. . . Battle plans
Sat. Sun.—$1.33 peanut butter 4.50 rent
bread
knife
newspaper leave—3
Thurs.—Dishwashing, anything. Gloves—75 cents.
Suit $8.00—Food—carfare—if money comes, keep suit.
Nxt. Wk. Fri.—1.00 (save 12 cents)
Sat.—Try Harry’s credit
Sun.—Skip rent
Mon.—(Social sec.) get $20.00?
If not—finis
. . . drink goes well in novels . . . or in magazine advertisements . . . wrote home and asked his mother for money . . . stood before the mirror . . . posing wise and profligate— not quite bringing it off.
. . . too much electric altogether . . . hoyden insect . . . politics in Art . . . politics in Science . . . politics in breast-plate . . . asphalt, people, tracks . . . Eve’s infinite copulation . . . say that Birdie told you so.
. . . easy does it, Charles. I am bored, a little dull and rather dissatisfied altogether.
what the hell’s that noise?
a pipe
She always dreamed of lilies and loved Strauss (Blue Danube Strauss) quite so much
door slamming
feet, feet
how horrible, how mockingly
purposely horrible
I think
they enjoy it.
. . . Dear J—
I hate to be ridiculous—but could you loan me five bucks? I know this stuns you beyond measure—this encroachment, or what—but I’ve lost my job through drink, it’s the night before Thanksgiving, everything’s hocked and my landlady a pragmatic bitch.
I swear, sincerely, I’ll repay you when I get over the hump. Take a chance—the odds are good—and I’m really quite alone . . .
. . . he heard the voices downstairs, he heard the downstairs voices, he heard voices . . .
. . . Bar scene: a series of comments on . . . unfortunately . . . writers are mostly people with upper-strata jobs . . . English teachers . . . newspaper reporters . . . book reviewers . . . these people . . . attached to rather arched little physiognomies . . . brimstone eyes . . . or something . . . have a certain thing about them . . . sometimes claim they have washed dishes or boxed in the ring . . . generally it is a goddamned lie . . . and when they write their bar scenes . . . oh Jesus Christ! . . . few real men write . . . the living kills that . . .
. . . could try to escape by jumping from Russian trains . . . cold blood, areas of cold blood—rivers of dead, rivers . . . Karel Capek, Benedicite coeli Domino . . . today is a holiday of some sort. The people are singing and eating huge dinners.
. . . I got drunked-up and noticed a man next to me reading a sheet of music.
“Are you a music writer?” I asked him.
“Yes,” he said . . .
. . . I’m done . . . through . . . botched it all up . . . Oh, if you could only know how terrible I feel . . . there are all these good people I hurt . . . good chances I’ve missed . . . chances, chances . . . little things, like Don putting the packages on my wrapping table—“Happy Birthday!”—and a little cake in there . . . and three cigars . . . Oh, I know this is wild, but it’s the way I feel inside . . . let me speak a while, Father, there is nobody outside, there is no line . . .
. . . I could hear my mother in the kitchen, but the bedroom door was closed and I got up on the chair and peeked through the hole in the shade. The excitement flushed through me fiercely. What a break, what a lucky break! Miss Philippe-Cret, the new roomer, was in the garden swing. Her dress was high over her knees and as she rocked back and forth in the swing, the crossed legs changed their pose and I could see flashes of upper leg, where the stocking ended and the flesh began. I stood peering, my body tense, aching with excitement . . .
. . . You tell me to go out and get a job . . . why goddamn you man . . . where have you been living . . . don’t you know when you’ve been drinking as long as I have you are just too goddamned nervous and frightened . . .
. . . he saw the sailors coming, five or six of them, wandering across the sidewalk, shouting, laughing over some ever-perpetual joke, mob-happy. He crossed to the other side of the street, but it was too late: there were whistles, shouts, as if to a passing girl, only with mocking intonations . . .
. . . Dear J—
Glad I’m not in L.A. now. Don’t think I could swallow the “New Man.” But I haven’t given up on you yet: you’re too inconsistent to maintain any attitudes for length . . . Political fervor is the blight of the young. History is too long— the tail swings the dog.
Well, bud, should you ever blow your top and throw in the towel as I have done, you are always welcome to join my troupe: voices out of air, worm’s-eye of death, stockings of steel, wax bullets, creosote dawns, eternal confusion.
So your old man goes to the opera? Well, there are a few good ones. Do you think he’s playing dilettante? I doubt if he amuses you as much as he irritates you. You laughter seems forced.
I’m still making plans to gorge myself on ancient literature, a study of the Harvard Classics—and so far, all I’ve read is a book on duck hunting. This, added to my former study on the operation of the mesocolon gives me a solid literary background . . .
There were more papers on the bed, but he didn’t read them. It wasn’t any good. Too disjointed. He went back to the desk, sat down, dipped his pen and wrote:
“A fit of terrible gloom came over him. It was Sunday, a cold, dark December Sunday and there wasn’t any heat in the room. One shade was down, the other up; the electric lights were on but the room was full of shadow. Newspapers were all over the floor, covered with shoeprints, dirt; an empty cracker box, an unmade bed, the immense tick of clock. It was too cold to go out, he was broke, two bottles (empty of whisky) stood on the dresser. All his clothing was hocked, and open on the table was the ‘Help Wanted’ section of the newspaper, three or four ads circled. His back ached, he was sick: the rent was due, and it was cold, very cold.
“If I ever get over this, he thought, I’ll save money. I’ll get a nice apartment with a refrigerator. I’ll cook, I’ll drink fruit juices, I’ll smoke a pipe, I’ll wear clean, bright sweaters and buy rare and unusual books . . .”
He wrote on and on, and on.
Quixote 19, Autumn 1958
Dialogue: Dead Man on the Fence
Scene: cheap room, South Hollywood, 3rd floor, half-empty wine bottle, 3 or 4 books:
