Chicago
I was at the Roseland Bike Shop, waiting for them to repair my handlebars, when a woman came in. Behind her were two children, a ten-year-old boy, blond with a dirty face, and a teenage girl riding a small pink one-speed. Earlier, apparently, the mother had spoken to the owner, Ken, about his buying it. He’d offered a low price, so the mother and her two children had walked down Broadway looking for a better one. Now they were back.
“I just got her that bike last Crusmus,” the woman said.
“No way,” Ken told her. “That’s at least seven years old. It has a banana seat, for Christ’s sake! They don’t even sell those anymore.”
“Last Crusmus,” the woman repeated. She had shoulder-length yellow hair and wore a sweatshirt with DAMN, I’M GOOD! written on it. “I saved and saved to buy her that bicycle. I got it at Woolworth’s. You can check with them! I got the papers somewhere at home but’ll have to root around to find them.” She wiped her mouth with her hand. “I’m a poor woman, Ken.”
“Aw, Mom, shut up,” her daughter said. “Please shut up.”
“I’ve got me thirteen children—eleven of them living—and seven grandchildren.” She looked to be around forty—a very hard forty—but I didn’t doubt the thirteen kids. The daughter took off down the street then, and her mother called after her. “Bonnie, Bonnie, you better get back here.” She wiped her mouth again. “Don’t mind her, Ken, she just thinks you don’t want to buy her bike.” She turned back in the direction of her daughter. “Bonnie, you better get back here before I slap the shit out of you.”
August 11, 1989
Chicago
I was at the liquor store, buying a bottle of Canadian Club as a thank-you gift, when a drunk man approached and told me not to be frightened. He was absolutely hammered, this guy, and said he wanted me to buy him some potato chips, the kind in a large-portion bag—Big Grabs, they’re called. I brushed him off, and when I got to the register, out of nowhere he laid the chips on the counter beside my bottle of Canadian Club.
The cashier saw what was going on and snatched the bag away. Then he pointed to the door and shouted, “Out of here, you!”
When I stepped outside after paying, the drunk was waiting for me. He was very angry and got up in my face, demanding that I give him money. I handed him a quarter and he said, “A dollar and a quarter.”
I needed to unlock my bike, so was in a bind. Drunk or not, this guy had clearly been in a lot more fights than I had. I didn’t want to give him $1 because by this point, I hated him, and it was more like getting robbed than doing someone a favor. Luckily, just then a friend of his walked up and said, “What are you, begging for money again, Ronald? Begging? Dogs beg, man.”
This gave me a chance to unlock my bike and ride away.
August 21, 1989
Emerald Isle
I was up by eight thirty this morning and we were all out on the beach an hour later: Mom, Amy, Tiffany, and me. Mom was in a terrific mood and talked about her father, who was an alcoholic but a cheery one. Whenever Mom or Aunt Joyce came home late with friends, he’d get out of bed and cook for everyone, make spaghetti sauce, pies, anything anyone wanted. He’d fill the tub with water and let ducklings splash around in it. As a teenager, Mom was allowed two sweaters per winter, but she sweat so badly that they were ruined in no time.
August 27, 1989
Raleigh
I rode home from the beach with S., and on the way we stopped at Pappy’s Army Surplus. One of the Tshirts they’re selling pictures a handgun and the words SMITH & WESSON, THE BEST IN FEMININE PROTECTION.
While looking around, I learned that last Christmas, S.’s sister-in-law sent her a half-eaten box of candy. The year before that, she gave her a broken jewelry box made of stained glass.
September 22, 1989
Chicago
I went to Barbara’s Bookstore to hear Russell Banks talk about his new novel, Affliction. I’d read Continental Drift, Searching for Survivors, Success Stories, Trailerpark, and The New World and liked them all. He wore tan-colored slacks, a striped shirt, a sport coat, and loafers and read for twenty minutes. Afterward I bought the book and stood to get it signed. The first woman in line told Russell Banks that she’d tried to get his phone number from Richard Ford’s wife, but since Ford’s wife couldn’t find it, she’d decided to come in person and give him a list of questions she’d like answered. The man behind her went into a lengthy explanation of why he himself writes and was very particular about the inscription he wanted. I was next in line, and just as I opened my mouth a woman appeared with a paperback copy of Continental Drift and said, “Excuse me, hi! It says on the back that this is a novel about American life. Is that true?”
He said politely that it was not a novel about all of American life, but, sure, it had Americans in it.
I never know what to say when I’m getting a book signed.
September 26, 1989
Chicago
I asked my beginning writing students to compose fan letters, and today we read them out loud in class. Most were sincere in the way I hoped they’d be, but one kid’s amounted to hate mail and was addressed to his mother. He wrote about being shit out of her cunt. Then he reminded her that he was not her fucking boyfriend, and on and on. Afterward no one knew what to say.
My fan letter was to Joy Williams.
September 27, 1989
Chicago
Ted called last night. “All my life I’ve been looking for Mr. Right, and here I’ve wound up with Mr. Wong,” he said, referring to his new boyfriend, James Wong, who is from Hong Kong. Ted’s sister, meanwhile, has started playing guitar and singing gospel songs, mainly in malls.
October 10, 1989
Chicago
I worked four different jobs this week—school, Betty, Evelyne, and Shirley—and during the last three of them, I fantasized about moving to New York and living in the apartment of that drug dealer I visited last June. It wasn’t huge, just a one-bedroom on the third floor facing the street. In my fantasy, people come to visit me, but I don’t have time to see them because I’m so busy. Because of the book I’ve had published, I am often recognized when I go out. I am very trim and lots of people call me. I don’t know how I’d ever get the drug dealer’s apartment or, more important, the book. There’s still a lot to work out.
October 24, 1989
Chicago
Today in class I wrote Spotlight on Love on the blackboard. Then I drew a spotlight aimed at the words to show I meant business. “Today I’d like us to talk about breakups,” I said, rightly figuring that everyone had a story to tell.