’ve

learned is sentence order reversal.

First, I write a three or four sentence paragraph, giving it a

beginning, a middle, and an end. Then I re-write the very same

paragraph, reversing the sentence order, with the last sentence coming

first. The results can be outstanding.

At this point I’m concerned about spontaneity, as I read the same