Читать книгу The Diary of a Rapist - Evan S. Connell - Страница 9

FEBRUARY 1

Celebration being planned for Washington’s Birthday. Parade to start in North Beach, ending at Aquatic Park, where they’re going to have speeches plus a big program of entertainment including appearances by a former governor, several Hollywood actors, folk-dance group, high-school band that won the state tournament, etc., etc. I guess the chamber of commerce must be sponsoring it. Emphasis seems to be on patriotism as well as other qualities that have made America great. Admit to feeling a bit cynical considering what happens every day. Read the paper, listen to newscasts, choose your own examples. Another abortion death in the Tenderloin, police picked up a bartender who they think did it. She didn’t have enough to go to Mexico or Sweden or wherever the rich ones go to get it done. Drug addicts everywhere, pretty soon we’ll have more than China. Or take that old man they caught molesting children—64 years old the paper says but he looks twice that. Stains on his vest, suit rumpled, alcoholic if I’m any sort of judge. Probably never amounted to much, not even when he was young. Guess he’s trying to remember Youth before he dies. They say he breaks into fits of weeping but otherwise doesn’t show much sign of regret, in fact hardly knows why they’re keeping him in jail. He wants to go home. Scratches his grizzled cheek & looks puzzled. They’re thinking about moving him to a different jail because of the mob outside—people frothing at the mouth they’re so anxious to lynch him. Looks to me like one unimportant old man all by himself has thrown an awful scare into every bloody mother’s son. As if by killing him—oh well, what’s it to me! The country’s stuffed as full as a baked lobster with the turds of Greatness. No business of mine, here it is Friday night, the weekend coming. I ought to be deciding how to enjoy myself. Soon enough the cycle starts again.

Five minutes ago Bianca knocked at the door. That noise is like a needle shot into my brain. She does it on purpose. Always has an excuse, needs to talk to me about something when actually she’s just exasperated because I’d rather sit here by myself than do whatever it is she wants me to do. Bothering me gives her quite a lot of satisfaction, but if she had any idea what thoughts come into my head on account of it she’d quit. The celebrated intuitions of women are a myth, nothing but a courtesy we’ve granted them. If she keeps doing that I’ll cut her into 67 pieces and have myself a shishkabob. Suck the marrow of her bones just as she’s sucking at my soul.

Ho hum! Guess I might attend that Aquatic Park show on the 22nd. It could be worth seeing and I’ll be in a better mood.

FEBRUARY 2

Saturday’s ended. Those two schoolgirls were here, ugly scene I don’t want to think about. Put it out of mind, Earl. It’s over. Won’t happen again.

FEBRUARY 3

Dozed awhile this afternoon and dreamed I was standing on the edge of a high building with huge crowd below—everybody waiting to see whether I was going to jump or fall or be saved. A priest and a police officer were trying to stop me from jumping. The motive of the policeman was clear enough, and he didn’t bother to dispise his indifference about what happened to me, just told me to get down off the ledge and nobody would hurt me. But I remember being suspicious of the priest. God loves you—that’s what I heard him say. “What God? What God?” I answered. Then he opened his mouth and spoke again, but he didn’t say a word.

Well, Earl, apparently you didn’t jump, you lived through one more day—for whatever it’s worth. It wasn’t worth much. Foggy & cold, even now. And tomorrow’s not apt to bring surprises.

FEBRUARY 4

Shows how wrong you can be! This A.M. on the way to work I found $5. I thought it was a trick. Saw the bill lying in the gutter at the corner of Van Ness. It looked as bright as the moon but I walked several more steps with eyes straight ahead thinking some people around there were waiting to laugh at anybody who tried to pick it up. Then stopped and casually rubbed my jaw, glanced back, nobody paying any attention, so I just walked over and picked it up and calmly walked away. Scared to death, expecting a hand on my shoulder every instant. Twenty-six years and I guess this is about the first luck I ever had. Should be pleased—finding $5!—but I’m not. At first I was excited, could hardly keep from dancing. Not now. $5 worth of luck.

FEBRUARY 5

Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow until the end of recorded time! Simple promises accepted by simple men. What an imbecile I am to accept this life. Yes Earl, honestly how do you like it? How do you like knowing that every single one of them—even the stupidest—even those that can’t so much as sign their own name!—how do you like knowing every one of them earns more money than you do? The ones with a 3rd grade education, Earl, they earn 18% more per hour than you do. Well, maybe you’d better take another look at yourself Mr. Summerfield! What do you intend to do about it? Complain to Mr. Foxx?

Why do I goad myself!—not a thing in the world I can do. Not a thing. I was so positive I’d be climbing right up through the ranks of the Bureau, positive that by this time I’d have an office of my own with a private secretary. Five years ago I thought I’d be on a level with Foxx by now, the truth is I haven’t advanced a step. Don’t understand it. I conduct more interviews than anybody else in the department—Fensdeicke told me so. Also, very few errors. This information must be on record somewhere, therefore why don’t they promote me? Suppose that in fact I could speak to Foxx about it. Perhaps all that’s necessary is bringing the matter to somebody’s attention. He could write a memo to whoever his superior is in Sacramento. Certainly wouldn’t do any harm. My career’s at a standstill, to say the least. I’m being wasted. Maybe the Bureau’s just too big. People can often be overlooked no matter how efficiently they perform, or how badly. Well, I might just throw a rock through the front window and wait to see if that has any effect—doubt if it would. Sometimes get the feeling I could pick up a gun and shoot Fensdeicke dead on the spot, it would be noted on one of the files and that would be the end of the matter.

Waiting for summer. Long way off.

FEBRUARY 6

Vandals got into a house on Geary street last night, not far from here. Owner out of the city. Neighbors reported lights, noises, police discovered most of the furniture broken—sawed to pieces, hacked, mattresses ripped apart, mirrors shattered, paint poured into the washing machine, dishes thrown against walls, lighting fixtures pulled out, carpets burned & cut, shoes & garments stuffed into the toilet, bathtub filled and overflowing, etc. Pictures in the morning Chronicle, everybody astonished. At lunch old Clegg shaking his head over it. If he had his way he’d line them up against the wall and call out the firing squad, teach them a lesson. Fensdeicke agreeing, saying it’s “simply dreadful!” She can’t understand how people can behave like that. All I could do to keep from laughing.

FEBRUARY 7

Beginning to think we’ve gotten to be the most savage nation on earth. Not so peaceful and charitable and decent as we claim. Oh no, not quite! Magazine article reports we have 10 times as many murders per capita as England, 9 times as many rapes as Italy, 8 times as many thieves as there are in France. Doesn’t surprise me, I’ve sensed it. Merely walking along the street I’ve sensed America’s savage soul. A thousand explanations, but the fact remains.

FEBRUARY 8

Tempted to keep a scrapbook of monstrous events. Abominations in the sight of the Lord. No end to the examples. This A.M. a man on his way to work stopped by car filled with boys who hit him with tire chains, gouged out one of his eyes, drove away laughing and clapping their hands. Here I sit thinking about it while Bianca calmly studies stock-market reports. Fills me with disgust. In the Book of Tobit they say I used to do many acts of charity for my brothers. I would give bread to the hungry and my clothes to the naked, and if I saw one of my people dead and thrown outside the wall of Nineveh, I would bury him. Oh yes, but that was in the time of Shalmaneser, and I’m different now. How different I am! Weigh my iniquities as well as those of every other inhabitant of the earth—weigh them on scales and which way the movement of the pointer turns will be found out! Disgust is the least word I could use. Spit out the word. I shut my eyes & spit on whoever’s convenient. That’s how it is. No bread to the hungry, clothes I keep for my own use. Let the dead rot in the open city! Yes. And worse. Well, somebody—who? no matter—made a bet with friends, went to a brothel and there in front of them all he got on a whore without taking the hat off his head or taking the cigar out of his mouth. More than a crude boast about virility. Must have been his way of announcing contempt for whatever society holds sacred. Of course there are other ways of proving it. Anyhow, sooner or later we come together side by side, toes pointing stiffly at the sky.

FEBRUARY 9

Glad this day is done! Robin & Twinka here most of the afternoon hunched over their books on the dining-room table. I wasn’t able to keep away from them. Knew there was going to be trouble, couldn’t help myself. Promised myself I would watch television, keep my back turned to them, keep out of the dining room, but heard their voices and my good intentions weren’t worth a gumdrop—sneaking to the door holding my breath, on my knees as low as I could get. They knew I was there. Cocking their legs apart—the dirty sluts. But naturally they pretended not to know anything about it when B came after me. So it’s my fault. I’m to blame, who else! I’m always to blame. As far back as I can remember I’ve been to blame for whatever happened.

Just now occurred to me they must have told her. Of course, otherwise B wouldn’t have noticed. So they did it deliberately, encouraged me—yes, now that I think about it. So they think they can make a fool of me! Well, they’re going to pay for that. I won’t forget. I’ll get even with them, yes, and then some, don’t care how long it takes. I’d like to tie them up tight together, give them a taste of the candle.

I think I could be quite a teacher. Quite a teacher.

FEBRUARY 10

Sunday afternoon and I’ve been out walking, am now downtown in a Market Street coffee shop. Few minutes after 5 P.M. Have a nice table to myself in the corner and can look out at the street. The window’s fly-specked and coffee is not very good but I don’t care, am feeling cheerful. Buttery shafts of light slanting between empty office buildings. I’m sitting here among people who don’t amount to anything at all, yet they presume I’m one of them—no different from them! Maybe that’s why I feel so amused. Just now glanced around. Safe to say not one person in the place has given me a second glance. Certainly am amused. If only they knew! I admit that right now I haven’t been or done anything special, have got a job maybe not much different from other people here, but of course that’s not the point. I’m going to BE somebody one of these days, which means I already AM somebody. Not one of the sweepings of San Francisco, not Earl Summerfield! Look around! Old old women with swollen ankles and battered hats. Toughs with pimples, sideburns, leather boots, rings of keys hooked to their belts—guess they ride motorcycles. They’re Nothing. Not one of them, not a single one is going to be anything else. Get old, paunchy, still try to act tough. Street full of them. And the old gray men turning pages of newspaper they probably picked out of a trash can. See them studying the paper like they expect to come across a notice announcing they’ve been elected to board of directors of Bank of America. Yes, this is where they live, places like this, shabby hotels around the corner, all-night hotdog stands, etc. I feel like getting down on my knees to pray & thank God I’m just a spectator.

Yes indeed Earl Summerfield, you’re feeling all right today. That’s a welcome change. So many days I feel discouraged, resentful. Maybe I pity myself, I shouldn’t. Have good health and a job, can’t expect Everything. I suppose one reason I get angry over trifles is that I’m counting on that supervisor’s job more than I realized. I should get it. I deserve it, although I’m not the first person whose abilities have been neglected. However, I am optimistic. Yes, I am!

Excellent. Return to the apartment, see if B’s at home. Have an honest talk with her. So much has gone wrong between us, but I do love her. Also, I believe she still loves me. She’s right, I’m the one at fault. I’ll try to improve.

FEBRUARY 11

Realize now that we never loved each other. Remembering what she said to me just one minute ago makes me want to cut a piece out of her belly. She doesn’t care if I live or die, in fact she’d rather I was dead. She as much as said so. She’s never loved anybody. But of course I haven’t either. I’m sorry about that, truly am. I’d like to know what it means to be in love with oh, with Anything. Just about Anything on earth, but my opinion is that love eludes certain people.

FEBRUARY 12

Bureau closed on account of Lincoln’s birthday. Began raining at noon & hasn’t let up. I’m sorry the office was closed, don’t know how to occupy myself during the day. Look forward to tomorrow. Fensdeicke stopped at my window just before closing yesterday to say she’s been tabulating the interviews and found that during the past 6 months I’ve made just 11 minor errors, couple of serious ones, plus the usual omissions. Not bad. She had to pretend those 2 were serious but we both understood. It was decent of her to tell me. She wasn’t obliged to. She stopped by to hand along a compliment. That was nice of her. She’s all right. Remarked that she feels my attitude is good, and both she and Mr. Foxx are of the opinion I stand a very good chance of promotion within the year! Well, that made me grin. Class II would mean more money—to say nothing of Prestige. Class II, Earl Summerfield. I like the sound of that. And of course one thing leads to another. Yes, that would be a major step.

FEBRUARY 13

I’m getting fat. One hundred and sixty pounds and I’m embarrassed to set the figure down. Belt has felt tight recently, but deluded myself into thinking it was some sort of temporary indigestion. Felt inflated but thought it was air. Well, apparently not. Cut out the pie and potatoes. Face has been looking fuller & and I noticed that, too, but was unwilling to admit the truth. Working where I do doesn’t help matters. Perched on that stool I can practically feel my rear expanding. I must look like a duck. No wonder, day after day, eight hours motionless as a blob of lard. Then come home to a wretched Instant Supper full of carbohydrates because she doesn’t have time—she claims. Papers to grade, et cetera. For all I know she could be composing love poems to Spach. Hypocrisy. She’s more interested in becoming Vice Principal than in me. I suppose she’ll get the appointment—usually gets what she wants. I should say Always. I like being on top, she says. Indeed! But she’s never asked what I enjoy. Oh, I could think back—yes, there used to be times, but no longer. Much too busy now. If I ask for anything special she stares at me as though I was a spoiled child. “Earl what is the matter with you?” Sorry, I say, sorry. I wonder just how many times I’ve spoken that word. Thousands. I’m always apologizing, if not to Bianca to somebody else. Fensdeicke. Others. That lady I accidentally bumped into yesterday. Thought she was going to Do something about it—suspicion written all over her face. Kept on apologizing. Finally she let me go. Doesn’t make sense. I should have kicked her and then run for my life.

FEBRUARY 14

Being Valentine’s Day decided to give myself a taste of luxury. Waited till Bianca was asleep before preparing things—bath salts, candlelight, etc. In certain ways I suppose I’m more like a woman than a man, but that’s usually true of exceptional men although I can’t imagine why. Matter of sensitivity. Certainly I’m aware of more than say Vladimir or McAuliffe. Wonder if I could be an undiscovered genius. Musician or some such. Heard of a bakery worker who picked up a violin when he was about 40 years old and realized for the first time that he’d been wasting his life. By then it was too late for him. Maybe I have some talent like that. Don’t know what it is. I could become a scientist or important figure in the world of business or—what? What? What? If only I could find out! After 30 years of civil service when it’s too late, maybe then I’ll know. Have a feeling I’m on earth for a purpose. Don’t want to waste myself. I know I’m exceptional, sure of it, just that so far nobody’s given me the chance. Trapped in the Bureau, day after day, don’t know how it all got started & it seems harder and harder to get out. Bianca doesn’t help me, suppose she assumes I couldn’t do anything else. Assumes I’m useless. Well, anyway, went to sleep in the bathtub, woke with her hammering at the door & calling me names. Water was cool so I suppose I slept quite a while. Don’t know what I should have done. Should have told her off somehow instead of dabbling my fingers and waiting for it to blow over. One of my weaknesses, too passive. I always let things happen to me, as though I don’t really have a personality of my own. Maybe I’m just afraid to defend myself. Don’t know for sure. Probably a good idea to have things out with her—let her know I’m not what she thinks I am. Oh, I could agree with her on certain points, admit I’m far from perfect, then point out that neither is she! No argument there & that would give us both a chance to discuss the situation. Ideas fester in silence, things get poisoned. Seems that we’re usually drifting into ugly positions without meaning it. Last Saturday those two—a thousand times since then I’ve seen that one with her fat legs spread beneath the table. Waving her knees while she sucked on a pencil. Frowning, then giggling as if she didn’t know! Glancing at me. Pulling at her skirt. Nobody’s going to tell me it wasn’t on purpose, she knew exactly what she was doing. Think how satisfying it would be to make her suffer. Slice into those pudgy warm thighs with a razor. Yes, then tell Bianca to put the blame where it belongs! Tell B to make them act decently. But of course she’s always enjoyed scolding me, it’s happened often enough. As a matter of fact B might have been in on that because she didn’t say a word when that little slut opened up, then when I was fool enough to get closer she was after me green with rage—except it wasn’t any sort of rage, it was Excitement. My lioness.

FEBRUARY 15

News report tonight says some divorcee in San Rafael woke up early this morning and saw a man standing beside her bed with a stocking mask over his face. According to the newscaster she got away. I doubt it. Have a feeling she was tied up with a sheet—almost as though I dreamed it. Trussed like a dainty white animal, tied into a sack so tight she could only move her toes, the Parts hanging out of the mouth—those hairy purple lips. Packed stiff as a sausage. Probably gagged & blindfolded so she looked like a mummy and couldn’t struggle. Flashlight, gloves, etc. Groans, whispers. Probably he used a knife. Makes me think of savages drawing pictures on walls of their cave showing animals with spears sticking out all over them, blood streaming down their sides. That’s how it was, she didn’t get away. Doubt if she wanted to get away. No proof that she struggled. After all, they get accustomed to being tied up, examined. Enjoying every minute of it. I know what they are. I’m tempted to tell Bianca, ask what she thinks. For a joke might ask how she’d like it if I crawled through a window some night after she’s gone to sleep. I could tie her to the bed. Then carve away! Yes, see how she likes it. Or shove in a broomstick—a bird on a spit! That would serve her right for what she’s done to me. Sits at her dressing table polishing her fingernails and realize I’m married to a hag with spots on her hands. Looks older than she is, maybe that’s the reason she takes it out on me. Those creases in her neck, hair getting stringy, teeth yellow from smoking & her eyes puffy. She looks at least forty years old and every day she’s cutting me into little parts. Another 6 months & there won’t be much left.

FEBRUARY 16

Saturday. Execution scheduled for Monday has been postponed. Legal squabbling. However, the chamber’s scrubbed and inspected, the metalware polished every week whether we’re having a sacrifice or not. I’d like to visit the place, chat with the men on Death Row. It sounds extremely interesting. McA says they’re allowed out of their cells two hours a day and are permitted to walk up and down the corridor and play table tennis, but are not permitted to see outside. No matter how long they stay there they don’t once see the water of the bay or the countryside—not from the moment they’re carted through the gate until they’re carted out again to be buried. Thinking about it puts me in a strange mood.

And so to bed.

FEBRUARY 17

Sunday. Bianca tutoring. Decided that I couldn’t put up with it. Went out, slammed the door, spent today riding around the city on one bus after another while attempting to organize my thoughts, gain control of myself. Bus to the beach was crowded, found myself pressing against a girl in beret and a red coat. She looked at me over her shoulder, I pretended not to notice. I must have looked as bland as a dish of pudding. Got off when she got off, followed, glared at her to see what effect it would have. She heard my steps I think but didn’t once glance back, walking faster and faster into the fog. Too bad it wasn’t night. Wanted to hit her on the back of the neck with something sharp. Amused me to watch her scurrying along clikety-clik. Pretended I didn’t exist, even so there wasn’t a doubt in my mind about her being afraid. Put my hand in my pocket, squeezing away, and she knew what I was doing. If it wasn’t what she wanted why had she darkened her eyes with cosmetics? Why? Lips painted, shaved legs. I’ll never believe they aren’t inviting us to do whatever we want to do. Shouted something at her. Remember being surprised at that because I wasn’t thinking about saying anything to her, wasn’t even planning to get close to her—then all at once the shout. She started running and right then I got wet and just stood there for several minutes looking around. Don’t know what happened to her, where she disappeared to. Don’t know why I stood there. Gazing around like a dog with an egg in its teeth, then strolled off. Most of all I can’t understand why I shouted. Had no intention of doing that. The more I think about it the more puzzled I am. As though somebody inside of me is actually the one who’s giving orders. Hmm! Don’t like this idea because I’ve always been proud of my self-control. Maybe that, too, is an illusion. If so, what’s left? If I can’t account for myself I’m nothing.

FEBRUARY 18

McAuliffe again asked to borrow money. Last time he asked I refused and felt guilty ever since, so this time lent it to him. $20—he swears he’ll pay it back next week. I hope so. Yes, I know he will.

Aside from that an uneventful day. Sun came out for a while—somebody said. I wouldn’t know. Blinds lowered as always. I never have understood the reason. If the Bureau doesn’t want us to know what’s going on outside why did they build those enormous windows? I ought to ask but Fensdeicke wouldn’t know either. It’s simply the policy, she’d say, and think it was odd of me to ask. No sense risking criticism. Blinds down permanently and there we are—ninety of us illuminated by those fluorescent tubes like so many insects. I think it would be more cheerful working inside a casket. If a laborer comes through the door dripping and leaves a puddle on the linoleum I can make a guess about the weather, otherwise no telling. Overcast when I walked into that mausoleum this A.M. and overcast when I was released at 5. If the sun came out today I’d have to take somebody’s word for it.

What else? Photograph in the paper of a woman in New York or someplace back there being carried out of a burning hotel. She was unconscious, at least it looked that way, her head flung back. Nightgown had blown apart & showed precious little triangle of flesh as white as cheese. Thinking about it makes me nervous, I ought to stop. If not I know what I’ll do. Reminds me of McA talking about that hotel chambermaid who was held prisoner for several weeks and tortured. He claims her little Passageway was stuffed full of lighted cigarettes, but of course he may have invented the story just to see how I reacted. In either case I was careful not to reveal my thoughts.

Otherwise? The usual. Deadly tedium. That’s just how I feel. Sluggish. Depressed. Bored. I don’t know what to do. Try to comprehend what goes on around me day and night but it’s hopeless. I’m shoved to the Left, dragged to the Right. How long has it been since anybody on earth asked for my opinion about anything? What difference does it make what I believe or what I want? Does anybody listen? Nobody even sees me.

FEBRUARY 19

Washington’s Birthday next Friday, something to be grateful for. B’s school and the office both close. I could ask if she’d like to see the parade, or go to Aquatic Park for the program. Possibly both, although there’ll be a crowd. We’ll have to go early to get a seat in the grandstand. It’s worth a try.

Enough for tonight. I’m worn out. Might be wise to conceal this. She doesn’t care what I do, just the same I think she’s curious and might come in here while I’m away, pry around. All right, Earl, think of a secret place.

FEBRUARY 20

According to news on TV we’ve developed a missile they say is capable of carrying more Death & Destruction than ever before in all human history. Looks like pretty soon we’re going to be able to split the world in half. Might be a good idea. Why not? Why build these things if we don’t use them? Use them!—That’s how I feel. Nothing but hate in the world. Take today. Some old woman praying in front of a candle at All Hallows when a Mexican hopped out from behind a statue of the Virgin, dragged her by the hair up the steps to the altar, tore off her clothes and was kicking her in the face when a priest appeared. Apparently no surprise to parishioners—they say it happens so often they usually go there to pray in groups. Too dangerous alone. Plenty of other examples, in fact so many I forget them in an hour.

So ends a typical Wednesday.

FEBRUARY 21

Sick of those greedy laborers outside the door every morning waiting for us to open—I can read their thoughts by the expression in their eyes—wondering what sort of mood Mr. Summerfield is in. Wondering if they’d be smart to come back later in the day when I won’t ask so many questions, just let them go ahead and collect the money. I know everything that goes through their empty heads. Wondering if maybe it would be smart to try a different window—try Mr. Clegg or Mr. McAuliffe or Mr. Rostov. They think they’re fooling me. I could give them some information on that account, but on the other hand why should I care if they’re trying to cheat the State?—so is everybody else. Evading taxes, swindling, etc. There isn’t much decency left in the world. Not very much. In my opinion whatever there was went up in a column of smoke above Hiroshima. We set the past on fire. Quite a performance all right. I more or less remember it. Ashes everywhere, still sifting down. Ideals smirched, avarice, self-righteousness—the Holy Sepulcher just one more milestone on the road to some cloudy Fulfillment. Fulfillment of what! Cheating, lying, riots, war, wax, oil, iron, sulfur, wine, papyrus & eternal slavery. Jesus Christ in Heaven.

I’m tired, sick at heart. Not much hope. Maybe suicide’s not wrong.

FEBRUARY 22

Washington’s Birthday. Bianca didn’t want to go, claimed she had to talk with Spach about organizing a teachers’ association of some sort. It was just one more excuse to avoid going anywhere with me, I wasn’t taken in by it but I really don’t care. Am used to being alone. Let her have tea and cookies with Spach, do as she pleases, get down on her knees in front of him if she cares to, it means nothing to me! Someday she’ll be damned for what she does. We pay for what we do in this world. Sooner or later the wheel comes full circle for us all.

Besides, it’s a good thing she didn’t go because she would have gotten bored in 5 minutes and insisted on leaving. Folk dancers, mandolin player, magician, Hollywood actors giving declarations of faith in America, only place on earth where there’s any freedom, etc. Sweetness and more sweetness. Crap! Make-believe. Also a long dull speech about constitutional guarantees and so forth by our ex-Governor. People in the grandstand were coughing, eating peanuts, yawning but then of course applauding when he was finished. I felt like vomiting on the platform, let them see what their beautiful nation really stands for. They ought to have a good look at America. No doubt it looks very nice from a distance, just be sure you don’t get too close. Then you find out. Bigotry, fraud, immorality—no use cataloguing it! In short, the whole business soured my stomach right from the beginning. Five thousand people getting to their feet to sing the national anthem and then recite the Pledge of Allegiance but I know what was in their hearts and in their minds. I know what they do every day and every night. I wonder if I was the only one who mouthed the words but didn’t utter a sound. No, probably there were others. Must be a few other people who realize how decayed this country is. Then that bitch in the bathing suit climbed up on the stage wearing a cardboard crown & carrying a scepter, went parading back and forth to show off her tits. No shame. No modesty. Program said she was a dramatics student at University of California—Mara St. Johns. She looked to me like one of those professional sluts from Hollywood. If she isn’t the symbol of American rottenness, what is? Program said she was active in the Presbyterian church! There’s hypocrisy for you Earl, but some day the wheel is going to come full circle for her too—for her and all the others like her. For the dirty things they do. Pretending to be what they’re not. In fact the longer I think about it the more it seems to me this whole nation is going to lie in ashes and lumps of pitch just as the Bible predicted. Was it there? Mmm—well, wherever. Doesn’t matter, message is the same. Nation that rules the earth shall go astray, future will see it deserted. Evil to increase a thousandfold. The sun shall shine by night and the moon by day! Blood come trickling out of wood. Stones make a roaring noise like the wind. People are going to be troubled and courses change. Sea will cast out its fish, birds fly off separately and One shall come to reign over us for whom those on Earth do not hope—but they will recognize his voice. Yes, indeed they will! And if that’s so who’s going to be surprised? After what we’ve seen the last few years?

Well, maybe I ought to ask Bianca. She’s always got an opinion no matter what the subject is. Too bad she didn’t want to attend the show, then I could explain my theory, find out what she thinks of it. Wish she’d wanted to go with me. Been so long since—feel so lonely. Wish we could have what we used to have. Three or four years ago we’d go out dancing but now she doesn’t ever come near me if she can avoid it.

What would happen if I apologized and tried to get in bed?

FEBRUARY 23

The other day I asked V if he thought there was such a thing as Love. Said there isn’t. Claimed it was an invention of poets, some lice-covered troubadours in southern France during the Middle Ages & ever since then we’ve believed it actually exists. I don’t know, don’t know what to think, what to believe. So confused. B hates me.

FEBRUARY 24

Sunday. She’s in Oakland visiting her sister & I’ve spent half the day marching around and around like a mechanical soldier with a key in my back. Nothing to eat since breakfast, then not much. Hungry but can’t make myself stop long enough to fix a meal. The weather’s nice & I guess everybody else is out enjoying the afternoon in Sausalito or Golden Gate Park. I’d give anything to be as average as that. Knowing you’re superior is a curse. Also, not having the opportunity to make use of my abilities makes it difficult to keep sense of proportion.

Around & around! Have drawn the shades so at least it’s dark. Feeling a little better, yet can’t decide what troubles me. Admit I’m still exasperated by the celebration, pageant, whatever it was. Should have reached up, grabbed one of her ankles and jerked her down off the stage. She was close enough, just above me. Could have reached up and pushed my finger right into that hairy mound. She knew it—glanced down at me. In fact that’s probably what she wanted me to do. Corruption. Filth. The whore of Washington’s Birthday. I’m not good enough for you, is that it? You glance down at me and walk away smiling. Well, I’m not going to forget you! Saintly nun. Ermine cloak and a pasteboard crown—Screw! I’d fix you if I had a chance, don’t think I wouldn’t. I’d give you a crown to wear. A jeweled prick. It’s what you deserve. It’s what you want, too, if I’m much of a judge.

B still isn’t back from Oakland, guess she might stay overnight. I wish she’d come home.

FEBRUARY 25

After work paid a visit to All Hallows Church, can’t say quite why except that it’s been on my mind since the Mexican attacked that old woman praying. No accident. He went there to show everybody something—yes, but what? What? What? Church was smaller than I expected, only about half visible through some ragged windblown palms on Dolores Street. Paint flaking off the rail, steps creaked. Could hardly pull the door open. Nobody inside. Candles burning in front of some statues. Priest came walking down the aisle toward me, his face black with suspicion until he saw that I was Respectable. Until he noticed I was dressed in a business suit, then he changed right away. Shook hands, etc. Chatted with him for a while, acted sympathetic to his problem. Hoodlums ransack the poorbox, says he. Amazed, outraged, I put on my show of anger, and he points to the boxes broken open & hanging along the wall. Boys not old enough to shave, says he, with switch blade knives prying open those boxes. Clasped my hands in disbelief. Absolutely can’t believe it! I exclaim. Collection envelopes stolen, says he. How awful! No respect for Anything these days. Etc. True, True & he wags his head. Tells me police cars cruise the neighborhood after every parish gathering doing our best to protect the flock, not much use. Dreadful! I said. Dreadful! Then cleared my throat. My wife and I are thinking we’d like to move into this neighborhood & being devout I wanted to see your church. I shall pray, says he, that you and Mrs. Summerfield choose to join us. Could hardly swallow my laughter.

FEBRUARY 26

Not much change since yesterday—am in a pukey humor. Seems to me that Civilization is spinning toward the Pit. No matter where I look. Those big-shot corporation executives the other day convicted by federal Grand Jury of conspiring to violate some regulation or other—millions of dollars involved, brigades of lawyers from 5th Avenue or wherever they have those swank offices. What’s the penalty? Tap on the wrist. Judge gives them “stern warning.” That’s about what I expected. They’ve got the money, the position. That judge was probably scared to death, knew if he did to them what he ought to do they’d ruin him. But let Earl Summerfield swipe an apple—oh oh! Convicted of theft, fined, put on close probation. If I took two dozen apples I’d rot in jail. Why should anybody respect the law! I used to. Yes, I remember when I did, but now I’ve learned how things really are. I can’t be fooled any longer. Believe very little that I’m told, investigate for myself. The government lies to me and people on the street lie to me. Sometimes get the feeling I’m walking on a flimsy little bridge stretched across a canyon. Wind blowing & people shouting at me from both sides. Maybe it’s easier to quit, just step over the rail. I don’t know.

Could be the monotony of the office that makes me feel like this. Get away Earl! Get away before it’s too late. How? Sometimes I wish I lived in the middle of Egypt. Anyplace. Would be willing to trade my soul for one hour of hot sunlight instead of this rain. February rain. Rain.

Get away. How? I keep asking. Another month’s almost gone & what have I got to show for it? How many more? I realize I’m much too intelligent for my job, that’s one thing that depresses me. Forced to spend every day talking to laborers so stupid that one of these days think I might just give up the use of language and resort to signs. Why doesn’t the Bureau recognize my ability? Why can’t Mrs. Fensdeicke grasp the fact that I should be assigned to important work? It’s possible she does know and is worried that I’ll get her job, or even that Mr. Foxx may promote me to some position where she’ll have to take orders from me. Mr. Summerfield, pardon me, but we need your initials on this. Mr. Summerfield, excuse us, but would you give us your opinion about this case? Then I could have an office of my own, wouldn’t be perched on that stool with my rump exposed. Sitting there I feel like a miserable fool, people smiling at me behind my back.

FEBRUARY 27

Wednesday. There’s s-silver, pl-pl-platinum and gold in the sea! says Magnus. Yes, it’s there, no doubt, in the sand along the coast and in the mouths of rivers, carried down from the Mother Lode. And offshore are traces of copper, manganese, iron, cobalt, all brought up by currents from the ocean bottom. Won’t be long until miners go to work thousands of feet below the surface on the bedrock of the Pacific. Submerged capsules will be traveling across the shelf like lobsters, or hanging in mid-ocean undisturbed by the turmoil of the upper world. True enough, nobody with any sense would doubt that prediction—not any more, not after what’s happened these past few years. But how is Magnus going to profit by all this? That’s what I can’t understand. He seems to think he’s going to benefit, whereas the truth is he won’t, neither of us will. The profits of the future will go where the profits of the past have gone—into the pockets of the admirals, the generals, the waxy old men. slumped in the backs of limousines. Not a penny for Magnus, not a penny for Earl. Why doesn’t he realize that’s how it is? Says he’s going to Arizona on his vacation to hunt for gemstones in the desert. Somebody down there discovered a jade boulder weighing a thousand pounds. Maybe. Maybe not. Suppose it’s true, will Magnus find another one? He won’t find a thing, no more than I would. Why? Because we don’t live at the right address. Life’s just that simple. Poor Magnus is going to spend his two weeks in Arizona sifting pebbles through a sieve. Well, he’s as likely to make his fortune as I am—perhaps I should stop being such a realist and join him. Shut my eyes, stuff rubber plugs in my ears. Nod & bow & smile.

FEBRUARY 28

Have been thinking that perhaps I grip myself too tightly. I squeeze myself dry, that could be the trouble. I’m too careful, too discreet. Pick a path through life avoiding—avoiding what? Absolutely everything, in fact. I can’t Allow anything to happen, I’ve got to plan it. I want it to happen on schedule. Caught up with me today—turned my face to the ceiling and let loose a howl. Nobody heard. What if tomorrow I opened my mouth and did it? At least I’d be noticed. That could be what I need. I keep waiting, waiting, avoiding trouble, assuming that before much longer I’ll be recognized. How soon? I’m afraid to attract attention to myself but at the same time I hate this anonymity. Christ. Oh Jesus Christ! If only I knew what would become of me.