Paris
Last night at nine I was in a theater at Les Halles watching The Talented Mr. Ripley and this morning at nine I was lying on a hospital gurney with an IV in my arm. At eight a.m. I was fine and then, wham, a kidney stone. Hugh is in Normandy, so I had to find a hospital on my own. I used the phone book, and after deciding which one to go to, I looked in the dictionary. I always referred to a kidney as a rognon, but it turns out that’s an animal kidney. A human one is le rein. I’d also been using the word for rock rather than stone, though in this case, I just say calcul.
While riding the Métro I gave serious thought to passing out, or at least pretending to. People would have come to my aid. I’d have been taken care of. With this much pain, though, I couldn’t possibly have faked being unconscious.
The drugs they gave me at the hospital were delicious and served in an IV. The effect was immediate, like turning off a spigot. I haven’t been fucked up since I quit drinking. For the past 353 days, I’ve been the same from the moment I wake up until I go to bed. The IV made me remember why I so love drugs. It also reminded me that when I’m on drugs, I only want more.
March 15, 2000
Paris
Hugh returned from New York with a present. I’d hoped for a carton of cigarettes, but instead it’s an iMac computer, the kind that Amy has, but blue instead of orange. I tried to be grateful but am actually having a hard time working up much enthusiasm. It seems inevitable that everyone eventually will have a computer, but I’d hoped to put it off as long as possible. Hugh taught me to turn the thing off and on, but that’s enough of a lesson for today.
March 24, 2000
Paris
Hugh and I went to dinner with my French agent Michelle Lapautre, her husband, René, and Mavis Gallant, whom I met last fall through Steven. I didn’t expect her to remember me, but she did. She even remembered what we’d talked about. At one point she asked about Hugh’s mother and her relationship with the man she came to Paris with a few years back, the one who was happy just to sit in his hotel room and watch CNN. “He sounded dreadful,” Mavis said. “Oh, I just hate people like that. Skip ahead and tell me how she finally got rid of him. Did she write him a letter? Did she say it to his face? Tell!”
March 25, 2000
Paris
Hugh printed out my French medical story. I don’t like the way the pages look, but I suppose I’ll get used to them, just as I’m adapting to the laptop he bought me. It’s so different. On a typewriter, when you run out of things to say, you get up and clean the bathtub. On a computer, you scroll down your list of fonts or make little boxes. It scares me to say it, but I think I’m going to miss my laptop while I’m away. Suddenly I can see what everyone’s been talking about for the past fifteen years.
March 26, 2000
New York
On the plane from Paris I heard a man say, “The first thing I’m going to do when I get home is order a Big Gulp. I’m going to supersize everything!” He said he’d been thirsty the entire time he was in Paris, and though I’d never thought about it, if you’re used to carrying a trash-can-size cup filled with crushed ice and soda, I suppose it would be hard to spend a few weeks in Europe.
March 30, 2000
New York
I met Ken Simon for lunch. Putnam is located in the Saatchi building, and while he finished making a phone call, I waited in the reception area. Three Mexicans came in while I was seated there, each of them holding a large platter of food. A young woman was paged, and a few minutes later she approached the three, saying, “Did you guys bring the extra tuna salad?”
She spoke very quickly and I could tell by the Mexicans’ faces that they had no idea what she was talking about. They wore the same lost, dopey expressions I wear half the time in Paris. It was clear they didn’t understand her, and in response the woman spoke faster. “OK, guys, why don’t you set up in conference room B.”
The men remained where they were, and she interpreted this to mean that they didn’t do setups. “Oh, guys, come on, I am super-busy today.”
The men didn’t seem to realize they were in a publishing house. The highlighted list of New York Times bestsellers meant nothing to them, and again I identified completely.
April 6, 2000
Key West
The way I see it, there are at least four separate Key Wests. One consists of people with gum disease who carry parrots on their shoulders. The second is gay; the third is young people with tattoos; and the fourth is made up of tourists. I saw the creepy Key West yesterday afternoon when I walked to the end of Duvall Street to buy a correcting ribbon. Every other storefront was an emporium for Tshirts, the worst of them reading:
I Love to Fart in Key West
Spring Fucking Break in Key West
My [Aunt/Grandma/Parents/etc.] Bought Me This T-Shirt Because [He/She/They] Love[s] Me
Shut Up and Fish
Farting Is Just My Way of Saying I Love You
Just Do Me
God Created Adam and Eve, Not Adam and Steve
Queen of the Fucking Universe
Bad Dog’s Guide to Pussy
Why Go to High School When You Can Go to School High
If Assholes Could Fly, This Place Would Be an Airport
I Say No to Drugs but They Don’t Listen
Dry Skin? Free Hand Lotion [with an arrow pointing down to crotch]
Out of My Mind—Back in Five Minutes
Real Men Don’t Need Viagra
I’m Not a Bitch, I’m the Bitch
The Only Time My Wife Stops Talking Is When Her Mother Starts
I Used Up All My Sick Days So I’m Calling in Dead
Shut the Hell Up
Fuck You
April 23, 2000
New York
Amy and I were near her apartment, walking up Charles Street, when we passed two teenagers graffitiing a mailbox. Like everyone I’ve ever seen tagging public property, they were white and middle class. I don’t think black people even do that anymore. They just get blamed for it. One of the boys said hello and when I scowled, he followed with “Do you disapprove? Well, you can just suck my dick.”
I didn’t respond, and for the rest of the evening it bothered me. I doubt I could have said anything that would have stopped them, but still, I wish I’d tried. Then I wish I’d shot them.
April 29, 2000
Paris
This evening at dinner I watched an aggressive American couple tell a group of French people to put out their cigarettes. Occasionally, when tourists ask for the nonsmoking section, the waiter will remove the ashtray from their table and say, “Voilà!”