look without his mustache, shifting the clipboard from one arm to the other so he can’t miss the threat. After that she’d like to cut off his balls. I just wonder if he knows. He doesn’t say much. I admire his courage. Maybe next year I’ll grow a mustache. Think it over. Don’t want people laughing at me.
I spend too much time looking in the mirror—positive indication of failure. I should learn to Act, worry less about my appearance. I have a good reputation, conscientious, always pleasant, never curl my lip at anybody. Too much so. People think of me as a vegetable, assume I don’t mind the abuse. They think I’m not aware of the hurts, the insults, everything else. But I realize how I’m being treated. Oh yes.
JANUARY 30
International police working undercover have reports of worldwide ring of exotic prostitutes. Apparently there’s an elaborate brochure with descriptions & photos of the Merchandise. All you need is a thousand dollars cash & then just take your pick. Fly to Hamburg or Trieste or Copenhagen or anywhere on earth and do whatever you feel like doing. That’s how some people live. They get a taste of life that Earl Summerfield won’t ever know a thing about. But why not? Why can’t I live like that? Bianca’s the only woman I ever had. She used me. Got what she wanted. I hardly enjoyed it even at first. Didn’t much enjoy kissing her—lips too thin. Remember the first time I kissed her being surprised by the hard, closed teeth. I guess I’ve never impressed her very much. If I was important she might be different. Too late now. Caught in this uninteresting life. Caught.
JANUARY 31
Quite a discussion at lunch about the latest crime. McAuliffe claims to know a detective who told him she was tied to a chair in a peculiar position so the first thing police saw when they broke into the apartment was It. The things that happen between their sex and ours, impossible to believe. Guess we don’t belong together. Or do we?
Half hour wasted imagining. Police take pictures of those crimes, keep them on file, McAuliffe might be able to obtain permission for us to have a look. But if he did I wouldn’t go. I’d be ashamed.
Why does he like to talk about them? Why do I listen? I feel like vomiting but I always listen. Last Tuesday at lunch talking about that medical student going back to the room where there was a post-mortem, pulled aside the sheet and climbed on the table. Same as if she was asleep says McA. If a woman’s asleep or dead she doesn’t judge you, no need to be afraid.
Past midnight. B’s probably asleep by now. If I slipped in cautiously—perhaps.
FEBRUARY 1
Celebration being planned for Washington’s Birthday. Parade to start in North Beach, ending at Aquatic Park, where they’re going to have speeches plus a big program of entertainment including appearances by a former governor, several Hollywood actors, folk-dance group, high-school band that won the state tournament, etc., etc. I guess the chamber of commerce must be sponsoring it. Emphasis seems to be on patriotism as well as other qualities that have made America great. Admit to feeling a bit cynical considering what happens every day. Read the paper, listen to newscasts, choose your own examples. Another abortion death in the Tenderloin, police picked up a bartender who they think did it. She didn’t have enough to go to Mexico or Sweden or wherever the rich ones go to get it done. Drug addicts everywhere, pretty soon we’ll have more than China. Or take that old man they caught molesting children—64 years old the paper says but he looks twice that. Stains on his vest, suit rumpled, alcoholic if I’m any sort of judge. Probably never amounted to much, not even when he was young. Guess he’s trying to remember Youth before he dies. They say he breaks into fits of weeping but otherwise doesn’t show much sign of regret, in fact hardly knows why they’re keeping him in jail. He wants to go home. Scratches his grizzled cheek & looks puzzled. They’re thinking about moving him to a different jail because of the mob outside—people frothing at the mouth they’re so anxious to lynch him. Looks to me like one unimportant old man all by himself has thrown an awful scare into every bloody mother’s son. As if by killing him—oh well, what’s it to me! The country’s stuffed as full as a baked lobster with the turds of Greatness. No business of mine, here it is Friday night, the weekend coming. I ought to be deciding how to enjoy myself. Soon enough the cycle starts again.
Five minutes ago Bianca knocked at the door. That noise is like a needle shot into my brain. She does it on purpose. Always has an excuse, needs to talk to me about something when actually she’s just exasperated because I’d rather sit here by myself than do whatever it is she wants me to do. Bothering me gives her quite a lot of satisfaction, but if she had any idea what thoughts come into my head on account of it she’d quit. The celebrated intuitions of women are a myth, nothing but a courtesy we’ve granted them. If she keeps doing that I’ll cut her into 67 pieces and have myself a shishkabob. Suck the marrow of her bones just as she’s sucking at my soul.
Ho hum! Guess I might attend that Aquatic Park show on the 22nd. It could be worth seeing and I’ll be in a better mood.
FEBRUARY 2
Saturday’s ended. Those two schoolgirls were here, ugly scene I don’t want to think about. Put it out of mind, Earl. It’s over. Won’t happen again.
FEBRUARY 3
Dozed awhile this afternoon and dreamed I was standing on the edge of a high building with huge crowd below—everybody waiting to see whether I was going to jump or fall or be saved. A priest and a police officer were trying to stop me from jumping. The motive of the policeman was clear enough, and he didn’t bother to dispise his indifference about what happened to me, just told me to get down off the ledge and nobody would hurt me. But I remember being suspicious of the priest. God loves you—that’s what I heard him say. “What God? What God?” I answered. Then he opened his mouth and spoke again, but he didn’t say a word.
Well, Earl, apparently you didn’t jump, you lived through one more day—for whatever it’s worth. It wasn’t worth much. Foggy & cold, even now. And tomorrow’s not apt to bring surprises.
FEBRUARY 4
Shows how wrong you can be! This A.M. on the way to work I found $5. I thought it was a trick. Saw the bill lying in the gutter at the corner of Van Ness. It looked as bright as the moon but I walked several more steps with eyes straight ahead thinking some people around there were waiting to laugh at anybody who tried to pick it up. Then stopped and casually rubbed my jaw, glanced back, nobody paying any attention, so I just walked over and picked it up and calmly walked away. Scared to death, expecting a hand on my shoulder every instant. Twenty-six years and I guess this is about the first luck I ever had. Should be pleased—finding $5!—but I’m not. At first I was excited, could hardly keep from dancing. Not now. $5 worth of luck.
FEBRUARY 5
Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow until the end of recorded time! Simple promises accepted by simple men. What an imbecile I am to accept this life. Yes Earl, honestly how do you like it? How do you like knowing that every single one of them—even the stupidest—even those that can’t so much as sign their own name!—how do you like knowing every one of them earns more money than you do? The ones with a 3rd grade education, Earl, they earn 18% more per hour than you do. Well, maybe you’d better take another look at yourself Mr. Summerfield! What do you intend to do about it? Complain to Mr. Foxx?
Why do I goad myself!—not a thing in the world I can do. Not a thing. I was so positive I’d be climbing right up through the ranks of the Bureau, positive that
