New York
Before catching the plane to Raleigh on Christmas Eve, I worked. We were packed, and I photo-elfed for five and a half hours before getting my break. At the beginning I was paired with Santa Howard. He always asks the children what they plan on leaving him, and I laughed when a kid hesitated a moment before saying, “Matches?”
Actually, for a pipe smoker, it’s not a bad little gift.
Christmas was hard. Luckily Hugh was there to help with the cooking. When Mom was around, we’d remain at the dinner table for hours, but this year we all scattered the moment we finished eating. Included in this year’s gifts were many things our mother had bought us, mainly from catalogs, which was rattling.
Dad wants to talk about her death—he needs to—but unlike the rest of us, who yak incessantly about our feelings, he has no vocabulary for it and is reduced to the clichés you’d find on a sympathy card. It’s like not knowing a language.
He also doesn’t know how to shop.
1992
January 13, 1992
New York
Looking into the future lately, I see nothing but a mess. I think I peaked in 1988, and it’s all downhill now. How awful, to decline this way. What makes young people young is that they see themselves going up, up, up. Not me, though. I’m old now.
January 15, 1992
New York
From nine to three I moved furniture and from four to eight I sanded floors, so I’m beat but glad to have worked and made $90. In the morning I was with Richie and learned that he lives with a man named Herman who is gay and has AIDS and owns a satanic-supply shop. Herman has a thing for convicts and is currently courting one of the defendants in the Howard Beach case. Richie, who has been in prison himself, lives rent-free and takes care of the dogs. He has a voice like Jackie Gleason’s, so it surprised me to learn that he was gay. It seems he has appeared in several pornographic movies. “I’m a top,” he said. “I know everybody says that, but I really am.”
January 20, 1992
Bridgehampton, New York
I woke up to snow this morning. While Hugh and Lily painted, I continued the Elvis Presley biography. Toward the end of his life, they practically needed a crane to lift him out of bed. He was so doped up and obese and out of it. His windows were covered to keep things dark. Drugs had paralyzed his colon, so he had to take lots of laxatives. Often he shit in his sleep. His bedroom smelled awful and he hated taking baths and showers. He was just this lump, apparently, not mean or cruel. Reading the book, you can’t help but feel sorry for him. If I were that wealthy I’d probably be the same and take drugs until I died.
Lying in bed last night, I imagined that Elvis said to me, “David, I need your help.”
So I said, “All right,” and together we turned his life around. Elvis used to eat a pound of bacon every morning along with a six-egg Spanish omelet and biscuits. At night he’d have many cheeseburgers and loads of mashed potatoes with gravy. He’d talk and watch TV while he ate, and when his food got cold he’d call out for more.
February 9, 1992
New York
Hugh sat me down today and said, gently, that while I whine and sulk, I don’t do much of anything when it comes to finding steady work. “Do you think that someone’s going to knock on the door and offer you a job?”
And I said that of course that’s what I thought. Doesn’t he know anything? I don’t make things happen—that’s not my way. Rather, I wait around and settle for whatever comes along.
February 10, 1992
New York
Admin Asst Dream Job
WORK FOR A STAR Gal/Guy Friday
all around exec asst.
Answer fan mail
Admin duties. Lite typing
MADEMOISELLE 16 E 40th St
I saw this in the New York Times and thought, Honestly, that is my dream job—answering fan mail at Mademoiselle magazine. I shaved, threw on clean clothes, and went to apply, not feeling intimidated the way I normally do but thinking, Out of my way. This is mine. I suppose I wondered who at the magazine got fan mail, but it didn’t really matter. Whatever the letter, I’d answer it. Mainly I pictured Hugh’s face when I greeted him with the news: “I got a job, and it’s perfect.”
When I arrived at the office and saw fifteen other people applying, I still wasn’t worried. The application asked what experience I had and listed various computer programs. Did I know Lotus? Quark? Would I be interested in paying $70 to take a class in either one of these? The room was big and we sat on a built-in sofa as the movie The Fabulous Baker Boys played on two TV sets. I heard the receptionist call someone’s name, then say, “You can step in now for your typing test.”
Furious clattering noises came from the place where the test was being administered, and I thought, Fuck. After thirteen years, I can still only type with one finger. I’m fast with it, but I can’t lift my eyes from the keyboard. Taking a test was out of the question, so I approached the receptionist. She asked what job I was applying for, and when I said answering fan mail, she said I needn’t worry. “Just sit back down.”
When I was called for my interview, the woman, whose last name was Pizza, told me that the job was already taken. “But have you temped before?” That’s when I realized this was Mademoiselle Temporary Services, not Mademoiselle magazine. I told her I hadn’t taken the typing test and she said sometimes companies just wanted someone to answer the phone. That said, they’d probably want someone with a nice voice and the face to go with it.
“Thanks anyway,” I said.
When I got back to the apartment, the phone rang. It was Dad, who told me I should try to get work as a model. I told him he was being ridiculous and he said no, he’d just been at the barbershop and saw a GQ magazine with a guy on the cover who looked just like me. So I went to the newsstand and found a copy and the person on the cover was not a model but Gary Oldman.
February 11, 1992
New York
On Friday at two thirty I have an appointment at the World Trade Center, a part-time job moving furniture around in an office. I get these little fantasies going. Passing some place or other, I’ll think of working there, and then suddenly it’s as if I have the job. And it’s a great place. Everyone’s friendly and terrific.
I passed the Duplex on 7th and Christopher and saw a sign announcing that Wednesday was comedy night. So I came home and called to ask how it worked. Did they audition people? The guy told me to phone back the next day and talk to Colette, who runs something called Stars of Tomorrow.
Hugh says if I do it, he’ll leave me. Meanwhile, Mike Tyson has been convicted of rape. I’ve always thought of him as the sexiest guy in the world, so it’s hard to imagine him forcing himself on anyone.
February 12, 1992