PFK1 (3 page)

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.

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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.

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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

* * * *

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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 again.

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

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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.

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

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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.

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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