After the American woman left, I looked at a book Alba and her business partner had recently published. I remarked that it was beautifully bound and printed, and Alba sighed, saying, “I am tired now of beauty.”
My understanding is that the press is more or less a hobby for her. There are parts she enjoys and parts she avoids. I would take care of what she avoids. I admitted that I type with only one finger and have never in my life touched a computer.
The last person who worked for her was paid $10 an hour. She offered me $7. I said that wasn’t enough and she told me she’d be talking to some other people.
John Smith is in town and last night we went to the Tunnel Bar. Just before leaving, I stepped in to use the bathroom, which is just one toilet in a room. There is a sink as well, and standing beside it was a fellow I’d seen earlier. He asked my name and then said, “I’ll tell you what I’m going to do, Dave. Do you like having your toes sucked?”
I wanted to say, That’s David. Nobody calls me Dave, but I was so shocked by his question I couldn’t do anything but look down at my feet.
“I was watching you in the other room, Dave, and stepped in here hoping we could talk. Now here we are, talking.”
I turned to leave and he put his foot in front of the door, blocking it. “Just hear me out, Dave, because I think you’re really going to like what I have to say. What size shoes are those you’re wearing?”
I told him they were a 7? and that my feet are perfectly flat.
“Good,” he said. “Small, flat feet equals big cock.”
That’s the most ridiculous equation I’ve ever heard, I thought.
“I bet you’ve got a very veiny cock, don’t you, Dave?”
“No more than anyone else,” I said. “I mean, I don’t know. I never thought about it.”
“It’s got a lot of blue veins, doesn’t it, Dave?”
“I don’t—”
“Let’s just say that it does, OK, Dave?” He told me he was going to take my shoes off and start by sucking my toes, slowly, and that his upper teeth would tap just slightly against my nails—not biting, mind you.
“We don’t even know each other,” I argued. “Besides, I’m here with a friend visiting from out of town.”
“No problem,” he said. “I’ll do everything to him that I plan to do to you.”
He wouldn’t unblock the door until I promised to take it up with John, who was standing out front waiting for me and who said, “What took you so long?” when I finally found him.
February 11, 1991
New York
I took part in three Orchid Shows at P.S. 122. They were all sold out, and the audiences were kind and responsive. On Friday Andy from One Life to Live was in the audience. She plays Max Holden’s sister and gave me her autograph, which read, To David. You were wonderful. Please write for our show.
I can’t believe it!
A number of bookers for clubs were there, and the head of P.S. 122 invited me back. Then there were guys, most of whom were dandelions. That’s my name for men with short hair dyed yellow. They almost always have two pierced ears and wear leather jackets. The uniform makes them unappealing to me. That’s what’s good about Hugh. He’s his own person, lookswise.
After last night’s event I came home and found $350 worth of traveler’s checks I’d never cashed. I was paid $100 per night for the shows, so if I budget, I can pay rent and last at least a short while longer.
February 24, 1991
New York
Today the United States began its ground war in Kuwait. Saddam Hussein said the American troops would drown in their own blood, but they met no opposition and took five thousand prisoners. It’s strange to see the war from New York. I’ve noticed a surprising number of yellow ribbons and posters of American flags with the words THESE COLORS DON’T RUN printed beneath them. Then too you hear “No blood for oil” a lot.
March 3, 1991
New York
I have to get these sculptures off to the Renaissance Society, and I asked Hugh over to take a look and advise me on finishes. He is very handsome, a hard worker, thoughtful. His dad was a diplomat so the family left Kentucky when Hugh was a kid and lived in Ethiopia and Somalia and the Congo. He lived in Paris for five years after graduating from college and is here now, painting.
Hugh looked at the sculptures and said, “Just oil them.”
Then we joined Lily, Hugh’s roommates, and another couple at a place in Little Italy. Someone or other knew the bartender, who charged us $20 for $150 worth of drinks. Hugh and I flirted all night. Is that the right word? I drank out of his glass and got him to say that he hated me, which usually means the opposite.
At the end of the night he said he’d call me later this week. Then he left with Scott and Leslie. I left with Lily in the opposite direction, and when I turned around to look at him, I saw that he’d turned around as well. It was romantic.
March 15, 1991
New York
The Village Voice came out with me in the Choices section. “North Carolina transplant David Sedaris reads his wry, hilarious stories and diaries, withering social comedy leavened by an emphatic eye for the soulful ridiculousness of our behavior.” I’ll never know why they chose me, but still it’s nice. I got the name of the guy who wrote it and have already sent a thank-you letter.
March 16, 1991
New York
I’m down to $190 and am starting to panic. In this situation, I have no business buying pot, but that’s what I did. Scotch too.
March 19, 1991
New York
I worked today for Alba. The person she hired instead of me didn’t pan out, so she called this morning and I was at the Chelsea Hotel by noon. She’d planned for us to spend the day going through the files, but then Cy Twombly invited her to lunch, so I was here on my own. I went through the papers she wanted me to go through and filled out a quarterly tax form. I’ve never in my life done anything remotely close to that. In the end I called an accountant twice. Then I phoned the New York State tax board and asked them what was 8? percent of $25. The woman said, “I’m sorry, ma’am, but we can’t tell you that.”
Eventually Alba returned from lunch. We were supposed to bring boxes to the house she just bought, a whole house on Bleecker Street, but then Herbert Huncke came to visit. I understand that he’s famous, but I’ve never read any of his writing. The guy is old and in poor health. He spoke slowly and told a dull story. Then a young guy came by and I didn’t much care for him. He dropped a lot of names and seemed annoyed that I didn’t already know who he was.
March 21, 1991
New York
On this, the first day of spring, I am able to shop around and find chicken for 59 cents per pound, coffee for $2.99 a pound, and spaghetti on sale—two boxes for $1. Tonight I’ll have chicken with some squid-ink linguine Hugh brought me. It’s black.
This spring I am, if I’m not mistaken, in love.