11 minor errors, couple of serious ones, plus the usual omissions. Not bad. She had to pretend those 2 were serious but we both understood. It was decent of her to tell me. She wasn’t obliged to. She stopped by to hand along a compliment. That was nice of her. She’s all right. Remarked that she feels my attitude is good, and both she and Mr. Foxx are of the opinion I stand a very good chance of promotion within the year! Well, that made me grin. Class II would mean more money—to say nothing of Prestige. Class II, Earl Summerfield. I like the sound of that. And of course one thing leads to another. Yes, that would be a major step.
FEBRUARY 13
I’m getting fat. One hundred and sixty pounds and I’m embarrassed to set the figure down. Belt has felt tight recently, but deluded myself into thinking it was some sort of temporary indigestion. Felt inflated but thought it was air. Well, apparently not. Cut out the pie and potatoes. Face has been looking fuller & and I noticed that, too, but was unwilling to admit the truth. Working where I do doesn’t help matters. Perched on that stool I can practically feel my rear expanding. I must look like a duck. No wonder, day after day, eight hours motionless as a blob of lard. Then come home to a wretched Instant Supper full of carbohydrates because she doesn’t have time—she claims. Papers to grade, et cetera. For all I know she could be composing love poems to Spach. Hypocrisy. She’s more interested in becoming Vice Principal than in me. I suppose she’ll get the appointment—usually gets what she wants. I should say Always. I like being on top, she says. Indeed! But she’s never asked what I enjoy. Oh, I could think back—yes, there used to be times, but no longer. Much too busy now. If I ask for anything special she stares at me as though I was a spoiled child. “Earl what is the matter with you?” Sorry, I say, sorry. I wonder just how many times I’ve spoken that word. Thousands. I’m always apologizing, if not to Bianca to somebody else. Fensdeicke. Others. That lady I accidentally bumped into yesterday. Thought she was going to Do something about it—suspicion written all over her face. Kept on apologizing. Finally she let me go. Doesn’t make sense. I should have kicked her and then run for my life.
FEBRUARY 14
Being Valentine’s Day decided to give myself a taste of luxury. Waited till Bianca was asleep before preparing things—bath salts, candlelight, etc. In certain ways I suppose I’m more like a woman than a man, but that’s usually true of exceptional men although I can’t imagine why. Matter of sensitivity. Certainly I’m aware of more than say Vladimir or McAuliffe. Wonder if I could be an undiscovered genius. Musician or some such. Heard of a bakery worker who picked up a violin when he was about 40 years old and realized for the first time that he’d been wasting his life. By then it was too late for him. Maybe I have some talent like that. Don’t know what it is. I could become a scientist or important figure in the world of business or—what? What? What? If only I could find out! After 30 years of civil service when it’s too late, maybe then I’ll know. Have a feeling I’m on earth for a purpose. Don’t want to waste myself. I know I’m exceptional, sure of it, just that so far nobody’s given me the chance. Trapped in the Bureau, day after day, don’t know how it all got started & it seems harder and harder to get out. Bianca doesn’t help me, suppose she assumes I couldn’t do anything else. Assumes I’m useless. Well, anyway, went to sleep in the bathtub, woke with her hammering at the door & calling me names. Water was cool so I suppose I slept quite a while. Don’t know what I should have done. Should have told her off somehow instead of dabbling my fingers and waiting for it to blow over. One of my weaknesses, too passive. I always let things happen to me, as though I don’t really have a personality of my own. Maybe I’m just afraid to defend myself. Don’t know for sure. Probably a good idea to have things out with her—let her know I’m not what she thinks I am. Oh, I could agree with her on certain points, admit I’m far from perfect, then point out that neither is she! No argument there & that would give us both a chance to discuss the situation. Ideas fester in silence, things get poisoned. Seems that we’re usually drifting into ugly positions without meaning it. Last Saturday those two—a thousand times since then I’ve seen that one with her fat legs spread beneath the table. Waving her knees while she sucked on a pencil. Frowning, then giggling as if she didn’t know! Glancing at me. Pulling at her skirt. Nobody’s going to tell me it wasn’t on purpose, she knew exactly what she was doing. Think how satisfying it would be to make her suffer. Slice into those pudgy warm thighs with a razor. Yes, then tell Bianca to put the blame where it belongs! Tell B to make them act decently. But of course she’s always enjoyed scolding me, it’s happened often enough. As a matter of fact B might have been in on that because she didn’t say a word when that little slut opened up, then when I was fool enough to get closer she was after me green with rage—except it wasn’t any sort of rage, it was Excitement. My lioness.
FEBRUARY 15
News report tonight says some divorcee in San Rafael woke up early this morning and saw a man standing beside her bed with a stocking mask over his face. According to the newscaster she got away. I doubt it. Have a feeling she was tied up with a sheet—almost as though I dreamed it. Trussed like a dainty white animal, tied into a sack so tight she could only move her toes, the Parts hanging out of the mouth—those hairy purple lips. Packed stiff as a sausage. Probably gagged & blindfolded so she looked like a mummy and couldn’t struggle. Flashlight, gloves, etc. Groans, whispers. Probably he used a knife. Makes me think of savages drawing pictures on walls of their cave showing animals with spears sticking out all over them, blood streaming down their sides. That’s how it was, she didn’t get away. Doubt if she wanted to get away. No proof that she struggled. After all, they get accustomed to being tied up, examined. Enjoying every minute of it. I know what they are. I’m tempted to tell Bianca, ask what she thinks. For a joke might ask how she’d like it if I crawled through a window some night after she’s gone to sleep. I could tie her to the bed. Then carve away! Yes, see how she likes it. Or shove in a broomstick—a bird on a spit! That would serve her right for what she’s done to me. Sits at her dressing table polishing her fingernails and realize I’m married to a hag with spots on her hands. Looks older than she is, maybe that’s the reason she takes it out on me. Those creases in her neck, hair getting stringy, teeth yellow from smoking & her eyes puffy. She looks at least forty years old and every day she’s cutting me into little parts. Another 6 months & there won’t be much left.
FEBRUARY 16
Saturday. Execution scheduled for Monday has been postponed. Legal squabbling. However, the chamber’s scrubbed and inspected, the metalware polished every week whether we’re having a sacrifice or not. I’d like to visit the place, chat with the men on Death Row. It sounds extremely interesting. McA says they’re allowed out of their cells two hours a day and are permitted to walk up and down the corridor and play table tennis, but are not permitted to see outside. No matter how long they stay there they don’t once see the water of the bay or the countryside—not from the moment they’re carted through the gate until they’re carted out again to be buried. Thinking about it puts me in a strange mood.
And so to bed.
FEBRUARY 17
Sunday. Bianca tutoring. Decided that I couldn’t put up with it. Went out, slammed the door, spent today riding around the city on one bus after another while attempting to organize my thoughts, gain control of myself. Bus to the beach was crowded, found myself pressing against a girl in beret and a red coat. She looked at me over her shoulder, I pretended not to notice. I must have looked as bland as a dish of pudding. Got off when she got off, followed, glared at her to see what effect it would have. She heard my steps I think but didn’t once glance back, walking faster and faster into the fog. Too bad it wasn’t night. Wanted to hit her on the back of the neck with something sharp. Amused me to watch her scurrying along clikety-clik. Pretended I didn’t exist, even so there wasn’t a doubt in my mind about her being afraid. Put my hand in my pocket, squeezing away, and she knew what I was doing. If it wasn’t what she wanted why had she darkened her eyes with cosmetics? Why? Lips painted, shaved legs.
