“It’s nice to know you think you can paint like that,” Stephen L. said. “But I don’t really care.”
The guy’s face turned so red, it actually threw off heat. Now he’s branded as the class knucklehead. Between working for Harry, school, and the play, I worry I’ll lose my private reading time at the IHOP.
September 15, 1984
Chicago
Harry and I are close to finishing the job on West Armitage. I worked in the living room today, putting tung oil on trim and talking to the painter, Mr. Johnston, who is forty-seven and has nine children and six grandchildren. He’s black and wore white pants with no shirt. Mr. Johnston has a huge stomach and told me that he has all kinds of girlfriends. “You don’t need to be young or handsome,” he said. “You just got to know the secret to unlock a woman’s mind.”
The secret, I learned, is “Hit ’em.”
“The harder you do it, the harder they’ll love you,” he said. “A woman will always crawl back after a good beating.”
He invited me to listen while he called one of his girlfriends on the phone. “Listen here, Joyce,” he told her. “I want you to bring that pussy of yours to Milwaukee and Cicero at ten o’clock tonight.”
He said the secret is to talk shit because ladies love it—that and beatings. The front door was off the hinges, and when a woman came up the stairs, Mr. Johnston turned to me and winked, as if to say, Watch this.
“I’ll have to paint your apartment next,” he said to her as she passed. “Maybe we can work out a deal.” When the woman smiled politely, he stuck out his tongue and made a quick licking gesture. She was in her late twenties and was carrying a bag of groceries from an expensive store. She was dressed in a suit and was so clearly not a prostitute, it was ridiculous. The woman entered the apartment across the hall, and after she had closed the door behind her, Mr. Johnston told me he had her in the palm of his hand, that she was his for the taking. As he said this, I heard three clicks—one lock after another being secured. That’s how interested she was.
September 25, 1984
Chicago
There was a long line at the Sheridan L station ticket window this morning. It was raining and I was carrying a big bag with paint and brushes in it. Off to the side of the booth, a black woman stood talking to a policeman. She was in her twenties, maybe, and plump. Her clothes were plain and she was pointing at a man who was standing nearby and calling him a motherfucker. She said it three times, and her voice got progressively louder. She told the cop that she had to get to school, that it started at nine, and that he, the cop, was making her late.
When she tried joining the ticket line, the officer grabbed her. She broke free, and he trapped her in a corner and held his arms out to block her. “I didn’t do anything wrong!” she yelled. “I didn’t do nothing and I gots to get to school.”
The cop twisted her arm, and she kicked him and made a break for the turnstile. I guess her plan was to squeeze in underneath it, but she was too big. The cop grabbed her again, and this time she bit him. “Somebody help me!” she yelled. Again she went for the turnstile, thinking—what, exactly—that once on the other side, she’d be home free?
The cop pulled out his walkie-talkie and recited a code. The young woman was hysterical by this time. Maybe she’d done nothing wrong. What did we know? The line moved more quickly once he got her cornered again. From up on the platform, we could still hear her screaming that she didn’t do nothing, that she had to get to school, that she just wanted to be left alone.
October 28, 1984
Chicago
The first night of the play, back in the dressing room, Ken and I drank a pint of Scotch. The second night it was vodka. He was a nervous wreck both times, but then, he wrote the script and was responsible in a way I wasn’t. We had never performed for more than three people and weren’t sure where the laughs might come. Plus we’d rehearsed for so long, we’d forgotten certain things were funny. Both shows were sold out, and hopefully they’ll be next Friday and Saturday as well.
December 7, 1984
Chicago
There’s a woman in my writing class named T. who was pregnant at the start of the quarter and had her baby a few weeks ago. Every so often over the past few months, she’d make a comment, but she’s never read any of her writing out loud. I can’t help but think she was drunk or stoned today. She said out of nowhere that she would like her story read and that Rose would be the one to do it. “I’m tired of hearing all this average stuff,” she told us. “It’s time for something good.”
Rose started and was stopped by T. a few seconds into it. “You didn’t give people time to relax,” T. said, slurring her words a bit.
The story, when Rose finally got to it, was about a young woman dressing for a lesbian party. She has recently decided she is attracted to women and wears jeans and cowboy boots. Once dressed, she leaves the house. The end.
T. was angry that the story wasn’t longer. “It seemed longer when I wrote it,” she said. Then she blamed Rose for reading too quickly and making it sound less substantial. She told the class that she herself is a lesbian and that none of us could relate because we’re all afraid to confront our gayness.
People in the class looked at one another, not knowing what to say. The women weren’t too keen to learn they were all insecure lesbians masquerading as heterosexuals. T. criticized people who think realism is using the word shit. She went on and on until someone told her to shut up. Then she put her head on her desk and fell asleep. She even snored.
December 25, 1984
Raleigh
For Christmas I received:
The Joy of Cooking
Family Dancing by David Leavitt
six pairs of underpants
a shirt from Gretchen
Fiestaware salt-and-pepper shakers
a box of pastels
$2 in cash
a check for $125
December 28, 1984
Raleigh
Amy, Tiffany, and I sat in the kitchen and talked until three thirty this morning. One of the things we laughed about was an old episode of The Newlywed Game. The host asked the wives, “What’s the most exotic place you’ve ever made love?” He was likely expecting “The kitchen” or “On a tennis court at night,” but one woman didn’t quite understand the question and answered, “In the butt.”
1985
January 9, 1985
Raleigh
Since I’ve been home for Christmas vacation, Paul has been leaving notes on the kitchen counter that say Please wake me up at 7:30. Signed, David.
Last night Mom made lemon tarts for dessert. Paul took an empty shell and filled it with cold mashed potatoes. Then he topped it with whipped cream and fooled me with it. Mom is making him put down a $20 deposit every time he takes her car.
January 10, 1985