Bart and I went to Long Island City to clean the loft that was used to film a recent Marilyn Chambers movie. The crew finished yesterday, and I went, expecting to find a lot of semen. On our way, Bart told me that many years earlier, while working in fashion, he was sent on business to Tucson. One thing led to another and on his second night, he wound up drunk and stranded. It was downtown, late, and as he tried to find a cab, a car stopped and offered him a ride. The people inside were Mexican, so he brought out all his high school Spanish, saying, “Muchas gracias” and “Su automóvil es muy grande y bonito tambien.”
The driver passed Bart’s hotel and took him into the desert. There the group of four beat Bart beyond recognition. They broke his nose. They held him down and kicked him in the ribs and stomach. They drove Bart’s bloody face into the dirt, and when he ran away, he fell into a cactus. One of the men had taken his room key, so while Bart crawled bleeding across the dark road, they went to his hotel and stole everything. Afterward his nose was so swollen he couldn’t wear glasses. The medical report stated his blood-alcohol level, and when his boss learned of it, he fired him.
The loft was the entire floor of a building owned by an interior decorator. A pale fellow with a ponytail gave us a roll of paper towels, some Windex, and a spray bottle of oil soap. It wasn’t much, but aside from two sofas and a copper bathtub, the loft was empty. I swept for an hour and a half and then mopped for an hour and a half.
While mopping, I imagined that I was in the navy and was cleaning a battleship. When that wore off, I pretended that this was my loft, though it lasted only a few minutes, as who wants to live in Queens? The only thing I came across was a small triangle of fabric attached to some fishing wire. It was smeared with makeup, so I guess it was—what, a costume?
May 20, 1993
New York
This morning Bart told me about a woman he used to clean for. “The filthiest house I’ve ever seen,” he said.
I asked how filthy and he told me that the first time he vacuumed her carpet, he collected $38 in change. He knew the exact amount because he kept it.
June 10, 1993
New York
At around midnight Hugh and I took a walk, ending up at the park on Thompson and Spring, where we sat and ate some ice cream. As we were doing so, two young men came around the corner. One of them said to the other, “I need to talk about this shit now.” To punctuate, he used his elbow to smash the window of a parked car. The guy’s friend walked to an empty table, and after standing there for a moment and rubbing his elbow, the guy who’d smashed the window joined him.
I came home and called the police, who said, “Would you like to leave your name, ma’am?”
The police always think I’m a woman.
June 19, 1993
New York
I talked to Paul this morning. While on the phone, he told me he was scrubbing his toes with a pumice stone, trying to rub away some Magic Marker.
“Why do you have Magic Marker on your toes?” I asked.
He told me that on Thursday night he’d attended a Live After Five concert on the mall in Raleigh. There he had five beers. These were followed later by shots in some bar, and that’s the last thing he remembers. The next day he was covered with Magic Marker. His friends did it, and though it’s a pain to wipe off, he still feels lucky. “The last guy who passed out had a bull’s-eye painted on his butt and a Cheeto stuffed up his asshole.”
June 21, 1993
New York
Amy has moved into a new apartment in Chicago, and last night she called to tell me about it. She lives above a husband and wife, a couple in their mid-forties who are taking care of their infant granddaughter, Amber. The woman, Brandi, has a shag haircut and several tattoos, one of which reads Brandi loves…The name has been rubbed out. Her son is twenty-five, and his wife walked out on him after the baby was born.
“And you never saw her again?” Amy asked.
“Oh, she came around once, but my son beat the shit out of her and tolt her never to come back,” Brandi explained.
The son is now planning to marry a thirty-year-old prostitute. “I tolt him, you find a good piece of ass, you should stick to it.”
Brandi has trouble sleeping and often comes up to complain about the noise Amy makes. Yesterday she said, “If you don’t turn down that radio I’ll break your legs.”
June 22, 1993
New York
Last night I went to the park to buy some pot. I told Hugh I was walking to the store for milk, but my long absence must have tipped him off. I came home to find a sign taped to the front door of our apartment that read NO DRUGS. He’d put up the chain and I explained through the crack that I had gone for milk and run into Dale on the way back.
“And what did you two talk about?” he asked.
“Oh, this and that.” The only Dale I know is an obese, ragged-looking dog Hugh and I saw in the park a few months ago. It was me who decided that’s what his name was, and I refer to him all the time. “I got another letter from Dale,” I’ll say. “He told me to tell you hello.”
I should have thought of another name, as this did nothing to get me back into the house.
July 1, 1993
New York
Because of the radio, the New York Times is doing a profile on me. Yesterday the reporter called Amy, who said, “I’m not telling you shit about that son of a bitch until he pays for that abortion he made me have.”
July 2, 1993
New York
I was drunk and stoned, watching the twenty-four-hour Twilight Zone marathon at three a.m., when a commercial came on. The man in it pointed his finger at me and said, “What are you doing watching TV this time of night? You’re drunk, you’re stoned, you’re a wreck, and you’re destroying the lives of everyone around you.”
It was like he could see me.
1994
January 8, 1994
New York
Stitches (our play) opened Thursday night to an audience of fifty. La MaMa can squeeze in 120, so this wasn’t so bad. Friday was sold out, as was tonight. The Times came last night; tonight it was Newsday and the Voice. I want to tell them we were just joking. It’s not a real play, it’s what comes from doodling while you’re holding a bong. Whatever they have to say, it’s out of my control now and in the hands of the actors. My job is to play the host and greet people at the door as they enter.
January 11, 1994
New York
It seems that Amy and I have pulled this off. Today the reviews came out in the Times, Newsday, and the Voice. Newsday was great and said good things about everyone, especially Amy. The Times criticized the play for being too long, but other than that the review was fantastic. La MaMa has extended our run and said that several producers have called about possibly moving us to a bigger theater. I can’t believe people took us seriously. Amy and I got everything we wanted from this show: the Talent Family name used in reviews, big crowds, an extension. Since opening week, we’ve cut out seven minutes and rewritten two scenes. This is just the happiest day.
January 18, 1994
New York
The New York Daily News review came out yesterday and reads, in part, “As any nine-year-old can tell you, there’s nothing quite so funny as a face hideously deformed by bungled plastic surgery, unless it’s the spectacle of an amputee trying to play the guitar. For those of you who are forever nine, the greatest gross-out in New York right now, the show in the worst possible taste—is Stitches.”
January 30, 1994