Raleigh
Last night was Mom’s birthday. Sometimes the group doesn’t work, and people wander off after eating, but last night it was good, and everyone remained seated for hours afterward. At one point, out of nowhere, Mom told Lisa that she wasn’t the first person on earth to do it in the backseat of a car. “You won’t be the last either,” she said.
February 24, 1983
Raleigh
A joke I heard:
Q. Why don’t Haitians take baths?
A. They’d rather wash up onshore.
May 26, 1983
Raleigh
All day I worked for Dean and didn’t notice until I got to the IHOP that my hands and forearms were smeared with walnut stain. It looked awful, like I’d been fisting someone. When the waitress came, I leaned forward and hid my arms under the table. On returning home, I noticed that my apartment smells like cat urine.
June 5, 1983
Raleigh
Last night on my way to the IHOP I was pulled over by a Pontiac with three high black guys in it. They said they were selling pot and asked if I was a cop.
“I sure am,” I said, at which point three of the four car doors opened. Were they going to run or beat me up? I wondered.
I said I was only kidding—“Do I look like a cop to you?”—and the guy in the front passenger seat held up a small bag of pot he wanted $15 for.
Something felt wrong, so I said no. It’s probably not a good idea to buy drugs in the middle of the street. If they’d taken my money and driven off, I really couldn’t have complained to anyone.
June 26, 1983
Raleigh
I spent last night with Ferris, a UNC student who once shot and killed someone who was breaking into his house. He was fifteen at the time and said that the rifle blew a hole right through the burglar’s chest. I don’t know if he was telling the truth, but either way it was strange. Ferris was chunky, with a handsome face. This morning he called his mother—collect. She has two houses and is buying him a condominium in Chapel Hill. We had sex five times, and he stayed for coffee.
June 27, 1983
Raleigh
I went to the Winn-Dixie and was heading across the parking lot in the direction of home when four black people in a car beckoned me over. They were two young couples, one up front and the other in the back. “Hey,” the girl in the front said, “you look like Al Pacino.”
July 1, 1983
Raleigh
This is Friday. I worked hard all week and have paid my rent and bills. There is $60 left over, so I can’t complain. After coming home, I listened to the radio and cleaned up a little. A woman on All Things Considered wrote a book of advice called If You Want to Write and mentioned the importance of keeping a diary. It was valuable, she said, because after a while you’d stop being forced and pretentious and become honest and unafraid of your thoughts.
All week Dean and I have been talking about school—a graduate program for him and undergrad for me. I wrote to the School of the Art Institute of Chicago and asked for a catalog. It’s a small step, but at least it’s something. I’ve only been to Chicago once. It was in 1978. I was taking a bus to Oregon and had just enough time during our stopover to run to the museum and buy postcards.
July 12, 1983
Raleigh
Susan comes back August 1, so I’ve started looking for a new apartment. The man I met with today, Mr. H., addressed me as “sport” and showed me a dark, trashy place on Edenton Street. When I commented on how small it was, he suggested I erect a sheet of plywood in the hall and expand a little. “Or you can talk to the old gal across from you. She don’t use her parlor much and might probably let you sit in there sometimes.”
The woman he was referring to heard Mr. H.’s voice and stepped out to talk to him. She is small, less than five feet tall, an American Indian perhaps, and it seems she is going to court next week. “I’m just worried my previous felony might be held against me.”
“You tell Curtis for me that if he testifies against you, I’ll kick his mama out of here so fast it’ll make her head spin,” Mr. H. said. “’Cause I ain’t putting up with no shit or no trash.”
Shit was Mr. H.’s favorite word, and he used it fourteen times before I stopped counting. “Shit, you could just move the bed into the kitchen.” “Shit, you got a fire escape. Sit out there, why don’t you!” “Shit, get yourself some plywood and a couple of cinder blocks and you can fix that right up.”
The apartment I looked at has a sign on the door reading WARNING, THE PERSON LIVING HERE HAS A GUN AND WILL USE IT.
I told Mr. H. I’m still looking at places, and he shook my hand, saying, “So long, Bo.”
There are three vacancies in the Vance Apartments, also on Edenton Street. I noticed the empty windows and called the Realtor for an appointment. Only weird gay people, old ladies, and drunks live at the Vance. It’s scandalous, and the one-bedrooms go for $220 a month. That means that with bills, etc., I’ll have to put aside $60 a week, which is almost $10 a day.
August 3, 1983
Raleigh
It’s taking me a while to adjust to the new apartment. I’m on a corner, so there’s traffic noise and more pedestrians than I’m used to. Last night I was sanding one of the sculptures for my SECCA show. It was dark outside, and two black men yelled something up to me. I didn’t want to get into anything, so I pretended I couldn’t hear them. Five minutes later there was someone at my door. I opened it, and it was the two guys who had yelled. They thought I was painting the apartment and asked if it was for rent.
The two looked to be in their late thirties. I told them that the apartment was mine but that there were other vacancies. One of the men started to ask if he could look at my place. What stopped him, most likely, was how suspicious it sounded, but I said, “Sure, come on in.” I was happy to have visitors, and after a tour I wrote down the name of the realty company, wondering as I did so whether or not they allowed blacks. They can’t say they don’t, of course, but in the short time I’ve been here I haven’t noticed any black people coming or going. They’re really not free to live where they want in this town.
August 13, 1983
Raleigh
This afternoon a woman knocked on my door and asked if there were any rooms to rent. She was missing her front teeth and had a duffel bag over her shoulder. I’m not sure why she chose my door to knock on. Why climb up to the second floor? Why not ask one of the people forever hanging out on the front stoop?
August 26, 1983
Emerald Isle
Paul and I went out swimming yesterday. The current was strong, and I realized after a few minutes that I could no longer touch the bottom. He was farther out than I was, and the harder we swam toward the shore, the farther away we seemed to get. “Try harder!” I yelled.