CHAPTER ONE
A Complicated Winter
November 10, 1977
Beginning a new volume.
One year ago this month, I moved back to Cyanide City, also known as Slateville. Since
August, I have been living with Chesley Harlan in this 1920s period house in the Southeast
part of town, not quite a mile from the neighborhood where I grew up. The address is 3024
SE 25th. One block away is the Clinton Street Theater. Every Friday and Saturday at
midnight they run The Rocky Horror Picture Show. I`ve never seen the movie, but I really
dig the costumes worn by the chicks who line up outside to see it.
Okay. Enough said for the glorious homecoming of Patrick J. Compton, age 26. I still hate
this town and my dissatisfaction with life in general remains undiminished. The only
therapy I have for this condition is my habit of compulsive writing.
Unlike my previous efforts at journal composition, from now on I plan to break from my
straight summary occasionally and enhance this narrative by nonfiction
"novelizations" of some of the more compelling events as they occur.
These novelizations will occasionally involve vivid sexual description, so be forewarned
if you are reading this without my permission!
Once again I have decided to take a stab at my Casual Loving manuscript. I`ve been
working on it in fits and starts since last month but now I am truly serious.
What a pile of shit it is.
Got a letter from Polly Ellsworth last week and I am not quite sure what to make of it.
In a discussion I had with Charles R., he said Polly might split from her boyfriend after
all. So I wrote to her and offered to go down there or see her up here.
Whichever.
But her response was frankly puzzling. Maybe she just wants to flick me shit again. Here
it goes:
Dear Patrick:
Your most recent letter does deserve a response. I still live with the man you mentioned.
I plan to move at least every 2-3 weeks. Sometimes I move to my own place daily—if only
for an hour or so.
My cat Meow is never there, but the freshly-painted white walls, the overstuffed
furniture of a neutral color, and Venetian blinds make up for the loss of my furry one.
Suffice it to say that I have felt the need to move into a place of my own ever since the
first month of living with Mr. G., and, although the need has survived and possibly grown,
I have not made the appropriate actions to satisfy it. I voiced my dissatisfactions to
Lori in May or June and quite possibly she assumed that I would/could move, hence the
information you apparently received second hand from Monsieur Charles.
In all actuality, and what else is there?—(nothing like whimsicality to pick up an
otherwise stultified correspondence) I have never even looked, even casually, for a place
of my own.
You brother Mick is in Africa, eh? The Peace Corps? I do envy him, although it is
probably mentally and emotionally taxing, or maybe not. Good old Mick. I suppose you do
miss him. And you`ve moved into a house with the turnkey.
When I think of you living in the environs you mentioned, with all those people around, I
say to myself "sounds like fun." But I`d never put that in this letter. I wonder
if you are keeping your political talents in use? Hmmm?
What`s the word from Leanne? I am gradually losing touch with Blane. I see him (in the
literal sense) about once every three months.
Just a couple of weeks ago, I felt myself slipping away. Not much to do about that, is
there? Just slipping away. Like that, in so many (or perhaps fewer) words.
My family is fine. I like my job as a nurse. It is physically and emotionally draining,
and is fucking hard work. I have been morose, (unduly morose, perhaps) after having helped
a cherished patient kick the old bucket, as they say. Other than that (what?) There is
nothing new to retort. I may have left some words out of some sentences but since you knew
me, (in the Biblical, as well as the regular sense) I give you complete license to fill in
any missing information.
Yours until Niagra Falls,
Polly
What the hell am I supposed to make of that shit? I go back and forth. I`m thinking of
hopping in my bus and driving down to see her. Just to see her. It`s been more than a year
since the last time I tried to connect with her.
Unfortunately, that previous trip went nowhere. But I`m in a quandary. Is she just
setting me up to act the fool again? What happens if I go down there and she makes out
like I`m insane for coming down? It would just kill me. If only she would give me some
clear signal that she wanted to see me I would drop everything and go. That is essentially
what I asked her when I wrote. I said how about us talking face to face? But she did not
respond to that. And this is, well, so weird…
I just don`t get it.
November 13, 1977
I`ve decided not to drive down to Ashland to see Polly. I do not believe she is being
serious. I`ve asked her if we could see each other and she sends me crap like the above
letter. I must therefore conclude she is not serious.
I am serious, but she is not. Oh, how the roles have reversed! I`ll probably write her
again, I suppose, but I expect nothing.
November 30, 1977 Monday
From my bedroom window I can see the bank tower, downtown, the river, all the way to the
west hills. Looking out the window yesterday I was positive I saw Polly Ellsworth pull up
in front of our house. A blue Volkswagen slowed down and then stopped across the street. I
was absolutely sure it was her at the wheel. That face I would know anywhere.
I ran downstairs right away but the car was already gone. If it wasn`t Polly my name is
Ronald McDonald.
Could it possibly have been a figment of my overactive imagination? Who knows? I wrote to
her right after I got her last letter, telling her that I am available for a meeting any
time she wants to get together. But I`ve heard nothing since.
I swear I am going crazy here in Slateville.
My mother lives one mile away and pesters me constantly for favors, errands, money, home
repairs, money, or simply to yak my ear off. I wouldn`t mind doing work but she is a total
slug who won`t lift a finger, is horrible to listen to, and treats me like a slave.
I`d listen politely except for the fact that her conversation is nothing but venom and
self pity. The old hag acts like she is on her deathbed. Though perfectly healthy, she
refuses to work and lives off the Social Security payments she gets for my sister Ruthie,
age 16. You would think she is 93 years old instead of only 53. I fucking hate her.
My writing goes very slowly. Six short chapters in three days. However, I am pleased with
the quality. Must keep plugging along on this new draft of Casual Loving.
Have made a decision to write about only significant events in this journal from now on.
Less drivel, more action.
December 8, 1977
Far fucking out. I have the whole place to myself.
December 9, 1977
Did not get too far with yesterday`s entry. Too many people, too many interruptions. In
and out, in and out. Boys, girls, beer, reefer, and loud wild talk. The whole place was
jammed with people at one point. Why are we so popular? I do everything I can to
discourage people, but without success.
Nevertheless, late at night, after everyone was gone, I got a bunch of stuff done on the
book. I`m now up to page 26. These re-writes are terribly difficult. Every sentence is a
major project, with blueprints, competitive bids, forklifts, and guys in hard hats
shouting orders.
Having lots of trouble with Chap. 7 right now. Will substitute all new material, I think.
A different slant is needed and I believe the word they used to describe him was
"incorrigible," meaning there is no hope for him.
Wrote my brother Mick a letter today. Complained about nearly everything. Don`t know what
good it will do but I got it off my chest. Yadda yadda yadda. That`s an expression Chesley
has been using for the past week or so.
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