The night before that, I performed at P.S. 122 as part of their Avant-Garde-Arama. The house was sold out, and though we were told to limit ourselves to twenty minutes, most people went on much longer—a trio of girls, for instance, who slowly rolled a hundred oranges across the floor.
I’m having a bad run as far as readings are concerned. I was bad at the Nuyorican and bad at P.S. 122. Next Monday I’m at La MaMa, and then Ward-Nasse, followed by a benefit, followed by two weeks of Orchid Shows, and then another gallery. I stretch myself too thin and wind up with tiny houses.
November 1, 1991
New York
Hugh and I moved into our new apartment last night, but I screwed up and we won’t have phone service until the twelfth, and that’s if we’re lucky. I thought they could turn it on from some office somewhere, but instead they have to make a special trip that should have been scheduled weeks ago. I was supposed to do this last month but I didn’t. I fucked up.
After paying this month’s rent and giving Rusty the money I owed him, I’m left with $40. I might make some at La MaMa this week, but without a way for people to call me, I’m screwed.
November 3, 1991
New York
Amy and I met Jeff and Tina for a drink last night at El Teddy’s, the fancy Mexican place in Tribeca that sometimes feels exciting and sometimes feels awful. Last night it was the latter. I was standing in front of a woman who was seated at the bar, waiting on friends, and said to her, “Excuse me,” as I reached over and dunked a tortilla chip in salsa. I then put it in my mouth and was chewing away when she said, “Hey, you got tomato stains on my pants.”
I looked down and watched as she stabbed at the red spots with a wet napkin. She was super-angry, like this was the last straw. Her friends weren’t showing up, the place was too crowded, and now some idiot had spilled salsa on her new tan slacks.
“Oh, gosh,” I said. “I’m terribly sorry about your pants.” With the letter p, a shard of tortilla chip flew from my mouth right into the corner of her eye. I couldn’t believe it.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” she said. “Now you spit on me!”
She wanted me dead, and it only got worse when her friends showed up. I caught her pointing at me, the creep who ruined her outfit and then spat on her.
November 5, 1991
New York
I talked to Mom this afternoon, called her from Alba’s phone. She’s lost six pounds this week. The chemo and radiation make her nauseated and she recently finished a meal after going five days without one. She checks her comb for hairs that have fallen out but so far hasn’t found any. I’d expected her to be down and depressed, but she was full of good hospital stories.
November 9, 1991
New York
It costs 10 cents to enter the children’s zoo in Central Park so I bought a ticket and saw a litter of albino mice gathered around their mother. There were twenty-two of them, newborn and hairless, pink like pencil erasers. Later I walked to the library and came away with the new Ronnie Milsap biography. “Your mother’s twin,” I said to Hugh when I got home, though of course she looks nothing like him. Ronnie Milsap is blind. His grandfather’s name was Homer Frisbee.
Our neighbor Helen came to the door this morning holding a takeout carton filled with chicken. Hugh was written on top of it in big letters. The other day she brought him a pound of sausage. The day before that it was a turkey meat loaf and a gallon of milk. Hugh gave her a dozen roses, but she returned them, saying she’s allergic. It seems important that no one ever repays her, that the other person is always in her debt. Last week she accepted a few flashlight batteries but that was a first.
“What do you say?” she growled after handing me the chicken this morning. “You say, ‘Thank you, Helen.’”
She’s something else, this woman.
I worked for Alba, who was sick, throwing up all day. At a party last night she had eleven Bellinis, those peach-and-Prosecco cocktails. These were followed by three tallboys. Yikes. You’d think an adult would know better: Beer on wine, you’re fine. Wine on beer, stand clear. But eleven Prosecco cocktails should not precede anything, not even a twelfth.
November 14, 1991
Raleigh
Mom died last night, suddenly, of pneumonia brought on by her chemotherapy. Amy called to tell me, and now we’re all in Raleigh. Dad gave us the option of seeing her laid out at the funeral home, but I was afraid to go. We all were. How strange to be in her house and see her things—the half-worked crossword puzzle, her mail and stockings. She didn’t expect to die yesterday, did she?
When it happened, Hugh and I were in our kitchen in New York. He was making manicotti and talking about a wooden chicken he’d bought when I got socked by the weirdest feeling. I thought that Hugh was going to die, and I must have said something because he accused me of being dramatic. I can’t believe this has happened.
November 21, 1991
New York
The other night we were visited by Father Regis, the new priest at the Greek Orthodox church. He came to get an idea of what our mother was like and took a cue from the unfinished thousand-piece puzzle spread out across the dining-room table. For the past few days we’ve been working on it—just something to do with our hands as we sat around talking. “Oh,” the priest said when he saw us. “I see you’re finishing this in memory of your dear departed mother, God rest her soul.”
He made it sound so hokey.
November 22, 1991
New York
I had elf training today, from one to four. The filmstrips about safety and theft I remember from last year, but there was a new one about shoplifting narrated by a guy in prison. The walls of his cell were scarred and ugly, and after he spoke we heard from the cashier who had seen him steal and alerted security, thereby earning a $500 bonus.
For most of the day I sat beside Richard, whom I met last year. He’s older than me but lives with his parents. All his talk is about cute guys.
November 23, 1991
New York
I really outdid myself last night. After three martinis, five beers, and two joints, I fell asleep on the kitchen floor. There was a sofa three feet away, but I couldn’t manage the walk, I guess. I’ve been getting high since Thursday, and the drinking is out of control. Since waking up I’ve felt like shit—headache, hot flashes, chills—and to make it worse, I spent the day on a scaffold, helping Mark and Lily paint a restaurant. I was hoping that maybe I’d fall, get amnesia, and forget that I drink.
December 2, 1991
New York
Someone threw up outside of SantaLand and covered it over with a paper bag. I saw the bag lying there on the floor, and when I picked it up I got vomit on my hands.
December 22, 1991
New York
SantaLand is filthy now. I loaded a large bag with trash this morning: disposable diapers filled with crap, cans, bottles, mittens, destroyed bits of the various displays. Yesterday a woman had her son pee into a cup, which of course tipped over. “That’s fine,” I said, “but Santa’s also going to need a stool sample.”
December 31, 1991