Prologue for the uninitiated.
If you go to my basement and look under my workbench, behind the Christmas ornaments, you’ll find this:
This is a bin filled with journals from my early years in New York. Hundreds of typed, single-spaced pages and about a dozen hand-written books. I occasionally post an extract. I wasn’t always kind to women (or myself, for that matter). Some of it is a bit graphic. But I make no apologies for who I was back then and I ask you to not judge too harshly. I was just a kid. A seeker on a path. The feedback I get on these posts is humbling. People either really enjoy them or they’re being charitable.
February 27, 1993
Somebody put a huge car bomb in the basement of the World Trade Center yesterday. I can’t tear myself away from the TV coverage. It happened at 12:30 in the afternoon. It detonated on the second level of the parking garage and completely demolished three levels. Seven people died and over 650 were injured.
My primary temp agency is in Two World Trade, which is the tower that sustained the most smoke damage. Good thing I wasn’t there! I don’t have hospitalization! The family called to see if I’d been blown to bits. I hadn’t. This time (ha). I’ve got a gig there next week at Lehman Brothers. I wonder if I’ll have a job to go to?
They have no idea who did it but they suspect Yugoslavian nationalists who are mad at us for dropping relief supplies to the Bosnians, who are at war with the Serbs. Fucking Eastern European douchbags. What if that shit had toppled over? Can you imagine?
Sunrise over Queens and the East River.
I went to a play on the Upper West Side by myself. I didn’t know it, but there was a party for singles after the show. I looked around and everyone seemed to have a friend with them for support. I felt like such a loser for being there alone that I couldn’t concentrate on the performance. The thought of wading through a singles party made me so nauseous that I left during intermission. It’s too bad because this morning the play got a spectacular write-up in The Times and now you can’t get tickets.
Bonnie came over on Valentine’s Day. I made a huge vat of white clam sauce, threw it on linguini and called it dinner. I don’t like white wine but Ellis told me not to serve red. Made out on the couch and Bonnie tasted like white wine. She left around midnight. At 12:30 my phone rang. It was Ann. She called to wish me a happy Valentine’s Day and to congratulate me on my move from Brooklyn to Manhattan. She told me she just met Andre Watts. I have no idea who that is. [Note: I do now.]
Can you imagine that poor old thing still carrying a torch for me after all this time? I think she’s 32 or 35 or something like that. I can’t bring her around to my friends. But she’s a dynamo in bed. She would slather us both with coconut oil and we’d roll around on top of each other like two puppies wrestling. The smell of coconut would permeate the bedroom. Now, I get a hard-on if I eat a macaroon.
She’ll try any position. She’s fearless. Laura told me she’s never had an orgasm but Ann has them ALL THE TIME. Once, while looking out her window and watching the sunset over Central Park, she dropped to her knees and delivered the goods. I didn’t ask for it and wasn’t expecting it.
I didn’t want her to become attached but that’s exactly what happened. I hate it when someone is hurting on account of me. It’s such a waste of their time. I’m not worth it. Calling her would just be an excuse to get back into her Upper East Side king size bed. It would be wrong. [Note: It was wrong, but I did it, anyway.]
Sunset over the Hudson River and New Jersey. Both pics taken from my 50th floor office.
My new apartment is nice but the neighborhood is scary. I hear gunshots almost every night. I was walking down the hall to the elevator and a tiny black mouse ran past me. I could have kicked him into his next life but I let him live. Klinger came for a visit and he was offered works three times before he got to my building. [Note: Works = hypodermic needle and accoutrements for injecting heroin.]
There are more journal entries linked in the Memoir category. But if you want to cut to the chase, this post is my favorite. When I read this, it feels like I’m reading about somebody else’s life. But it’s not. It’s mine.