Fridays at Enrico's (9 page)

14.

Dick Dubonet's father had been a lawyer with a small personal practice. He died of a heart attack when Dick was seventeen, leaving trust funds for Dick and his mother. Dick's became available to him on his twenty-first birthday, just in time to save him from law school. He finished his B.A. at Lewis & Clark and spent a couple of years skiing, first at Timberline, then on to Aspen and the ski patrol, where he was also a member of the Torch
Team, holding a flaming torch as he and the other patrollers performed their nightly ceremonial, the Descent of Fire. He took a lot of notes for a novel about the ski patrol. He'd known for years he wanted to be a writer, and he made sure to do a little writing every morning. His trust fund gave him a little over a hundred dollars per month. It wasn't great but it was a base. It took the major worry out of life, left him free to travel, to look around, to meet girls, to make friends.

But instead of being a happy ski bum, Dick was miserable. It was a capacity of his, to be unhappy for no reason. Maybe that was why he saw himself as a writer. There was a famous novelist living in Aspen, Leo Norris, who'd written three best-sellers, big fat books Dick could hardly work his way through, but they'd made old Norris rich and famous, and Dick would always pay attention when Norris came around. He had a big spread outside town with a steady stream of glamorous visitors. When he came to town to party he was always surrounded by beautiful people, although he himself was a little gnome with fierce red eyebrows and voice that could slice bacon. The first thing Dick noticed about Leo Norris was how unhappy he seemed, how unsatisfied with all the things that should have made him happy. Dick once ran into Norris at the little grocery next to the Aspen Lodge. They were both buying instant coffee, and both wanted the last jar of Folger's. Dick actually had it in his hand when Leo Norris pushed his angry face into his and all but snarled, “I was just about to reach for that.”

Dick's first thought was
tough titty
, but he didn't say it. The man's rudeness was shocking, even to a member of the ski patrol. He clearly wanted Dick to give him the jar and take some lesser brand for himself. He probably knew that Dick knew who he was, and was hoping his fame and wealth would entitle him to the Folger's. But it was a cold morning, Dick had a slight hangover, and there was a nice girl waiting in his bed.

“Better luck next time,” he said to Leo Norris, and was amused to see the famous writer actually bite his lip in frustration. “Oh, hell, take it,” Dick said, and handed over the jar. He made a mental note not to become an asshole.

Eventually Dick grew tired of ski bum talk. He burned his notes for a novel and returned to Portland, found the perfect bachelor's pad, and settled into learning to write. He was an orderly person, and knew that the best way to succeed was to work hard and be thorough. He kept records of his expenditures, which were few. Being a writer cost almost nothing: typewriter, twenty-five dollars, a nice little used Smith Corona portable; paper, a dollar a ream, plus carbon paper and newsprint for second sheets; manila envelopes and stamps; and that was about it. He was in business.

Of course there were all kinds of writing. He wanted to try them all, but the important thing was to get some short stories written, to break through the publication barrier, to get paid for his work. Then branch out. He read all kinds of magazines, looking for ideas. Read mystery stories, science fiction, romance, straight fiction, everything from the
Saturday Evening Post
to
Rogue
. When he found a story that appealed to him, he'd sit down and doggedly retype it, learning the construction, learning the tricks. And every morning he'd get up, drink two cups of coffee, read the
Daily Oregonian
, then sit down at his shiny black typewriter, crack his knuckles, and write at least a thousand words. Seven days a week, no matter who stayed overnight, or how he felt, or whether it was a holiday. If there was a girl in the apartment, he'd explain to her carefully that he had this obligation to write. Most took it in good grace and found their way out. Some he had to indulge, even take home or sit over coffee with, but eventually they'd be gone and he could sit down at the machine.

Tap tap tap, out came the stories, usually ten to twelve pages. Dick typed his first and second drafts single-spaced, with narrow margins, on both sides of the paper. The third and final draft he typed on fresh bond, double-spaced, formatted as he'd seen in
Writer's Digest
. He kept a record of every story he mailed out. When the ten by twelve manila envelopes came back he slit them open without any hope in his heart, removed the story and the rejection slip, read the slip, and then put the story into a fresh envelope and sent it to the next magazine on his list, which started at
Playboy
and ended down among the pulps. There were magazines that kept your material forever, and others that would print you without paying. He avoided these, and carefully read the
Writer's Digest
reports. He didn't send his stories to the
New Yorker, Esquire, Atlantic Monthly
, or
Harper's
. He didn't consider himself good enough yet. He stuck to girlie books, mystery books, and sci fi books. Now that he was a pro he no longer thought of them as magazines.

He could maintain this existence on his small inheritance because he was a careful spender. Much as he loved women, he'd resolved not to marry or even get serious until he had at least fifty thousand dollars in the bank. That was a comfortable distance and so he was shocked to find himself in love with Linda McNeill.

After that first night together, Dick did not want to let her go. He wanted her here, in his apartment, where could look at her, touch her, talk to her. It was like suddenly discovering you needed heroin, and lots of it. He knew it would be an awful mistake to let her know how he felt, but after only a little while he knew he could hide nothing from her.

“I love you,” he blurted. He'd been looking at her skin, her incredibly white skin, just going over her body an inch at a time, stroking her, brushing his lips against her, while she lay back in his bed smiling.

“You do, huh?” She touched him on the shoulder.

“I say that to all the girls,” he said, trying desperately to recover himself, but she laughed.

“I don't believe you.”

“Which don't you believe?”

She put her hands into his hair and turned him so their eyes met. Hers were calm enough, even amused. “I love you too,” she said. “But we aren't going to get married, are we?”

“Gee, I hope not,” he joked.

“That's good.” She pulled him gently up to be kissed. Her lips actually seemed to burn him, he was so sensitive.

They stayed together for three days. On that first morning Dick had at one point said, “Well, here's my routine. I gotta write for a couple of hours. You'll have to leave, but we can get together this afternoon, unless you have something to do . . .”

She was still in bed, covers pulled up against the cold room. “Why?”

“Why what?”

“I can stay here while you write,” she said. “I've been with writers before, you know.”

Kerouac. He'd forgotten about her adventures with the Beat writers. But he didn't know if he could write with her there. He had to bluff it out. He made coffee and brought her hers in bed, then went to his typewriter. He was in the middle of a story, for
Playboy
he hoped, so it was relatively easy to start working. Habit took over. She made no noise, and soon he had all but forgotten her. He turned in his chair, an old wooden folding bridge chair. She was lying in his bed, black hair against the white pillow, her hands grasping her shoulders. Dick had never seen anything more beautiful in his life.

“You're good, aren't you?” she said. “I can tell from the way you type.”

Somehow he believed her.

15.

His perfect bachelor pad was now too small. It was fine that she had experience with writers and knew how to keep quiet, but apart from that first time it bugged Dick to have her in the room while he tried to write. On the other hand, he hated it when she was gone. The dilemma could be solved only by moving. He got no work done for a month, while he and Linda honeymooned, took side trips around the northern part of the state, and looked for a place where they could live together. Linda wouldn't tell Dick where she had been staying or who with, if anybody. “It's not right,” was her only explanation. She wouldn't let him drive her home, asking to be let off at the intersection of NW Twenty-First and Johnson, a shabby industrial neighborhood. Dick understood, just as he understood that Linda would never explain why she'd left exciting bop neon San Francisco for dull wet Portland.
She'd come north with some guy, of course. And was living with the sap at NW Twenty-First. And was going to leave him for Dick Dubonet.

Dick was never satisfied. Either the places they found were too expensive, too small, too big, or too far from downtown. Dick couldn't see himself living east of the Willamette River, though prices were higher on the west side. Then they found a treasure. His friend Karl Metzenberg, who owned the Caffe Espresso, told him about a block of hillside houses that had been condemned for a freeway interchange, a big chunk of Old Portland being wiped out to allow north–south traffic to cruise through without stopping. But the project had been delayed, leaving a whole block available at unbelievably low prices.

SW Cable Street had twelve houses on the hill side, each with long flights of wooden steps rising through old green-stained concrete retaining walls and lush overgrown gardens. The houses on the down side were all rented to artists. The hillside houses were harder to rent because of the steps. Dick and Linda had their choice at forty-five dollars a month. The landlord was a bank and didn't care. Eventually all the houses would be torn down. It was perfect. They took the house at 33 Cable, big living room, big kitchen and dining room, two bedrooms. For his office Dick took the front bedroom overlooking Cable Street, with a view on good days of Mount Hood, sixty miles east.

They spent a week buying things at St. Vincent and the Goodwill. Dick calculated that the move and the addition of Linda was going to cost him dearly, running his nut up to two hundred dollars a month. Good luck that among the traits they shared was the trait of thrift. She was as careful as he was. They found bargains to cackle over and take home, so though Dick spent money like water he worried about it only in the early morning, when he'd wake up in a cold sweat. She was so beautiful it made him paranoid. What did she want with him? Could it really be love? Or was she being clever? She still thought of him as the kind of writer who could command huge sums from magazines. She didn't know the truth. Had the money attracted her? She could be pretending to go along with his cheapness to lull him into security. Then, when he can't live without her, she becomes a spendthrift.
He hated such thoughts, but early in the mornings, when he was wide awake and she slept, they came to him. For the ten thousandth time he concluded he had an inferiority complex. She was attracted to him because he was a success, yes, but also for other qualities. Handsome. He had to admit that. Nice car. Money. Talent. Although he was not quite sure about the talent. He hoped he had talent. If he didn't, he'd make up for the lack by working hard. Another good talent. No wonder she fell for him. What a prince. He knew why he'd fallen for her. She was too good for him. Too beautiful, too attractive to other men. More inferiority complex. When he walked into a tavern or party with Linda it made him glow with conceit. As if he needed her to prove what a hot guy he was. The sale to
Playboy
had done a lot for his ego, but Linda had done more.

The writing suffered for a month, but he had fourteen stories in circulation. Fortunately for his sanity, Linda found a job as a secretary downtown, and was gone all day. Thank god. But it wasn't until she handed him her first paycheck, eighty-seven fifty-eight after deductions, that he began to believe that she really did love him. And he needed the assurance, because Linda was having trouble liking what he wrote.

First he laughed. “You're not supposed to like it.” She'd been less than wildly enthusiastic about his new story, which he hadn't sent to anybody yet. “It's for men. It's a man's story.”

“I like it,” she lied, making it clear by her innocent expression that she was lying. “Have you read ‘October in the Railroad Earth'?” And there it was, the inevitable comparison. The odious comparison. “Yeah,” he said. “I admit I'm no Kerouac,” he added gruffly.

“Oh, I wasn't—”

“Sure you weren't.” His feelings weren't hurt long. He was used to people complimenting him on a story and then taking it back with a cutting remark. A lot of people secretly wanted to be writers, and they were jealous. He was used to people saying, “I read your story,” and then waiting for him to ask them how they liked it. Falling into the trap. So they could say, “Oh, it was okay,” or some other critical remark. He hoped he would not react every
time Linda snubbed his work, and told himself it shouldn't matter that she didn't gushingly love every word he wrote. But it did. He told himself that if she loved his work after a while he probably would have grown tired of her. This way, there was a constant excitement, a constant need for him to improve. She would be his goad, his shining ideal.

They gave a party when the
Playboy
story appeared. It was the lead, as promised, and had a wonderful illustration. There was a picture of Dick in the front of the magazine with the other contributors, and Dick entertained everyone telling them about the photo session, which had lasted three hours for a tiny little head shot. Everybody on the block was invited, and Dick's friends from Portland State and Reed. Painters, sculptors, musicians, lots of musicians with their guitars and banjos, a few would-be writers, some teachers and social workers, and after the party got going everybody who was not playing an instrument got up and danced, the new Portland-style dance, where you put your hands on your hips and kicked up high. It was a great party, and people talked about it for months. Portland finally had a group.