THE FIFTH YEAR
more tales from the year of the snake
quietude, sort of
847-850
851-855
856-858
"Oh, you've been fine," Aurora said. "You've indulged me quite a lot. In
your own way, you're exemplary."
Larry McMurtry: The Evening Star
crazy eleven
859-862
turkeys and reindeer
863-865
866-868
869-871
872-876
There was about him the air of a man who knew no home now but a razor's edge.
Clive Barker: The Great and Secret Show
out with the old, in with the new
877-880
881-886
887-891
892-895
847
I've fallen into a truly colossal BAD MOOD. Fortunately, this is not an experience which comes along very often. In the past, I'd
just shut myself inside my room or apartment, unplug the telephone and refuse to see anyone until it passed. I don't have that luxury
this time.
Monday was the fourth anniversary of this Homeless in Honolulu trip. The Sleeptalker appeared on campus unusually early. Since I
had an appointment with the psychologist at one o'clock, the Sleeptalker and I shared a late-morning bottle of Colt in the secluded grove
and then I left, agreeing I'd meet him around three o'clock. He was being amusing and affectionate, fine antidotes to my own slide into
grumpiness which had then only just begun. The chat with the doc was of no great significance but pleasant, as always, and I picked up
two more bottles of Colt on my way back to campus. The Sleeptalker soon appeared, said he'd seen the Cherub who a little later joined
us. They wanted to do the grill-steaks-in-the-park routine. I agreed but said I'd prefer to do it in Waikiki. Parking problem there,
though, since the Cherub had his car, so we went to Ala Moana as usual. Paulo was busy so the Cherub and the Sleeptalker used Paulo's
portable grill and with considerable elaboration managed to get a fire going. The Cherub had found a place which sells very cheap beer
and had quite a few cans in his backpack, so long before the steaks were cooked the Sleeptalker was well on his way to drunkeness.
Then, inevitably these days, he revs up the horrible phoney-jive talker, the worst of his many alter-egos. Even when in the happiest of
moods, I can't take much of that guy. I got up to leave a couple of times, allowed them to persuade me to stay but finally fled. As an
Anniversary Party, it had been a good day and the earlier time alone with the Sleeptalker was especially sweet. I just have to renew my
resolve to gracefully disappear when the Muthahfuckah Guy appears.
Aside from that time with the Sleeptalker and the Cherub, though, I'm trying to hide out for the most part. I don't feel much like
writing but I did begin work on some new cards on Tuesday despite the grumpy mood and Joe Quirk's surreally capricious first novel,
The Ultimate Rush, has provided a few moments of amusement.
Otherwise ... nothing to do but wait for the mood to shift.
848
"You got any money?" asked Angelo. I suppose I should appreciate his exceptional candor. No messing around with social fluff like "how
are you", "what you been up to", etc., just immediately to the nitty-gritty even if we hadn't seen each other in quite some time. I gave
a vague reply, though, and turned my attention to Tanioka who was using the more usual social gestures, including a handshake.
I'd had a couple of chores to do on Thursday which required bus rides and by the time I was finished, decided I'd just get myself a beer
and sit at the far end of the park where I don't know so many people, forget about going to campus. As I'd done on Wednesday, I mixed
reading and drinking with short naps. The flu, which I thought had about run its wretched course, returned with a vengeance and
Wednesday afternoon was a blur of fever, sweats and chills, aching joints and muscles. No one will have to remind me never to have a
"flu shot" again. It was again a little better on Thursday but I still felt more like sprawling on my beach towel in the park than doing
anything else. As it neared time for sunset, I decided I'd have one more beer (Wednesday had been so awful I didn't even want the usual
sunset one) and
walked to the nearby 7-Eleven. I heard people calling me, looked over and saw Angelo, Tanioka and RedEye at a table, obvious brown bags
with 40oz bottles making it clear what was actually in the paper cups they were drinking from. Sometimes I wonder if these guys actually
get a kick out of thumbing their noses at the forces of law and order (and often I don't blame them at all for it).
I waved a signal that I was going across the street to the store and would return, which I did, to be greeted with that
all-that-matters question from Angelo. Silly boy. His charm skill is out of practice. He tried several more times, though. The second
time he asked, I again made a vague reply and asked Tanioka, "What about you? You got money?" "I always have money," he said, and
laughed. True, very true, and I suspect he'd paid for all the beer and fish on the table. Heaven knows RedEye hadn't paid for any of
it. I have yet to see that man spend one penny.
They had obviously been puffing on the glass pipe and the main discussion (aside from how much money I had in my pocket) was about
getting more. I guess they thought I'd be eager enough to join them that I'd put up some of the needed cash. No joy. Sorry to
disappoint you, boys, but the old Panther just doesn't care that much whether he has the batu or not. They decided to look for
The Man, to borrow his pipe (I assume Tanioka had a little plastic bag already), so I walked down to that end of the park with them.
The Man wasn't there, though, so they were going to use an improvised tinfoil pipe and went to the shower house. Three guys going into
the handicapped booth at once was a bit flambouyant and I declined the invitation to join in, went for a walk along the beach and took an
early bus to IHS.
I saw Mondo there, lining up with the downstairs crowd to get a mat. Curious that he doesn't sleep upstairs, but I guess he just doesn't
want to bother with registering and getting the ID card updated each month. So there had been the Cherub and the Sleeptalker on Monday,
Angelo and Tanioka and Mondo on Thursday ... only Rocky was missing from the time-honoured all-star cast. Actually, I'd seen the Cherub
briefly on Wednesday, too, when he woke me from a nap in the secluded grove. He was on his way to class, so only stopped to tell me he'd
taken the Sleeptalker home with him on Monday, said the Sleeptalker was very drunk and was yelling about what a mess the place was in,
then fell asleep on a plastic bag on the floor which made so much noise when he shifted position that it kept waking up the Cherub. The
odd couple, indeed.
And along came the Sleeptalker on Friday morning as I was finishing my refill cup of senior coffee at the mall. He was in a post-batu
hangover, so easy to diagnose with him, and said little, didn't answer at all when I asked if he was going to campus. When he's in that
deep a funk, nothing to be done about it, so I said I was going to brush my teeth, stroked his brushy hair and went on my way.
Aside from the always fascinating, if sometimes irksome, times with the Bad Boys, the main treasure of this week has been Servant of
the Bones by Ann Rice, a "standalone" work outside of her two major series, and an excellent example of how delightful her
imagination is and how well she can translate that into such engrossing novels. I enjoyed it so much I am tempted to part with the
money to get her newly published Merrick. Apparently she merges the Mayfair witches and the vampires in this one, a monumental
task, although one I've long expected her to tackle.
And, of course, now and then some more time with Love and Theft. "Sugar Baby" is without question one of the most depressing
songs I've ever heard in my long life.
849
Then she says, "you don't read women authors, do you?"
Least that's what I think I hear her say,
"Well", I say, "how would you know and what would it matter anyway?"
"Well", she says, "you just don't seem like you do!"
I said, "you're way wrong."
She says, "which ones have you read then?" I say, "I read Erica Jong!"
Maybe that's what Dylan thought he heard her say in the first line, but it surely isn't what I thought I heard him say in the original
version of Highlands. And it was one of the lines which were subject to considerable debate on the Usenet group devoted to Dylan.
Now, of course, we have the handsome website provided by Columbia Records with lyrics to all of his songs. I assume those versions are
the way he actually wrote it. They certainly aren't always the way he recorded them, even the first time. And maybe he wants to
preserve the fun of devotees trying to figure out just what he is saying ... the lyrics to songs from the newest album are missing, so
far, although the titles are listed.
But in any case, his answer to the Highlands waitress came immediately to mind on Friday when I spotted Erica Jong's Fanny
in the freebie collection at the State Library and promptly grabbed it. So far as I can remember, I've not read her before although it's
possible I read Fear of Flying years ago and remember nothing of it. I only vaguely remember the original Fanny Hill but
have little doubt Ms. Jong's bawdy romp is the better read of the two and was thoroughly enjoyable.
I walked over to the State Library after my monthly half-hour with the chemist. I mean, psychiatrist. He unintentionally (I presume,
although perhaps incorrectly) lifted my mood considerably. One of those bus trips I'd made the day before was to pick up an application
for a disability bus pass since my current one ends at midnight on Halloween. He made the necessary marks to authorize the new one and
when I looked at it once downstairs, I was surprised to see he did it for a YEAR this time.
That little ray of sunlight was more than overwhelmed, though, when I spent some time in the evening listening to the radio. It's
difficult not to get angry at some of the ludicrous propaganda which that soundbox can spew forth these days, even from the usually more
"detached" National Public Radio. And the noble BBC World Service, too, is resorting to propaganda-style window-dressing although,
happily, the actual content of its programming seems to be balanced and informative. And scary as hell. The mind, though, loves
hiding behind diversions (and who can blame it?). An image which occurred to me was that of an little Afghani kid running into the
family hut shouting, "Mommy, Mommy, a big box of food fell from the sky and squashed Grandma!" More seriously, I wondered just what
"food" we did drop on the Afghanis ... after we'd dropped bombs. Canned goods from surplus USDA stocks, the kind churches give us poor
folks? Poor buggers might not even have a can-opener, so I hope the packers remembered to include one. It seems unlikely much of the
food will be eaten, except perhaps by animals. Surely most people would suspect those gifts from the Great Satan are poisoned?
And I wondered what the propaganda leaflets we supposedly also bombed them with said, would like to see one (honestly) translated back
into English. Such things will no doubt appear on the Web eventually if they haven't already.
It was a surprise we admitted that one bomb went astray (not that one did, that was no surprise at all). I suppose since the thing fell
in a residential area of Kabul it was likely to be noticed. Sigh. Father Greeley says most of what I feel like saying in his columns for Chicago's Daily Southtown, so read those and I'll shut up
about it.
I told the doc that Remeron was working fine as a sleeping pill but I didn't think much of its anti-depressant qualities. Funny that the
only benefit I get from one of these chemist's concoctions is from its side-effects. I also mentioned that dream life is far more
enjoyable than real life these days (and nights) and such is certainly the case. All star dreams, indeed, although I have forgotten who
the (famous) young woman was on Friday night, the one I was trying to tell why Katherine Hepburn is so wonderful (a difficult task when
faced with someone who doesn't even know the name). Serves her right that I've forgotten hers, she wasn't that young.
Saturday came and went without anything exceptional happening, but on Sunday the Cherub found me and we spent the late afternoon and
evening together, drinking and talking in the secluded grove. The conversation was so engrossing it was after nine o'clock when I
finally checked the time and he kindly drove me to IHS. It was too late to get a mat so for the first time in weeks I had to make do
with my beach towel on the floor. It was also the first time in awhile that I followed the order to refrain from taking the little
Remeron pill when "drunk". I was close enough. Much of the conversation had been about philosophers, starting with Aristotle, and as
usual I was appalled by my ludicrously ineffective memory. I think I've had Altzheimer's all my life.
850
When I looked in on the game Monday morning, the Sleeptalker was playing and later he joined me in the secluded grove. I bought beer
and sandwiches for our lunch and we spent the rest of the day together. He is sleeping at the beach park because he got mad at someone
who works at IHS (no details given), so I left him and got the bus to IHS. The Sleeptalker and the other boys all complain because
people at IHS like to play stupid "mind games" now and then, and I understand more now what they mean and how legitimate their complaints
are.
The night before, I had arrived there shortly after eight o'clock. The door to the upstairs area was still locked although it's usually
open by eight at the latest. An Alcoholics Anonymous type meeting was going on in one section of the downstairs area, so I stood and
listened to what the people were saying. I didn't feel participating in such a session would do me the least bit of good, but to each
their own. Then the gruff woman who fortunately isn't often involved with the upstairs finally unlocked the door, said only "volunteers"
could go up (volunteers being people who perform various services, like dishing out food, etc.) and the rest of us would have to go
outside and join the (long) line already formed there. Some reward for attending the meeting! The few of us who had been listening to
the meeting ignored her order and stood at the front of line, just outside the door, and since no one complained she, amazingly, let us
go in.
On Monday, I was a bit later arriving. All the mats were gone, but the young man in the "guard office" gave me one of the roll-up foam
mats they sometimes have as back-up. (Why they can't work out the number of mats that are really needed upstairs, I don't know.) I
settled into a spot, fell asleep, woke a bit later to him nudging my leg. He said I had to have a shower and change clothes! Now if I
really had been stinking dirty, why hadn't he said something when I went into the office to get the mat from him, I wondered. I said I'd
already had one shower that day, had no intention of taking another and that my clothes were certainly not dirty by the usual standards
of IHS regulars. "Well, you have to wash your feet," he said. Just plain harrassment, no other thing to call it. Shrug ... I washed my
feet and went back to sleep.
As I was walking away from McD's with my refill cup of coffee on Tuesday morning, I heard the Sleeptalker call me. He was up unusually
early for him and I walked over to his bench, shared the coffee. Then he spotted Chinatown B (yes, he's back on the scene, although an
appearance at the mall is atypical). The Sleeptalker hurried after him, but soon returned grumbling. I guess CB had no glass pipe
filling to share. Then the Sleeptalker went off to the toilet, but returned before I'd finished my coffee, asked if I'd seen CB pass
again. No, I hadn't and the Sleeptalker left to look for him. I was reminded of the line in the I Ching: "Take not a
maiden who, when she sees a man of bronze, loses possession of herself." Not that poor Chinatown B can remotely be described as a "man
of bronze", but uh-huh, same idea. The Sleeptalker sees Chinatown B as my rival and, of course, I did too at one time, and I suspect CB
still sees me as one. I don't anymore, it's irrelevant. I'd had my fill of the Sleeptalker's company on Monday, truth be told, and
would have been just as happy to enjoy my coffee on my own, didn't mind in the least when he left.
I did tell him I wouldn't be on campus until later because I had to go the pharmacy (for a Remeron re-fill), and I left to go there, then
went to the discount clothing store. What the heck, show that idiot at IHS by arriving in all new clothes. I got a pair of tan
trousers, a "Hawaiian Style" tee shirt in a just-slightly darker shade of tan, and a "chocolate-dyed" tee shirt, all for $7.50, thanks to
the twenty percent Senior Discount on Tuesdays. Cool.
You will have no doubt surmised that October's budgetary efforts have been more successful than usual, reaching mid-month still having
money available for beer-and-sandwich luncheon parties and clothes shopping (however cheap). There's still going to be the usual dismal
last week of the month with empty pockets, but at least some progress has been made.
After getting the new clothes, I returned to the beach park for a shower before exchanging the old for the new and then got a bus to the
State Library for something to read. The Sleeptalker was on the bus! (Dame Fortune does overdo it some times, she really does.) He was
going downtown to get lunch from River of Life, a Christian-based place where the food is much better than IHS. He said he had killed
off all his characters in Seventh Circle. Sigh. A long-time veteran player had done that on Sunday and I guess the Sleeptalker
just couldn't resist grabbing some of the spotlight by doing the same. Of course the Sleeptalker almost immediately changed his mind and
started his characters from scratch. Don't ask me ... I just don't understand what the hell he's doing or why. In any case, he said he
didn't plan to return to campus.
But when I eventually did go there myself, the Sleeptalker was sitting in Hamilton Library busily playing his re-created characters, all
now, of course, very low level. I checked mail, looked around at some stuff on the web, and then played the game for awhile, was very
irked by an arrogant bulletin board post from the Boss Lady and quit, left campus and returned to the mall without saying anything to the
Sleeptalker.
I'd planned to just enjoy a sunset brew and one of the books I'd found at the State Library, all by myself, but Joe Guam found me even
though I'd gone to a different area than usual. On Monday, the Sleeptalker had sighed about "getting off this rock". Yeh, I can
sympathize with that.
851
One book I found in the State Library was Glenn Kleier's The Last Day, a
thoroughly fascinating and engrossing novel. I was so entranced by it
that interruptions from the Cherub and the Sleeptalker were not as welcome
as they might otherwise have been, but then books are always with us,
friends aren't. The novel and the continuing turmoil in Seventh
Circle dominated Wednesday until late afternoon when the Sleeptalker
took the reins until after sunset.
As I wrote, I'd already been thoroughly irked by the game on Tuesday, was
sufficiently further annoyed on Wednesday to resign leadership of the
Ranger's Guild, stopping short of emulating recent protests by outright
suicide. The Boss Lady continually creates problems and controversy where
no real problems exist, all, I think, symptoms of her discontent with her
limited power. I also suspect she simply doesn't know the coding language
well enough to fix some things that have been broken for months, things
which made the game much more fun to play and were far more important than
these self-created "problems". The latest bee in her bonnet is merging
the guilds into four groups rather than the present system of having a
guild for each class, a proposal which has been almost unanimously opposed
by veteran players. She posted a rather arrogant notice saying that since
there was such opposition, the plan was dead, the subject closed ... and
then spent hours on Wednesday morning discussing it yet again. Thus my
resignation. I shall become Reting the Ranger Emeritus.
I left that silly tempest after the resignation and had lunch in the
secluded grove with rolls and cheese and a bottle of Colt, returning to my
reading. The Cherub stopped by briefly, said he'd just watched "The
Bicycle Thief" and was off to the library to do some research for a paper
on it. His daddy is coming to town, will be staying at a posh hotel out
in the country and asked the Cherub to join him there for two nights.
The Cherub had replied that he didn't know if he'd be able to afford the
gasoline! Subtle ... not. When I told the Sleeptalker about it later, we
agreed ... take a bus. Daddy should have told him that.
Since one of the most vocal opponents of the merger scheme in the game was
banned for the day, I went back to play my thief for awhile. The banned
player constantly comes after my thief, attacks him when he's in the midst
of another fight. Fair, but not very noble. Without him around, though,
my thief was able to advance two levels with no difficulty.
I was then walking across campus on my way to the bus stop when I crossed
paths with the Sleeptalker. So much for my plan to head to a remote area
of the beach park with a sunset brew. Instead I bought one for each of us
and another round later, playing further havoc with my well-intentioned
but doomed budget scheme. No matter ... it's only money.
A reader supplied information about those food packets we've been dropping
on the Afghanis: "A high-calorie meal - peanut butter & jelly, carbs,
dried fruit, etc., enough for one day." Peanut butter and jelly! The
poor buggers have probably never seen peanut butter before. I don't
recall ever having seen it in northern India. But it did provide some
amusing conversation, both with the Cherub and the Sleeptalker. And at
one point as we were sitting in the park drinking, a helicopter flew over
and we said, "drop some peanut butter and jelly!" Sure, why not? The
packets would probably be much more popular in the beach park than they
are in Afghanistan, although the reader did add that the report on ABC
also included the news that people there were gathering up the packets and
selling them in local markets. Whoever would have thought that mana from
heaven might be peanut butter and jelly ...
The Sleeptalker, meanwhile, is still having difficulty adjusting to the
fact that I'm just not as entranced with his body as I once was and he did
one of his best seduction routines, quite delightful and amusing. But no,
sorry, my boy, I was not interested in trading my CD player for his body.
Still, it was an interesting and entertaining time with him, as have been
all our recent encounters. I'm happy, though, to have "outgrown", if
that's the right term, the lust.
He arrived at Hamilton Library early on Thursday morning while I was being
bombarded by the Boss Lady trying to drag me into the continuing
controversy. I told her there is more than enough fuss and fuming in this
country right now, that some of us would just like to escape for awhile by
simply playing a game.
Ain't it the truth.
852
As I was walking across campus on Friday morning, a notice on a bulletin board caught my eye. It was from the campus "chapter" of the
NAACP. Hmmmm. Political correctness, as I understand it, no longer allows for those of the Negroid race (and even that may not be
politically correct) to be called "colored people". So shouldn't it be NAAB? Or is "blacks" no longer correct either?
For only the second time since I've been staying at IHS, I woke when the lights went on and the voice on the loudspeakers said "good
morning, gentlemen" (reminding me of Robin Williams and his Vietnam greeting). As had happened the only previous time I've heard
that announcement, the fellow had the day right, but not the date. Yes, it was Friday, but it was not the 18th. Not that it matters to
most of the
people still asleep at IHS nor did it much matter to me, except that I didn't want the calendar turned back to add one more day to the
waiting time for empty pockets to no longer be empty. Okay, okay, I know, that doesn't really matter either, but it seems to sometimes.
I think I'd slept such a long, undisturbed sleep because I'd been feeling really down and exhausted by the time I'd gotten to IHS on
Thursday night ... and maybe having taken a double dose of Remeron had assisted, too. The doc had suggested taking one and one-half
tablets. I told him the pills were too tiny to cut in half, so he left it at one-a-day. But I thought, why not two one day and one the
next? I'd just take two every day except that the prescription would run out so far ahead of time the pharmacy might question the
re-fill. (Not that all this really matters, either.)
The Sleeptalker was at Hamilton Library on Thursday. I left after a brief
time in the game, went downhill and got myself a beer and bread+ham for
sandwiches. As I was walking from the returning bus to the secluded
grove, the Sleeptalker came strolling down the path. "You got beer?" he
asked. "Yes," I said, "for me, myself, and I." I told him the day before
that would probably be his last brew from me this month unless unexpected
money appeared from somewhere. "You'll just have to go back to your
richer friends," I said. He sat with me for awhile in the secluded grove,
saw I wasn't going to weaken and then went on his way to get lunch from
one of the downtown soup kitchens.
I returned to the library, played the game briefly, then went to the Korean Center building for an announced showing of an upcoming BBC
television program. I don't know anything about the "magicians" Penn and Teller, although I've heard of them, but evidently they have
done a series for the BBC on "magic" in various countries of the world, and the episode being shown was in India. A UH professor was
consultant and participant in this episode and he spoke briefly before showing the tape. Cringe. Penn and Teller couldn't possibly have
been more patronizing toward India and Indians ... hasn't anyone told them the Raj is long-gone? And they concentrated entirely upon
"street magicians" (i.e., con men, albeit with something of a cultural heritage) and within that, the most grotesque. It was fun, the
brief glimpses of Delhi street life, but otherwise an embarrassment. I didn't stay for the Professor's concluding remarks. And I
definitely don't recommend viewing the program when it appears eventually on PBS, as I assume it will.
Maybe as a kind of penance, I went back to the library and worked some more on revisions to my venerable (or at least, aged) Journey to the East page. I'd already checked most existing links earlier in
the day and added a section for Afghanistan, then decided on a major re-arrangement and finished that. When the original version of Panther's Cave began on the web, the collection of links was almost
encyclopedic,
especially with the Hawaii and Hawaiian Music pages. Now it is much more a collection of sites I find useful and/or attractive since any
attempt to be comprehensive is no longer possible. Only the Hawaiian music page has all the relevant links I'm able to find or hear
about. And, admittedly, the only page I use every day, aside from the Tales, is the Toolbox.
After that long sleep on Thursday night and before going to campus, I went to check the mailbox for the first time this week. It seems
always to happen that when I get discouraged and lose momentum, think of ending the Tales or, in this case, closing the Exhibition,
something comes along to restore confidence or at least interest. This time it was a supply of blank cards, not only more of the posh
Arches ones but also a packet of "panoramic" ones. I'd say CinemaScope but I probably have readers who are too young to even know
what that means. The first idea that came to mind was dividing each card into three blocks, making a comic strip. Later I saw the
Cherub and told him about it, said I'd then considered doing a primitive stick-figure collection and getting the Sleeptalker to add
captions. Perhaps if I made them "dirty pictures" he'd at last be forced to contribute to cards leaving Jesus out of it? No, I wasn't
serious, just amusing myself with mental doodles.
But I had been seriously considering declaring the Exhibition closed, especially after the current nine-card work in progress is finished
(if it ever is). After all, it is the most unsuccessful "exhibition" I've ever taken part in, with not a single work having been sold.
I know, that shouldn't matter, any more than glowing reviews in art magazines should have mattered back in the days when those were an
important part of the process, a more important part to most working artists than they ever should be. Working in a vacuum, with little
feedback positive or negative, isn't encouraging though, as I discovered in those early years in London. Perhaps it is easier for
writers to do so than for visual artists?
The Cherub asked, during our brief chat on Friday, where the Sleeptalker was. I said that perhaps he was mad at me since I'd refused to
buy him beer the day before. But I think the more accurate answer is that his usual impeccable sense of when it's time to disappear came
into play and that his return will have more to do with when he thinks his company is again being missed than with finances.
This time, though, it actually has little to do with him or with finances, at least from my side. I'm just feeling uncertain and
somewhat lost and when in such a state of mind have little patience with other people, all the limited energy devoted to wallowing in
self-indulgence. Ridiculous, but so it goes as Libra 2001 comes to an end. And good riddance to it.
853
The Cherub's tactic may not have been subtle but it worked, and Daddy gave up some cash upon his arrival in town. So there was beer and
tobacco on Saturday, compliments of Daddy, and again on Sunday. The Cherub couldn't stay and drink with me on Saturday since he had to
meet Daddy at some posh buffet affair in the evening, but he bought me two bottles of Colt before heading to suburbia. The Crazy Money
came to its end when I bought another bottle later. I was totally caught up in Janet
Fitch's White Oleander, an impressive first novel, albeit a little heavy on the metaphor pedal, and also thoroughly
depressing, the kind of book which needed an ample supply of some drug to get through the experience of reading it.
I finished it with my Sunday morning coffee and headed to campus, to the stand-up computer lab and its fancy iMac machines. The
Sleeptalker arrived quite early, much to my surprise, and when I left just before noon and walked over to the library I saw the Cherub.
He suggested having a beer and going to see David Lynch's new film which opened on Friday. I asked if we should include the Sleeptalker
and he said yes, so we went to get him. Three rounds of beer later I backed out of the film since the plan was to get more beer and
drink it there. Not only did the Sleeptalker need no more (he'd already had too much), that theatre is too small, the aroma would have
been evident everywhere. So they went off together. I learned on Monday, when I saw the Cherub briefly, that they'd managed to sneak
into the theatre through a side-door but had only stayed about half an hour, the Sleeptalker being too restless to sit still. Then he'd
persuaded the Cherub to go with him and buy some batu, surprise, surprise. I was even happier I hadn't been along.
It was an amusing afternoon, though. The Cherub is a wonderful buffer zone between me and the Sleeptalker, especially after a second
beer. And he said some cheering, interesting (and surprising) things about the cards. He assured the Sleeptalker that if the right
dealer happened along, the cards would be a commercial success. And he's probably quite right: simply but elegantly framed, they'd no
doubt be just the right small object to provide a curious conversation piece for a savvy collector, even one not necessarily versed in
that particular niche of contemporary "art".
We disagreed completely, though, on the subject of Oprah Winfrey. I greatly admire her, the Cherub does not.
And I stepped out of the discussion once it turned, as it inevitably does
with the Sleeptalker and beer, to religion.
By the time I finally got onto a bus headed for IHS, I fell into one of those reveries or-whatever-they-are and was well beyond where I
should have switched to a different bus, had to get one back toward downtown. Since the official reason I get the special bus pass is
because I get disoriented and have trouble using the bus, I think that may be one of the few things about this weird Crazy Money dance
which is truly justified.
Monday was one of those days when almost everything goes wrong, but at least I did find Father Greeley's Happy are the Merciful at
the State Library, so spent most of the day at the beach park with it. I had a shower and washed tee shirts, then read while they dried
in the sun. I'd vowed not to get involved with the Quarter Hunt game this month, to look only for the two quarters I needed for the next
morning's coffee. Those quickly arrived when I found an abandoned baby stroller during a snipes hunt. And then I had a craving for milk
and cookies, so that was dinner, reducing remaining foodstamps to under twenty dollars. An alcohol-free day. The sense of time is so
different when not drinking.
Even with Remeron, getting to sleep is not as easy after an alcohol-free day.
And sitting in the library on campus Tuesday morning, I looked up and saw the Sleeptalker and Mondo arrive. Mondo walked over after a
few minutes and asked if I had my pipe. "I don't smoke that stuff anymore," I said, and wondered if maybe I shouldn't just get out of
town.
854
Wed Oct 24
Im getting sick of this clan/guild
so you can have someone rewrite it
I got my family members names used as the mobs in clan
so Im just asking that they rewrite it
well anyway I thought your clan was more rad
and tell everyone Im sorry but they dont care
and Id like to say thanks for letting me have one of my own
even if I did steal Stokers once
Im going to quit mud for good beacuse it always seem to lead me
in the wrong direction
I enjoyed playing with you all even if it was
13 on 1 heh heh
The Sleeptalker was making such an ass of himself in the game on Tuesday.
I didn't get out of town, but I did get out of the game and fled the
campus, didn't check the game again until Thursday when I saw the above
whine. Of course, he knows and I know it isn't MUD that leads him
"in the wrong direction", it's that damned crystal meth pipe. But I hope
he means it this time and stays out of the game. I probably won't play it
nearly as much if he does, but at least when I do I'll be spared
witnessing his dumb act.
The last full week of October ... not an especially happy one. Three whole days without a drop of beer. It bothered me more than it
should have and even though I knew it shouldn't there wasn't much I could do to stop it. Finally I hocked some of next month's income
and got toasted on Thursday. I even tried to consume four bottles but gave up and couldn't finish the last one, gave the leftovers to
Joe Guam.
IHS is such a nightmare. It's bad enough in the beach park, the same deadbeats day after day, but even worse at IHS where there isn't a
single person I ever want to see again, much less know. I keep it to an absolute minimum, of course. I get there, find a spot (more
often than not with nothing but my beach towel as a "mattress"), stick earplugs in my head and the sleeve of my flannel shirt over my
eyes and sleep. It's a little surprising how soundly I sleep there, with or without Remeron. Sometimes I don't awaken at all during the
night, just escape into dreams which continue to be more interesting than anything in waking reality. In the morning I quickly put away
the beachtowel and get out of the place. Then there's ten or fifteen minutes of excruciatingly banal company at the bus stop, waiting
for the "Bums Express" to the mall. I could, and probably should, walk some distance to another stop, as I did in the early days there.
Starting each day with those boors isn't a good idea at all.
Reading material during the early part of the week was Anton Myrer's Green Desire, one of those almost-designed-for-miniseries
epics which I would have abandoned had I not been too lazy to make the trip to the State Library for something better. At the same time
I headed to the store for beer on Thursday, I checked the fifty-cent cart at the used bookshop and found The Bones of Time by
Kathleen Ann Goonan, a real oddity: a science fiction novel set mostly in Hawaii. Just to add to the oddity, one chapter is in
Kathmandu. She only made a few goofs about the local scene ... but it is a good yarn nonetheless. On then to Peachtree Road, a
melancholic Southern ramble by Anne Rivers Siddons. What would I do without the escape of fiction?
Radio certainly isn't much help. One afternoon I was jumping from station to station, came upon one of those idiotic call-in talk shows.
The host was in raptures about the greatness of George W. Bush. [cough, splutter, change stations ... ]
And pondering how to set about writing a new script for this weird life of mine. Just drifting along doesn't seem to be working
very well at this point.
Of course, Dame Fortune will no doubt tear up any script and replace it with her own, so why ponder. I didn't know until this week that
another name for the Three Fates is the Weird Sisters. Now that is weird.
855
It rained. And it rained. And then it rained some more. I was sitting
in a relatively sheltered spot on campus, reading, grateful I hadn't
finished the bottle of beer from the night before so I could enjoy the
leftovers while the rain poured. It transported me back to that monsoon
summer of 1973, sitting on the bed in that tiny room at the Mussoorie YWCA
while rain fell in torrents outside the small window, escaping then, as
now, into fiction. Wet, wet Saturday, the most continuous heavy rain
we've had here in quite some time.
I had been in the library earlier, checked email and wrote 854. After
finishing the beer, I went back to the library. The Cherub was at a
terminal, "Waikiki" on the screen. I think I'd feel faint if I walked
in like that and saw a stranger with my images on the screen. I looked in
at the game, not much was happening. When I got up to leave, the Cherub
was reading a Tale. "From great art to great literature," I joked, gave
him a pat on the shoulder and went on my way. Luckily the rain took a
break and I managed to wade through the puddles, get on a bus and to the
mall before it started raining again.
I spotted Rocky, first time I've seen him in weeks, but he didn't see me
and I turned around, went in the opposite direction. Later, when I got to
IHS I was reminded that there is one exception to what I said about that
place: Mondo. He was standing outside smoking, despite the light rain,
had his shirt unbuttoned. I just waved and went on inside. Too great an
object of desire, that one, far too much so for my present mood.
The rain departed during the night but in its place came fiercely gusting wind on Sunday. I spent an hour or so in the little computer
lab, then returned to Peachtree Street. I'd looked at the website devoted to her and found a quote from Siddons about the book:
"I'm getting a lot of comparisons between Peachtree Road and Gone With the Wind, which just drives me wild! I guess that's inevitable
when any woman from Atlanta writes a big book. But as much as I respect Margaret Mitchell and love that book, it was not the truth about
Atlanta, and it perpetuated some pretty dangerous myths." The comparisons are "inevitable", I think, not because she's a woman from
Atlanta who wrote a big book, but because Peachtree Street does for Atlanta in the 1940s, 50s and 60s what GWTW did for it in
those days just before, during and after the War Between the States, and does it with the same sweeping grandeur. One thing about the
book which is certainly different, though, is its first-person narrator ... and a male one, at that. It's one of the most convincing
attempts by a female writer to speak, and think, as a man that I've encountered. And it's almost as good as GWTW.
As I was walking toward the library I met the Cherub who had already been inside and was out for a smoke break. Then we spent the rest
of the day drinking, smoking and talking. He corrected me, said it had not been the Sleeptalker who directly asked for the batu
(although he thought the signals were being sent clearly enough indirectly). And he said he was surprised I so rarely use direct quotes
rather than paraphrasing what others have said. That's a memory thing, of course. I'm rarely certain enough that I remember exactly
what someone said to risk attempting a direct quote. I told him of the temptation to buy a mini-cassette recorder so I could capture and
transcribe conversations but I haven't yielded to it because I spent so many hours of my life transcribing tapes that it seems too much
like work. Admittedly, I'm sorry I don't have tapes of some conversations with the Sleeptalker although I'm not sure if the
transcriptions would be as interesting for most readers as they'd be for me.
I remember some of the things I said in that long rambling conversation with the Cherub, though. When I talk about my direct experience,
I seem to hit the right notes, as in saying Motherwell was a sweet man and a true scholar. When I pontificate from opinion, who knows?
Maybe I'm right in saying Dali will be a footnote in the history of 20th century art; it's probably too soon to know if my presumption is
correct, that Picasso, Pollock and Rauschenberg will be seen as the Big Three.
When I got to the library on Monday morning, I checked some sites for Bunuel, one subject under discussion. I'd been unable to remember
which of his films I've seen. Considering how often I borrow "obscure object of desire", it's a little bizarre I'd forgotten that one.
For me, though, the favorites (once my memory had been refreshed) were Belle du Jour and Simon of the Desert, which I'd
like to see again.
And I was delighted to find Mencken's The American Language in a searchable version,
surprised to also discover the Mencken translation of Nietzsche's The Antichrist. I
was reading that when the Sleeptalker walked into the library, settled at a computer across the table and some distance down. I left.
I'd had very little to eat on the weekend, was feeling truly hungry, a most unusual condition for me. With only a little more than four
dollars of foodstamps largesse remaining, I was reluctant to buy something. I was just about to give up and head to IHS for free lunch
when I spotted a large bowl of ramen probably left by some Japanese person unsure whether to throw all that liquid into the trash
receptacle in the food court. Those used to turn up with some regularity, although it has always been a matter of luck, finding one
before the diligent cleaning ladies dump them. Fortified a little by that, I was sure I could manage until the afternoon Krishna
handout, and went to check the mailbox. I didn't really expect the Fabled Pension Check to be there and it wasn't, but there was a
little melon from heaven. What perfect timing. It was a conditional one, the edict being "SPEND IT ON YOURSELF". Hmmm, a bit rude,
considering the Cherub's generosity the day before but, okay, I always follow any condition attached to heavenly melons and started by
returning to the mall, buying a bottle of Mickey's and hiding out in a less-frequented part of the park. With the sunset follow-up
bottle, after the usual unappetizing but filling Krishna plate, I went even further out on the peninsula they call Magic Island and
enjoyed the simultaneous sunset/moonrise with Mozart's first flute concerto, adding a few marks to the still-untitled set of cards in
progress.
The original of Ray #8 had also been in the mailbox. It's much more vivid and dramatic than the scanned version.
When I got to IHS, the Sleeptalker was standing in the courtyard talking to some people. I just walked on by and upstairs. And for the
first time at IHS, I dreamed of being at IHS. Yeukh. It was, though, even more strange. They only allowed people to go upstairs one at
a time, said security measures were tightened because Osama bin Laden was in the area. I must be going crazier in dream life than I am
in the waking one ...
856
The combination of Hallowe'en and the All Saints Day Full Moon didn't produce as much luna-cy as expected, partly I think because the
weather was very unsettled with frequent squalls of windy light rain. During my (futile) trip to the mailbox in quest of the Fabled
Pension Check, I had to take shelter several times and wait for the next break in the often almost-horizontal drizzle. A few hardy souls
were wandering around in costumes, none of them especially interesting. The usual costume contest at the mall was cancelled this year.
I suppose there was the parade of costumed folk strolling through Waikiki but I gave up going to that years ago and wasn't at all tempted
this year either. And there had been more craziness at IHS the night before, mostly inspired by yet another fit of power play. It has
been the custom for people who arrive early to drop their backpacks or belongings in a space on the floor to reserve it while waiting in
line for a mat. They called a halt to that, yet another case of not having the sense to let the community be "self-policing",
interfering with a system which had worked without complaints or problems. There was almost one fight when someone's friend "saved" a
spot next to his mat and another man, already annoyed because he'd been made to retrieve his own backpack, was angered by the attempt to
ignore the new rules. Stuff and nonsense.
A similar fit of power play took place in Seventh Circle when that weird Boss Lady got so annoyed with uncomplimentary notices
being posted on the public bulletin board, she removed the entire board instead of her usual habit of wiping out any notices she doesn't
like (which inevitably include almost all of the few I bother to post). She also managed to get rid of yet another long-time veteran
player, not one I particularly liked although I often agreed with his criticisms. By the time the real Boss wakes up to the damage she
is doing to the game, it will probably be too late. Once people wander off and begin spending time on another option, they generally
don't return. I may resume my own searches for attractive alternatives.
I was poking around on the web Wednesday morning and came across this item:
Johns, Jasper. Letter to the editor. Portable Gallery Bulletin (New York, N.Y.), no. 3 December 1962, n.p. Reply to Albert Vanderburg
November 1962 issue regarding a photograph of Robert Rauschenberg's combine painting Short Circuit. Reprinted in Kirk
Varnedoe, ed., and Christel Hollevoet, comp., Jasper Johns: Writings, Sketchbook Notes, Interviews (New York, N.Y.: The Museum of Modern
Art, 1996)
How very odd. I certainly remember my original article, have written about it in these Tales, and I well remember the telephone call
from an outraged Leo Castelli. But I just don't remember us getting a letter from Jasper, or printing it (although, of course, we would
have), and I'm amazed by that significant gap in memory. Very odd, indeed. Alas, no copy of that book in the university libraries. I'd
like to read the letter.
What I have been reading, and finished on Hallowe'en, is Shirley MacLaine's It's All in the Playing. I grumbled at it more than I
did her other book which I recently read, but still greatly admired it. Her website is
admirable, too. I'll be making one of my rare purchases of a new paperback when her latest book, The Camino, makes the transition
from hardcover. Some of the grumbling at this one was over her chirpy, repetitive insistence that we create our own lifes. I grumbled
again when the FPC wasn't in the mailbox. Yeh, sure, Shirley, it's all my fault it didn't arrive a day or two early like it usually
does. (Maybe she's right and it really is my doing, in which case pardon me while I kick myself.)
The trip to the mailbox wasn't totally futile, though, since a copy of the printed edition of the Tales had arrived from Paris, this one
containing Nos. 760-846. Once again I am much surprised by the difference between reading them on paper and via computer, and by the way
it seems almost like reading someone else's writing.
So ... another October has come and gone, another Fool Moon survived. Any Celtic New Year's resolutions?
857
Cainer says about the first weekend of November: Here comes a
challenging weekend. Will you enjoy it? Yes if you rise to the challenge.
No if you sink beneath its weight.
Unless the third mail call of the month is better than the first two, the
main challenge will be patiently waiting for Crazy Money Monday. The
Fabled Pension Check has still not arrived. I suppose the Anthrax Panic
and the reduced number of flights to Hawaii are to blame, never mind
Shirley and her ideas about us creating our own lives.
Even though she mentions karma now and then, that notion that we
create our own lives is very bound to the concept of karma. So while she
may be right, it doesn't mean we create the circumstances of our lives
within this one, and she somehow avoids looking at that aspect of
it.
The most recent visit to the State Library was about as dreary as the ones
to the mailbox and I'm making do with Alvin Toffler's Powershift
until something better comes along. The trouble with this kind of book it
that much of it is history only ten years after it was written, things
have moved even faster than he envisioned.
Meanwhile, I've almost finished the latest printed volume of the Tales and
I must say this year sounds much more interesting than life seems at the
moment, so not only does it feel in a peculiar way like reading someone
else, it also seems like someone else's life.
Despite empty pockets, Dame Fortune made Friday a decent enough day. I
needed one quarter for a sunset brew and she put an abandoned stroller in
my path. The supermarket is apparently giving up on the quarter system,
alas (poor Mongoose!), so those baby strollers are the only hunt in the
mall these days. There was also a splendid plate-lunch box abandoned,
grilled fish, corn and the inevitable macaroni salad. If only local
people had become as addicted to mashed potatos and gravy as they are to
mac salad (especially since the local version of that stuff is so bland).
The fish was rather dry, probably accounting for it having been discarded,
but drenched in the fake tartar sauce, not too bad. And most importantly,
it saved me from resorting to that awful stuff the Krishna people dish
out.
I saw Rocky a couple of times on Thursday, but only in passing, otherwise
my social life consisted only of the usual sunset chats with Joe Guam. He
has a black friend who gives him a few dollars whenever their paths cross
and he'd seen the fellow earlier, then had found two dollars in the park,
so he was feeling very pleased. He apparently doesn't get any kind of
public assistance nor is he interested in trying to. All he wants is two
40-ounce bottles a day and a little food and, with few exceptions
including me, just wants to be left alone.
In some cases, literally overnight, the decor in the mall switched from
Hallowe'en to Christmas. Only a few shops have the style, and good taste,
to create an interim Fall Harvest/Thanksgiving theme, Tiffany and Ethel M
Chocolates the best examples. But then the first Christmas trees appeared
in September at the new "Holiday Magnifique" shop which I suspect won't
last much past the Yule season. I'm really not looking forward to all the
fuss and nonsense.
Or to this weekend if that envelope isn't in the mailbox ...
858
The Fabled Pension Check didn't arrive but the penniless weekend wasn't as
bad as the anticipation of it, just rather boring. And, of
course, on Crazy Money Monday it no longer mattered. Those Crazy Money
paydays got extended again after a visit to the Qualifying Doc early
Tuesday morning. I'm not quite sure whether he extended it for three
months or six. All he said was "they'll send you back to me in March",
which suggests six months since it would run until May. If that does turn
out to be the case, I won't be seeing him again.
I saw the Cherub briefly on Sunday. He's broke until mid-month, so I told
him I'd buy beer on Monday, and did. We ended up in the beach park with
beer, chicken, mashed potatos and macaroni+cheese, a splendid sunset
picnic.
There was an appointment with the psychologist on Tuesday as well, so I
didn't make the trip to campus, left his office, had lunch at Jack in the
Box and checked the mail. The FPC was there having oddly been sent to the
old address despite the previous month going to the new one. Somebody
must have picked up an old back-up or something. Who needs these
irritating glitches?
As I was going to the supermarket for my second bottle of brew, I saw
Mondo, offered to buy him one as well. And when I got outside he was with
Angelo. That silly fellow missed last month's appointment with the Doc so
his Crazy Money is suspended until next month, thus no November Follies. A
new lad was with them, a 22-year-old local boy of Filipino descent, quite
cute and amusing. I've seen him occasionally at IHS, one of the few young
men in the place but of course there I diligently ignore anything remotely
close to being an obscure object of desire. Angelo was in fine form, the
best I've seen him in a long time, and it was another most enjoyable
sunset in the park. I bought a second round of beer for us all and was
consequently close to smashed when I finally left to catch a bus. They
are staying at the old Park Place but with just a beach towel for cover, I
wasn't keen on joining them there. I would have been just as well off if
I had, though, because I got to IHS too late, ended up sleeping in some
nearby bushes, grateful it remained dry all night.
The Cherub gave me Anne Rice's Merrick. It's splendid.
859
The November Ice Follies.
Dramatis personae: Panther, Angelo, Chico and Mondo, although to our
mutual mystification, Mondo wandered off very early after some beer and
food, didn't stay for the white powder.
Chico is the new Bad Boy, first mentioned in the last Tale. I was
mistaken, he is 21, won't be 22 until next July. "Chico" is not my
choice. It was a nickname he was given in the past and likes. He was
born in the Philippines, raised on the mainland USA, in Florida, Georgia
and Texas. He is, as I said, very cute. And he is the FIRST of these
lads to openly admit to being "bisexual". He is also currently at the top
of my wish list, and I have an idea that wish will be granted in the very
near future.
However, for these Follies, it was Angelo who was the star. I understated
things when I said he is in "fine form". He is in topnotch form,
surpassing even the Sleeptalker. But as has been the case in the past, he
made me promise to keep the details of our dance together a "secret".
That's easier to do this time because I'd be very embarrassed to admit to
some of those details.
But it was sheer madness and totally delightful, again surpassing that
last wild ice fling with the Sleeptalker.
It is now 9:40 on Thursday morning. I last slept about five on Wednesday
morning, and there is as yet no desire at all for somnolence. There was
unanimous agreement that the little bags of white powder were
exceptionally good, stronger, I think, than any I've experienced thus far,
even allowing for the difference to be expected after a four month
abstinence.
I was sitting in the Philodendron Walk, since the weather was uncertain,
reading and drinking my first bottle of brew when the three arrived. I
bought a beer for each of us and we went to the park. Mondo was listening
to the radio, didn't remove his headphones or participate in the
conversation throughout the first beer. Someone had given Chico a tiny,
adorable kitten. If I had a space of my own, I would have become its new
owner. Chico took off his teeshirt and wrapped it around the kitten who
promptly went to sleep and looked just like the kitten on a pack of
playing cards I remember from childhood. A total sweetheart.
We had walked over to the cheap tobacco store for packs of $2.50
Filipino cigarettes and then to the nearby 7-Eleven for the beer and a
little container of milk for the kitten. I made Chico wait until the milk
had warmed a bit before offering it the kitten, but it wasn't interested,
just wanted to sleep. Most fortunately, on a later trip to the mall, some
man seemed to instantly fall in love with the kitten and bought it for
five dollars. Lucky kitten.
For some reason I don't remember, Chico wandered off to the mall and came
back with a young woman. He's very female crazy and it was fun watching
him try to arrange a liaison. Whether it actually happened or not (was
supposed to be a meeting at midnight), I don't know yet, but after
drinking a little beer, she left. Then we all returned to the mall for
another round of beer and some food. That was when Mondo vanished.
To the park again, and then Angelo started longing for his beloved
batu. He had obviously sold his foodstamps, so offered to go half
on the first bag. I insisted I had vowed to wait until Christmas before
indulging (I'm dreaming of a white Christmas), but like I said, Angelo is
in great form and when he's like that he can persuade me to do almost
anything. He did fail later when he wanted to do the hotel room trip, but
despite that, overall he succeeded admirably and was a most delightful
partner in our dance together when Chico again wandered off and left us
alone.
I can't believe it happened ... I was all zonked and everything.
A second bag of the white stuff, then, and I really was spaced out. I
haven't been that far out since the last time I took LSD, have never
experienced that high with the Ice before.
It was close to midnight. Angelo said he was feeling "bored" [?!] and
wanted to go to Waikiki. I waited with them until a bus arrived, but said
I didn't really want to go there, would just stay in the park.
A night on Magic Island, moving around from bench to bench as the
sprinkler system went through its routine. And being about as outrageous
as I've ever been but only for a brief time with a witness, a young man
who was also spending the night wandering around. I thought he, as Mae
West so memorably said, "could be had", but he didn't make the jump so I
didn't either. After the earlier events of the evening, I really didn't
need it.
There was light drizzle now and then which finally became heavier around
four in the morning. I went to the 7-Eleven for coffee and cigarettes,
ran into Lord and Lady Moana on my way back. They had been up all night
with the glass pipe, too.
I finished Anne Rice's Merrick with my second round of coffee from
McD's. My condition, mentally and physically, was absolutely perfect for
the finale of that delicious book. And three cheers, indeed. Lestat
finally woke from his very lengthy sleep, and the ending of this one
strongly suggests we'll be reading more about that seductivly powerful
character.
And then I bought a bottle of Colt for breakfast.
The November Ice Follies.
860
Monday was a holiday, the one known in my childhood as Armistice Day, created to commemorate the end of the first World War. Later it
became the more generic holiday set aside to remember all veterans, and Veterans Day 2001 was probably the first since the Vietnam
debacle when it was once again an honorable thing to have connections, past or present, with the military. For me, it was a quiet,
solitary day spent mostly in Waikiki's Kapiolani Park, eating sandwiches of turkey and cheese, drinking beer, and reading John Updike's
collection of autobiographical essays, Self-Consciousness.
It is the third in a row of memorable books, beginning with Anne Rice's Violin. It's somewhat unlike her other books, no vampires
or witches, with a strange ghost, but not quite ghost, as the star. Perhaps a variation on purgatory, roaming the earth for centuries
after the first death, visible to few. The writing is lush and exotic, generally fulfilling the intention expressed by the female
narrator to use words like music. A thoroughly enjoyable read. That was followed by John Grisham's The Testament, my favorite by
far of his always engrossing but sometimes irritating novels.
The reading was an anchor of sorts during a somewhat hectic week. Life
had, indeed, been far too ordinary in recent weeks, or so it seemed to me,
and a spell of hyper-activity was not unwelcome even if I did several
times during it wish a little that things would slow down. As I told the
Cherub, it is almost as interesting an experience, observing and examining
the aftermath of a dance with Ice, as the drug experience itself. It
seems inevitable, and this I have observed in everyone I know who uses the
drug, to feel a deep need to refrain not only from that substance but from
all such elements in one's life. No more ice, no more alcohol, no more
tobacco (or the prescribed poisons), as if the experience with ice demands
a period of purification and abstinence. But the hangover is so brutal
the demand for relief overpowers that yearning. Most people I know deal
with that by smoking more ice and continuing to do so until their money
runs out. I would have done that myself, at least the first day, but was
spared by the absence of suppliers.
That wasn't my idea, but the Sleeptalker's. My own solution, as it has been in the past, was to stay slightly drunk all day on Thursday,
the day after the Ice Follies. Stay slightly, continuously drunk, lost in a fictional reality, and that method prevailed from breakfast
until late afternoon when the Sleeptalker arrived in the park. He was in a very strange mood, twitchy, hyperactive, unable to sit still
for long but jumping up to pace back and forth on the lawn around the picnic table. He was, in a weirdly belated twist, very upset by
the events of September 11th but, no, reduced to "practical reality" had no intention of rushing off to join the Army. Later
conversation, after a round of beer, and further talk the next day suggests his real problem is the addition of yet another sugar daddy,
a "friend" who lets him stay overnight but wants him to look after two large dogs. This is unacceptable to the Sleeptalker and I can't
blame him much. Giving up his body should be more than enough "rent" for a place to sleep. Of course, he also apparently gets the bonus
of some quite decent weed to smoke, as was evident when he arrived again on Friday afternoon. He had the remains of two joints
already smoked plus one as yet unlit and although still very hyper had been sufficiently mellowed by the smoke to remain seated most of
the time.
He offered to let me have his body in exchange for a bag of ice, an offer I would have accepted as much for the drug as the sex, but
neither our usual supplier or Paulo's was in the park and I was too weary (and drunk) to join him in a wider hunt for the treat. But we
had two rounds of beer and when I got up to leave for IHS, he said he was returning to his "friend". I fell asleep on the bus, deeply
enough to sleep right through the bright lights and stop-starts of the swing through the airport, only luckily awoke a little distance
beyond, near an airplane maintenance facility. On a side road, there was a long, covered bus stop. A man was curled up asleep at one
end, so I did likewise at the other.
The Sleeptalker and I were joined during Friday's late afternoon drinking session by Angelo and Mondo. Mondo was listening to music
via headphones, had little to say, but during a break when the Sleeptalker went off to buy another round of beer, Angelo was very sweet
and amusingly teasing about our ice games together. "You aren't supposed to remember that!" I protested when he teased about one
episode, but I was grateful he plays with such grace and generosity, even more grateful there is none of the Sleeptalker's guilt and
angst afterwards. We had yet another round of beer and then the Sleeptalker and Mondo left for IHS. Angelo was vague about his plans
but wandered off soon afterwards and I fell asleep on the picnic table bench, later moved to the nearby bus-stop when the irrigation
sprinklers woke me, the first time I have slept at that place, the habitual bedroom of the Duchess and Wobbly. I was too drunk to
consider any more distant options.
Although I did make the trip to campus each morning, I had no desire to write, postponed answering email and only very briefly looked in
on the game, as was the case again on Saturday. The companions for that late afternoon and evening drinking session arrived, Chico and a
rather chubby Waianae girlfriend. It's proof of my fascination with Chico that I bought them a round of beer; my usual reaction in a
case like that would be to make some excuse and leave. She got quite smashed on one bottle and after an amusingly lively conversation
went over and collapsed on the grass. When Chico joined her, I quietly departed with the remaining half-bottle of beer and went out to
Magic Island. Michael Lasser's hour of theatre music was on the radio, an hour oddly devoted to "jungle songs". I was sufficiently
engrossed in that I didn't notice the police had arrived in droves. When a pair of them stopped at my bench with a large flashlight it
unfortunately illuminated my open backpack and the bottle of beer inside it, so I had to pour the remaining brew out (no great loss since
by then it certainly wasn't needed). The young and quite handsome policeman explained they were doing a "sweep" of the park to give
warnings. They would be returning the next night and anyone drinking or "camping" (aka "sleeping") in the park would be given citations.
So much, once again, for the claims of the politicians that their anti-camping laws are not aimed at the homeless.
Those isolated morons really should be forced to spend a night at the shelter, experience for themselves just how crowded it is, how
near to being so full there will simply not be enough floor space. Anyone hardy enough to brave the winter nights sleeping in the parks
should be encouraged, not discouraged.
After the police left, I listened to the radio for awhile longer, then settled on the bench to sleep with my beachtowel, rather
inadequate protection. Someone woke me. I was still sufficiently drunk and half-asleep, thought my waker was the Sleeptalker. Well,
there was a definite similarity but I quickly realized it was a stranger when he asked "can I suck your dick?" I don't know what drug he
was on, but it seemed clear he was on something. I said sure, but only if I could do the same to him. He immediately pulled down his
shorts, was already standing tall. But he didn't want to take it to conclusion and didn't want me to, either, when he got his wish. He
wanted more and lay facedown on the grass beside the bench to offer it. I said there were too many people around, a more gentle way I
hope than being honest and telling the poor fellow I just didn't want it. He said okay, pulled up his shorts and went looking for a
more cooperative playmate. I hope he found one.
On Sunday I bought rolls, cheese and beer even before heading to campus, was sitting in the secluded grove with that and the Grisham
book when the Cherub arrived. We spent the rest of the afternoon together drinking and talking. He had been given tickets to the
basketball game that evening but I declined the invitation to join him, that activity being my least favorite of America's team sports,
and he didn't seem all that keen on it himself, was quite late in finally leaving for it.
A full and thoroughly enjoyable week, even if with too much beer and too little food, even if with that wicked drug ice (yes, I seriously
do think it's a "wicked" one), even if with what is sometimes too hectic a social life for this old man and his hermit leanings. No
complaints, though, no complaints whatever.
861
I'm always premature, jump the gun, and never moreso than with the seasons. Here I am, already in the winter of our discontent
mode and there are still five more weeks of autumnal discontent to get through. Why, one may well ask, after such a relatively dazzling
beginning to the eleventh month of 2001, do I reach the midpoint of it and feel discontented? Well, of course, I don't really know,
which is pretty much what discontentment is all about, in my experience. I just don't feel happy with my life but haven't got a clue
what to do about it and so just feel discontented.
Larry McMurtry's touchingly amusing The Evening Star is helping while at the same time discouraging. Such a delightful cast of
old folks (or, as the heroine prefers, "late middle age" folks). But they, like I, now and then sigh because "late middle age" just
ain't the calm, peaceful, non-lust-infected time we thought it would be.
And I've been feeling again that mood I mentioned not long ago, the one where I want to get a tee shirt that says I HAVE NOTHING FOR
YOU, LEAVE ME ALONE. I get so weary of people asking for things ... spare change (why would a man in my position have any spare
change, for God's sake), tobacco, beer, food, sex ... Well, okay, that last one doesn't happen often enough to mind, but the others are
daily intrusions and I get fed up with them. I heard the Sleeptalker calling me early on Wednesday morning. He was at the bus stop,
presumably to catch a campus-bound one. I just waved and indicated I was headed to the men's room for my morning wash and toothbrushing.
I'd been grumbling through my morning coffee about just wanting to be left alone, even though I knew I'd soon grumble even louder if I
were. The grumbles intensified when old Joe Guam stumbled along and asked for a smoke. So it wasn't a good time for the Sleeptalker to
appear, and instead of going directly to the bus stop later, I wandered around upstairs in the mall looking for snipes, the thing Joe
Guam should have done instead of pestering me.
When I got back to the bus stop, no sign of the Sleeptalker, nor was he in the library when I got to campus. But as I was boarding a bus
to pick up my lunchtime sandwich, chips and brew, I saw him getting off a bus and go walking across the lawn. I wasn't sure if he'd seen
me or not, although he told me later he had. I sat in the secluded grove with my lunch and the book, expecting the Sleeptalker to arrive
at any minute. Instead, he waited until later, came walking over to my table in the park as I was having my sunset brew. He did ask for
smokes but at least didn't ask for beer and I didn't offer any.
He'd been with Angelo since our last time together in the park but Angelo had gone somewhere, was supposed to have met the Sleeptalker in
the mall or the park but didn't show up, so the Sleeptalker had spent all day by himself, the one thing he hates most. I asked what
progress he was making with the welfare dance and it seems on track thus far. He has an interview with the qualifying doc next week and
is determined not to miss it. He also has an interview lined-up, once again, for one of the government sponsored education grants which
would allow him to attend school of some kind (where he wants to "study computers"). He went through that before without success but
maybe he'll get luckier this time ... if he keeps the interview appointment.
He left to get the bus to IHS, was still there when I walked over to do the same. He was chatting away with a man I've never seen
before, so I stayed some distance away and discreetly glanced their way now and then. They sat on opposite sides of the aisle on the bus
and it was most amusing to watch the Sleeptalker do his flirtatious act. Although the stranger seemed friendly enough, I guess he
wasn't taking the bait, because the Sleeptalker suddenly got up and left the bus in Chinatown rather than continuing on to IHS. What a
slut, I was thinking, but with affection.
Then I dreamed I had just arrived in San Francisco, had a small stack of hundred dollar bills but knew they'd eventually run out. Some
people were trying to get me to work for them. A woman showed me her messy weekly calendar, wanted me to maintain a nice, tidy
computerized version for her, but I knew I just couldn't cope with that kind of work and was worrying about how to make the contacts to
find out how best to live the homeless life in a new city. Meanwhile, in this so-called real life, I'm hanging onto my last twenty
dollar bill as if it was a life preserver and I'm on a sinking ship. Only problem with that is, I know the damned piece of paper will
sink right along with me. Still, considering the temptations of early November, I guess I've done better than could be expected to have
even that one bit of greenery left.
862
After a visit to campus on Friday morning, I stayed offline through the weekend. The early Friday visit was necessarily brief
since it was time for another half-hour with the Psychiatrist, a very very unsatisfactory one which left me grumbling all day. I suppose
I should appreciate his candor, just quietly smile my way through his temperance lectures and take or not take his prescribed dope as the
mood strikes me. He said he would not ordinarily give any medication to a patient who drinks alcohol, was only doing it for me because
the Qualifying Doc thinks I should have it. Since surely the majority of people who see him with problems of depression indulge in the
one legal, cheap drug they can get, his attitude is peculiar, as I see it. In any case, I think he is just reconciled to seeing me since
insurance covers it and he's doing nothing much but ensure I continue to get the Crazy Money. And of course, I am grateful for that even
while I grumble about a "psychiatrist" who doesn't want to talk about anything but chemicals. He wants me to taper off the Neurontin,
eventually stopping it altogether, while doubling the nightly Remeron dose. Shrug.
Rather than return to campus, I just stayed in the park for the rest of the day after visiting the State Library and getting some
inconsequential lawyer yarns to pass the time.
When I got to campus on Saturday morning I sat in the secluded grove rather than heading to a computer, and was finishing my early lunch
and first bottle of beer ("you are self-medicating yourself", the Doc had said) when the Cherub arrived. We went to get more beer and
talked for awhile in the secluded grove, then went to the beach park. We hadn't been there long when I said, "ah, here comes the hot
tamale". Angelo.
I ended up spending the night with him, sleeping on sheets of cardboard in a tennis court, grateful it didn't rain. I hadn't realized we
were in a meteor shower and was dazzled in the pre-dawn hour by seeing more "falling stars" in a few minutes than I've ever seen before.
The hour before sleeping was equally dazzling in its way. Angelo is a real sweetheart and, yes, "hot tamale" is affectionately accurate.
I never expected to find it out and didn't expect it to be a repeating pleasure, one which becomes increasingly so with the more relaxed
dance that familiarity always brings. I am a lucky old man.
We had breakfast together on Sunday morning, then separated as I went to have a shower and then to the laundromat. End of the November
Crazy Money, as my accumulated quarters were reluctantly fed into the washer and drier. I must force myself this time to get darker
trousers. It's just impossible, wearing light tan pants with the life I lead, especially with often-grubby park benches and the
almost-as-grubby floor of the shelter where more often than not I end up with nothing but my beach towel to sleep on.
That place has been surprisingly less crowded recently so there has at least not been the problem of finding floor space, but they
continue to keep too small a stock of mats on hand (or put too many of them downstairs for the "walk-ins").
Helen R is going home to Kauai for Thanksgiving so we will not have our usual pig-out at the Sizzler in Waikiki. (This is sensible,
since I just can't eat enough to justify the all-you-can-eat-buffet tariff.) So she kindly invited me to an early dinner on Sunday and I
once again wallowed in the delight of the hot roast beef sandwich at the venerable Likelike Drive-In. Never mind all-you-can-eat, that
plate of bread, beef, mashed potatoes and yummy gravy always leaves me feeling stuffed.
Earlier in the afternoon I had been keenly interested in a lengthy program of new American music played on NPR and was delighted to
finally hear a worthy composer who is carrying forward the tradition set by Copland and Thomson. Mark O'Connor. His "American Seasons" is a fine piece of music and his "Appalachia Waltz" is so
good I am eager to hear it again.
After the feast with Helen, I sat in the park watching the sunset. Paulo came over, seeking a beer. Sorry, my friend, try again in ten
or eleven days. Joe Guam stopped to say goodnight, didn't ask for anything (much to my surprise), but was moaning because he had no
money for Monday's beer.
I have enough for Monday. Then we begin the usual end-of-the-month poverty act. Je regrette rien.
863
Meanwhile, I survived the Mars-Saturn square, was more or less tricked
into indulging in a traditional Thanksgiving dinner, heard some most
excellent music on several occasions, saw two amusing films (Mars Attacks
and Star Trek: First Contact) and always had plenty to drink: that was the
holiday that was.
The first Thanksgiving of these homeless years. On the second one, I
fell in love again on Thanksgiving Day, this time in the old-fashioned All
American way, with an image on the Silver Screen. Brad Pitt in "Meet Joe
Black" is the Cat's Meow, the Top, the smile on the Mona Lisa, etc. etc.
Scratch everything I've said about good-looking men. He wipes the slate
clean, eliminates all competition. That was with Helen R, at the
Kahala Mall, followed by the all-you-can-eat buffet at Sizzler's in
Waikiki.
The third was spent in the Castle Medical Center and I recall absolutely
nothing about it, although I'm quite sure it didn't include the
traditional turkey dinner, unless the stuff had been ground into the mush
I had to eat for such a long time.
It was back to Sizzlers in Waikiki for the fourth Thanksgiving: I saw
Mondo at the mall early on Thanksgiving morning, but just waved to him,
kept on walking. He looked thoroughly stoned and equally thoroughly happy.
And while I was waiting for Helen R outside Sizzler's in Waikiki, Rocky
came along with a fellow I've never seen before. He wanted to borrow five
dollars. I told him I just couldn't do it, still had another week to get
through. He took it well and bounced on his way, after pulling up his
shirt and giving me a glimpse of his brown belly and fancy boxer shorts
which I complimented him on.
And the fifth? Well, we shall see, since this is being written on the eve
of the holiday.
I do not have a single memory of Thanksgiving in childhood although it's fairly certain the earliest ones were spent with my maternal
grandmother. Unlike a few things my mother cooked (including her cornbread stuffing), I also don't remember anything at all which my
grandmother served us through the years. Odd. I'm sure my memory of the two songs I most associate with the holiday originated in
childhood ... "over the river and through the woods to grandmother's house we go" and "we gather together to ask the Lord's blessing"
(the latter, as I recall, sung to the tune of the Dutch national anthem). Although we might have crossed the San Antonio River on the
way to grandmother's house, there surely weren't any woods and no question of a horse-drawn sleigh.
Memory doesn't serve any better in later years, at least not until
1973 and the Thanksgiving feast offered by the wonderful Bahai lady at
Unity Restaurant in Kathmandu. Then there is again a blank until the
early years in Waikiki, preparing the usual fare for my nephew even if the
holiday was a new tradition for him. We had no oven in the Waikiki
apartment, so I braised boneless turkey breasts lightly, then filled a
huge cooking pot with stovetop stuffing (fresh celery added) and the
turkey, let it sit on very low heat until it was all "baked". Mashed
potatoes (the real kind, not the instant crap I sometimes resorted to
after a day in the office), cranberry sauce, wine. Those were the best
Thanksgiving celebrations I remember.
Meanwhile, in the days leading up to this one, Dame Fortune has been kind.
Much to my surprise, I managed to acquire nine quarters in the mall on
Tuesday after having already found enough for a daily brew. Discipline
called forth, I did NOT (also somewhat to my surprise) yield to the
temptation to have two, saved it for Thanksgiving Eve. Despite Remeron, I
had a very difficult time getting to sleep Tuesday night, not helped much
by seeing the Sleeptalker making a wild dash out of IHS just as I arrived
and Chico trying to grab me for conversation or whatever as I went up the
stairs. "I'm just going to sleep," I said. "This early?!" Uh-huh.
Earlier I had gone to the State Library to make sure I had enough mindless
reading to get me through the unpromising holiday. Angelo was there, had
just come in from Waianae where he'd gone after our night together. Later
I saw him again when I walked over to the River of Life soup kitchen where
he was standing outside talking with RedEye. I thought they served lunch
at one o'clock but discovered it was at 1:30, didn't want to hang around
so said goodbye to the lads and returned to the mall and the bountiful
Quarter Hunt. The food supply was more than bountiful, so there had been
no need to wait for that lunch anyway.
The holiday reading is a David Baldacci double-feature, his 1998 The Simple Truth (he tackled the Supreme Court before Grisham?)
and his following novel, Saving Faith. I do envy slightly the way these people can turn out one best-seller after another.
Meanwhile, what do I have to be thankful for on this Thanksgiving? Well, it's all in the Tales, isn't it?
864
The Thanksgiving party took place on the Eve. I walked over to the park,
sat down to enjoy my sunset brew after giving up on the Quarter Hunt even
though I was still two quarters short. Tanioka came over, said they were
sitting at a table further down and asked me to join them. Angelo and
RedEye. The party continued until it was too late to get to IHS and I was
too drunk to go there anyway. Vodka and orange juice, a little roast
chicken and several varieties of Angelo's beloved raw fish, a major dent
in the $31 I'd been pleased to still have on my foodstamps balance, and an
extra dollar in pocket for that holiday brew.
The major gossip item of the evening was the news that Rocky's
sugar-daddy, the UH Professor, had finally gotten his new apartment and
both Rocky and the Sleeptalker are staying there. The poor man and/or the
lucky man? One thing's for sure, it's an arrangement that can't last
long. Rocky apparently has a job with long hours and a very early start,
so I guess the Sleeptalker must have the place to himself for most of the
day. Odd he hasn't taken advantage of the computer, but maybe he's not
permitted to use it when Daddy's not home. Odd, too, the Sleeptalker had
been at IHS the night before, although I don't know if he'd actually
stayed there overnight. It's too dark when I leave in the mornings to
identify the bodies on the floor.
Since I couldn't get to that hellhole, I spent the early hours of
Thanksgiving Day sitting alone on my favorite bench at Magic Island. I
didn't sleep until after three in the morning. Fortunately the night was
not disturbed by rain, the sprinkler system, or the police.
Most of the day itself was a quiet time, alone in the secluded grove,
reading Baldacci's Saving Faith. I went to get that bottle of Colt
in the early afternoon, enjoyed that with the suspenseful finale of the
book and then worked on some cards, continuing the first work using the
panoramic cards and deciding to call it "Faith".
And Michelangelo finally came down
After four years on the ceiling
He said he'd lost his funding
And the paint had started peeling
And he told us that his patron
His Holiness, the Pope
Was demanding productivity
With which our friend just couldn't cope
And he rode off on his skateboard
With his brushes and his blade
Muttering something 'bout some food
And the Thanksgiving Day Parade
... from Dan Bern's "The New American Language"
I decided not to take advantage of any of the free food opportunities but
when I finally went to the beach park at sunset there was, as usual, a lot
of food deliberately left on tables by early picnickers, including one
large roasting pan filled with large chunks of turkey, corn and yams. I
noticed in the distance that the table near Lord and Lady Moana's usual
territory was loaded with foil-covered pans and dishes, guess they must
have gone around gathering up all the offerings they wanted. The one day
of the year when folks feel obliged to share with the less fortunate. I
heard on the radio that the Salvation Army's annual holiday meal served
more than 2500 people. I'm glad I decided against attending that one, for
sure.
IHS was less crowded than usual and after my brief sleep the night before,
I was very quickly off in dreamland, happy to have gotten a mat for the
first time in many nights.
When I got to the mall, used the now almost-extinct foodstamps for two
cans of chilled coffee, I had to sigh over the long line of people
standing outside the toy store and the people who had already managed to
get inside the place, were lugging away huge shopping bags of stuff. At
six-thirty in the morning!
The madness begins.
865
Thanksgiving Day may have been a quiet, mostly solitary day, but it
certainly was sandwiched between two extravagant parties. I had
three Thanksgivings this year.
After a few hours on the mostly deserted campus Friday morning, I went to
the State Library, picked up a couple of novels, checked the (empty)
mailbox, and returned to the mall. It was densely packed. Food was
abundant, tobacco even moreso. It looked like people arrived, parked
their cars and then took a few puffs off a cigarette before the urge to
shop overwhelmed them and they stubbed out the smoke. But not many people
were visiting the supermarket and by late afternoon I'd only found one
quarter, reconciled myself to its being a no-beer day.
I was searching for a discarded cigarette box since the one I had was
stuffed with lengthy snipes. And I detoured past the Ethel M Chocolates
shop to have another look at that handsome Micronesian fellow who works
there. A crumpled ten dollar bill was on the sidewalk in front of the
shop! The little melon that fell not from heaven but no doubt from
someone's pocket or purse. Oh lucky man.
So I bought a bottle of Colt and went to the beach park, started reading
We'll Meet Again by Mary Higgins Clark, a somewhat irksome
multiple-murder yarn so littered with red herrings that it's hard to keep
track of them, much less guess which are important. The Sleeptalker walked
by at a little distance from my table, made no sign he'd seen me. He
headed down to where Paulo usually sets up his "kitchen", but soon
returned, paper cup in hand. Whiskey, from the smell of it, and he was
already fairly buzzed. I'd seen Paulo earlier in the mall and he was not
just fairly but totally zonked. He has been getting regular work on a
fishing boat lately and I suspect all the profits are going into food,
booze, weed and, of course, the glass pipe. The Sleeptalker said Paulo
had been taking care of him for the past three days.
I told him about the Thanksgiving Eve party. He said Rocky was mad at
him. Well, I wonder why, my son? It's not the Sleeptalker's fault,
naturally. He doesn't want the Professor, the Professor wants him. Left
unsaid is the obvious; he may not want the Professor, but he wants all the
luxuries the poor man provides. He had talked to the Professor about me,
said the man told him I was "taking advantage" of the Sleeptalker!
Cough, splutter. My friends tell me the Sleeptalker is taking advantage
of me, his friend says I am the one taking advantage. Well, I reminded
the Sleeptalker that I'd told him just that myself.
Having emptied the cup, he walked back toward Paulo's table and, much to
my surprise, the Cherub came walking over the little bridge. I'd expected
him to stay on Kauai for the weekend. The Sleeptalker returned and the
two of them went to the mall for a round of beer, which was followed by
two more such trips during the course of the evening. The Cherub had
spent the holiday with his Mother and brought along some turkey and a
little jelly glass full of truly excellent cranberry sauce. I haven't
seen one of those little glasses in a long time. Instant childhood
memory, since it was just such one-time containers of jelly which provided
our drinking glasses, the "good stuff" only brought out for company.
Later some black man I've never seen before joined us. One would think
that having a bona fide black man at the table would have squelched the
Sleeptalker's horrendous "jive talk" act, but no such luck, and after the
Cherub had given him money to buy some weed and we'd smoked it, the
Sleeptalker got even worse. I got up and walked off, the Cherub following
me. "He is just a bore," I grumbled, surprised at how deeply I meant it
... and how true it is.
So another night on a Magic Island bench, having to switch sides of the
island when the sprinklers erupted in the wee hours. It's really getting
too cold for nights under just a beach towel. I either have to get a tarp
and lug it around or give up on these late, drunken nights. But at least
it didn't rain, except from the sprinklers.
Saturday was another day alone in the secluded grove. I finished the
Clark book. She did manage to weave most of the red herrings into a
sensible conclusion but it became far too obvious who was the real culprit
long before the ending. I'm spoiled, I guess, by Agatha Christie, prefer
my murder mysteries to remain a mystery until the final pages. Next up
was Danielle Steel's The Long Road Home in which she puts the
heroine through just about every horror that could happen to a human
being.
I went downhill for a brew in mid-afternoon and then as sunset time
approached went to the mall for another one. The Sleeptalker was in the
supermarket. He looked awful. I've never seen him looking more derelict.
Life with Paulo must be continually burning the candle at both ends.
I passed near Rocky twice. The second time he surely must have seen me
but acted as if he hadn't. If he's as mad at the Sleeptalker as reported,
he's probably looking upon me as the enemy, too. Unlike the Sleeptalker,
Rocky was looking good, very good.
The Sleeptalker didn't come over to my table later although Joe Guam
stopped for the usual post-sunset chat. And then it was off to IHS where
once again I was lucky enough to get a mat and there was a vacant space
right by one of the large floor fans, my favorite. It's hard to discern
any pattern to that place, why it's sometimes so totally full.
This is certainly the time of the year when I would most like to unplug
the internal jukebox. All it needs is to hear a few bars of a seasonal
tune and it plays it for hours and seems, perversely, to get stuck on the
silliest ones. At least this year the mall has broken the usual pattern
and instead of continually playing a loop of holiday songs performed by
local musicians, have instead put together a more classic collection ...
Crosby, Fitzgerald, Sinatra, etc. But I still think a whole month of the
stuff is just too much, wish they'd wait until two weeks before Christmas.
And I wish the internal jukebox would shut up.
I was sitting in the Philo Walk with my Sunday morning coffee when the
Sleeptalker walked by, sat on the next bench without saying anything. He
looked even worse, must be really on a downhill slide. The overhead
lights went off so I put my book away, picked up my coffee and said "too
dark" and went to sit somewhere else.
Jonathan Cainer is taking some time off to work on the next annual
messages and has brought in a substitute who writes in much the same
style. His message for the last week of November begins "You've finally
run out of patience."
He may be right.
866
... in that cool lockup look of six inches of pastel undershorts
showing. The fashion statement got started in jail when inmates had their
belts confiscated so they couldn't hang themselves or someone else. The
trend had crossed over every racial and socioeconomic line until half the
city's pants were falling off. Patricia Cornwell's explanation in
Hornet's Nest. I didn't know the style was a Mainland one, never
saw it until I came to Hawaii. It sounds like a plausible theory for its
origin, too.
That I find rather charming in its way, but I do not find anything the
least bit charming about white boys imitating what I, in my old-fashioned
way, see as black "jive talk". Three local lads passed me in the mall on
Monday afternoon, all loudly in this trashy mode. So it's not just the
Sleeptalker, alas. Ugh. My first thought was, how quickly can I manage
to get out of this country?
It wasn't the first time I've thought that in recent months.
Although the Cherub stopped by the secluded grove and we talked for
awhile, Sunday was again mostly a solitary day. When I returned to the
mall in late afternoon I quickly found enough quarters for a sunset brew,
then lingered over it longer than I should have at this time of the month
since IHS was almost out of floor space when I finally got there. The
same thing happened on Monday night. I went to campus for my usual early
morning on-line time, including awhile in a new MUD I've been playing for
a few days, Elysian Fields. It's similar to Seventh Circle
but unfortunately doesn't seem to have as many players (the "Immortals"
usually outnumber the "Mortals" three-to-one when I've been on). Still,
it's fun to play where I'm a complete stranger ... and don't have to worry
about the Sleeptalker suddenly appearing.
Then to the State Library for more reading material. I wish they'd
enlarge the space for their "honor collection". The mailbox was empty,
except for a reminder that the rent is due in December. Back at the mall,
snipes were again plentiful but quarters were not. I finally gave up, was
taking a break in Philo Walk when Tanioka and Angelo walked by. Tanioka
was all wound up and excited about an idea he has ... he wants to start a
non-profit business "to help the homeless". I'm afraid he is thinking
much more of the salary he could pay himself (and Angelo) than in actually
assisting the homeless, although I suppose he'd at least be helping two
homeless people. Make that three with his scheme to hire me as a
consultant. I told him it was fairly easy to set up a not-for-profit
business, isn't at all easy to get non-profit status which allows people
to make tax-deductible contributions, and also mentioned he'd have to come
up with some decent ideas to match or better the competition (including
IHS). He doesn't seem to have a single one at this point, but what the
hell, if it gives him and Angelo some amusing moments of fantasy, no
complaints from me.
I told them I was still searching, needed four more quarters, and was
going to resume the hunt, as much to escape the "business meeting" as from
any expectation of actually finding the money. They were going to bag
some vodka, asked if I had foodstamps to buy juice. I lied and said the
stamp money was all gone, and it was, except for the few dollars needed to
ensure morning coffee until, I hope, the Fabled Pension Check arrives. I
know, I could have spent my quarters on juice and joined in the vodka
party but I really wanted beer. I am not an alcoholic, I'm a beeraholic.
Weird thing was, I found those four missing quarters almost immediately,
despite the Mongoose prowling the area. (He must have discovered that the
Quarter Hunt has improved a little, albeit not much.)
So I got my sunset brew, looked over to see if Tanioka and Angelo were in
the park but didn't see them. I hope they didn't get busted.
A reader wrote: Running out of patience ? I don't know. You sound more
worried than out of patience. Perhaps so. But I really should know
by now what wasted energy it is to worry about the Sleeptalker. He
always finds someone to take care of him, even if most of the comfortable
situations he lands in are short-lived. True, he is looking much worse
than I've ever seen him before and that is a little worrying, especially
since he should be getting Crazy Money in a few days. How he'll cope with
the glass pipe when he's already so wrecked, I don't know. But there's
not anything I can do about it. I suppose more importantly from my own
side at this point is that I'm not sure I'd try to do anything even if I
could, and that perhaps is the relevance of "running out of patience".
I'm more inclined right now, moreso than I've ever been, to find a
different path for myself. Premature, as always, since any genuine new
path is far more likely to happen on its own when April arrives. I
researched the situation with Social Security, discovered I can apply in
late January and that payments will begin with April, not May as I'd been
supposing. And there's a nice little increase in benefits starting with
January, too. Since I'm planning to start early, I'll get 20 percent less
than I would if I waited three more years, but there's not a chance in
hell of doing that. So that largesse, added to the Fabled Pension Check,
should bring in a little more than $750 a month. No great luxury in this
costly corner of "paradise" but certainly enough to make a significant
difference in my present lifestyle, especially if I managed to rid myself
of some of the company I've been keeping. The question is, of course,
whether I really want to do that ... or is this just one of those times
when patience is, indeed, at low ebb.
867
It was raining lightly when I left IHS on Tuesday morning but even before I saw news reports it was clear the night had been a stormy one
since the bus had to detour through downtown because fallen trees or branches had the usual road closed. Even on the detour route, one
lane was closed because of fallen branches. The sky was solid gray, utterly devoid of any distinguishing feature, and it stayed that way
all day. Rain almost never stopped and was very heavy at times.
I hocked ten dollars of December's income, bought a lunchtime beer and was trying to find a sheltered spot at the mall (Philo Walk was
full all day). I ran into Mondo. "You just bought beer?" he asked. I admitted I had but did not offer to share it, went on my way
looking for shelter. Ah, I hadn't before considered some benches at the far west end of the mall which are indeed under shelter. When
the sky is less clouded, those benches are in full sunshine all afternoon, one reason I've never taken advantage of them. Another reason
is the crazy woman who hangs out there all day, busily lecturing some invisible friend, complete with aggressive waving of her left arm.
Whoever she scolds must be extremely bored with her. Me, too. But she stays on the benches near a store entrance and there are two
others at some distance from those and I took up residence there for the rest of the day, adding a sunset brew as the time approached,
although there was certainly no visible sign of the sun dipping below the horizon.
As expected, IHS was very, very crowded and all mats were gone by the time I got there. Mondo was there, asked if I had a cigarette.
No, I didn't, nor did I offer a snipe.
The dreary weather was predicted to last three days but by early afternoon on Wednesday it had begun to clear. I made the usual
morning trip to campus, had found an almost full plate-lunch box abandoned on a planter ledge at the mall so warmed it in one of the
microwave ovens and had a splendid early lunch before returning to the mall for a bottle of Colt. Then to check the mailbox, a daily
chore at this time of the month. The last volume of printed Tales I'd received had been prepared in a different binding machine than
usual, the other machine having been under repair, and it had almost fallen apart just from its trip through the postal systems of France
and the USA. So a better-bound replacement was waiting along with an elegant little catalogue of an exhibition in France of some
variations on the Mona Lisa. It was tempting to start cutting it up for collage but I decided to hold off on that for awhile and dropped
the whole package off for safekeeping, along with two works for scanning. Once those go up, the "Honolulu Exhibition" will be completed
for 2001.
No Fabled Pension Check, alas.
Then I returned to the sheltered benches even though there seemed no danger of rain. The advantage of that new spot is that
it's off the beaten track and I'm not likely to encounter any of the Bad Boys, at least until they discover I've taken refuge
there. Then Cainer lectured on Thursday morning: All good things in life have their side effects, their drawbacks and their
downsides. The sky suggests you are currently so conscious of a certain disadvantage that you can hardly see, any more, the positive
purpose of a person, a situation or an item. You simply need to alter your vantage point. And you should.
Hmmmm ....
868
The Fabled Pension Check came and went, or almost. The December Follies, without the ice but with enough beer to fill a small swimming
pool.
After finding the check in the postbox, going to cash it, making a stop at the State Library (futile gesture at being "responsible"
rather than buying books), getting beer and cigarettes, I was sitting in the beach park when I saw the Cherub in the distance. As I
told him, he, the Sleeptalker and Rocky are three guys I can recognize from their walk long before I can make out their faces. He had
sold his car and had a pocketful of money which I suspect will probably vanish with record speed, even by my standards.
After another round of beer in the park, he suggested moving the party to the mall's Mai Tai Bar. On the way we stopped in the
about-to-go-out-of-business "House of Music" where he contributed to the purchase of George Harrison's "All Things Must Pass", the
'thirtieth anniversary' two-CD boxed edition with eight extra tracks including a new version of "My Sweet Lord" recorded last year.
That's at least the third time I've bought that set, the LP-version getting more play than any of the Beatles albums.
The old fellow who runs the cheap tobacco store had Harrison playing on the radio when I was there. I said I never expected him to die
so young, although back in the Sixties we would all have thought 58 absolutely ancient. Now it does, indeed, seem he died too young.
There was a group of very local fellows at the bar who the Cherub somehow knew (although I haven't yet heard any details). I
enjoyed listening to the conversation and especially liked the young man who was sitting on the barstool beside me, a truly sexy man. But
eventually I got up and left without saying anything, too far gone to trust myself in such enticing company. Incredibly enough, one of
the shops at the mall sold me a bottle of Colt. The way I was staggering had me seriously doubting they would (and it's a cinch the
supermarket clerks would have turned me down). Heaven knows I didn't need it, but out to my favorite Magic Island bench I went, beer and
George Harrison and the full moon. Luckily the night wasn't disturbed by policemen, rain or sprinklers, a minor miracle which was
repeated on Saturday night when I was once again too sloshed to consider getting to IHS.
I saw Angelo, Tanioka and the Sleeptalker in the mall while I was looking for a place to enjoy my re-fill cup of Saturday morning coffee.
The Sleeptalker looked a little better but was being very sullen, so I ignored him and talked with Angelo instead. Tanioka and the
Sleeptalker headed off to the supermarket, I went to brush my teeth. When I returned, none of them were around, so I too went to the
supermarket, bought beer, a sandwich and some potato chips and got that look the salesclerks always give when you buy beer at nine in the
morning.
A little later Tanioka and the Sleeptalker joined me the park, none of us knowing what had happened to Angelo. Tanioka sent the
Sleeptalker over to buy beer for them and after that, the Sleeptalker loosened up a bit. He's mad at Paulo already, still feuding with
Rocky, and did something to have a new CD player and a twenty (or more) in his pocket. He said that black man who had joined us in the
park the last time had traded a Walkman in exchange for "sucking my dick". Sheez, what a whore. Silly one, too, since he'd then thrown
away the Walkman because of feeling guilty over how he'd gotten it. He made a trip to the mall, returning with a round of beer for us.
I followed up with a food run, surprising Tanioka with a pound of raw fish. "I'd never pay cash for it," he said, when I answered his
question about still having foodstamps in the negative.
We were joined for awhile by a young local couple, the first people I've met from Kahalu'u, a town on the other side of the mountains.
The young man and the Sleeptalker made a beer run to the mall, returning with a large pizza as well. Then the Sleeptalker scored some
weed, only enough for one smoke but ten dollars even so. It was very good stuff but that's more money than I'd be willing to pay. The
couple went on their way and shortly afterwards Angelo arrived. Eventually the Sleeptalker wandered off without saying anything, didn't
return.
Tanioka had declined sharing the smoke earlier, said he was in a "drug free" state except for alcohol and tobacco, but he more than made
up for it with the brew. I've never seen him so drunk, and he's a very amusing drunk, too. He and Angelo had a lively debate about what
makes a person "gay", Tanioka holding with the idea that having sex with another man, even if it's just getting a blow job, means you're
gay. Angelo and I disagreed, Angelo adding the proviso that doing it for money was the key factor. They are both firmly convinced the
Sleeptalker is gay. At this point, I think the Cherub and the Sleeptalker himself are the only people I know who would disagree.
They were going to GovSanc for the night so we parted and I returned to my Magic Island bench, had a very restless night since the gusty
wind made it difficult to keep the beach towel tucked in, but at least it stayed dry. The wind continued to blow on Sunday and after
almost being hit by a falling branch in the secluded grove, I decided it was time to sit in a safer place, finally left the campus and
returned to the beach park for a sunset brew, listening again to the second disc of the Harrison set.
A sunrise doesn't last all morning, a cloudburst doesn't last all day ...
All things must pass.
869
The December Follies didn't stop, maybe still haven't stopped even though
it's the eighth of the month and I'm having a little of that
candle-at-both-ends feeling. It was more than a little on Friday morning
when I felt worse than I have since those days and nights at Castle
Medical Center. Alcohol poisoning, exaggerated by having failed to eat
more than half a sandwich the day before.
Crazy Money Eve was the calm before the deluge, one of those rare times
when it was just me and Tanioka, drinking sunset brew in the park. Angelo
had been at the State Library earlier, had lost his Crazy Money card so
had to spend the day getting that sorted out ... and he hasn't been seen
since.
I had chores of my own to do on Crazy Money morning, including a trip to
the discount clothing store and stopping by the postbox place to pay rent
for three months. I decided not to go to campus afterwards, went instead
to the beach park, had a shower and bought the first beer of the day. I
felt something tickle my ear, thought it was a fly and reached up to brush
it away.
Chico.
When I walked over to the mall to get another round of beer for us, I saw
the Sleeptalker who joined us a little later. He's not taking his
displacement with much grace but correctly sensed that it has happened.
Chico is the man. And such a sweetheart. If Angelo is a "hot tamale",
Chico is jalapeno hot as I discovered, much to my pleasure, later in the
evening and again the next day. The Sleeptalker bought some weed, then
got aggressive as he often does when stoned and drunk, but Chico shrugged
it off. When we had the same combination going on Thursday, along with
Mondo, the Sleeptalker and Mondo almost went at it, but the Sleeptalker
backed off. He's itching for a fight but wants an easy target. Silly
fellow.
After another round of beer Chico left to sleep at IHS, the Sleeptalker
wandered off, and I staggered out to Magic Island to the bench, later had
to move inside a shower house when it started drizzling. There was only
one man in there, already asleep, and except for the bright light that
stays on all night, it's actually quite a pleasant place to sleep.
I started on the beer far too early on Thursday, largely accounting for
the misery of the next morning. Chico had a job interview so I wasn't
expecting him until mid-afternoon, but the Sleeptalker came along around
noon, sat there with his headphones on and had little to say except for
making a few wisecracks about my "new boy". When Chico arrived I walked
over to the mall with him to get more beer where we saw Mondo. After
another round of beer, we had the near-fight scene, Mondo left and I moved
with Chico to another table, leaving the Sleeptalker to sulk on his own.
And yes, why not yet one more round of beer, after a repeat of Wednesday's
delightful drink from the Fountain of Youth. Chico is by far the most
natural and affectionate of the lads.
The Sleeptalker rejoined us but was still in his looking-for-a-fight mode
so I wasn't at all unhappy when he again wandered off. Chico left for IHS
and I was so sloshed I just walked over to the covered bus stop and slept
there.
I felt on the edge of being sick throughout Friday morning, helped only a
little by having cereal and yoghurt for breakfast. Then back to the beer
and the book. I've been reading M.M. Kaye's Shadow of the Moon, a
grand historical epic set in Victorian India, a strange work to have
interwoven with all the real-life events of the week and made even more
strange by its echoes of things that are happening in that area of the
world now.
The Cherub arrived. As expected, he has gone through the car-sale money
already. We went to Manoa Garden for a beer, the first time I've been
there in months. Bartender Bryant greeted me warmly but pointedly ignored
the Cherub, obviously still out of favor there. Then it was to the beach
park for roast chicken and more beer. Surprisingly, none of the other Bad
Boys appeared. I wouldn't have minded at all a third round with young
Chico, not at all.
When it came time to make a move, I decided I'd go to IHS (for a change),
so the Cherub went to get a bus home and I waited among a bunch of old
veterans in town for the 60th Anniversary of Pearl Harbor, finally got to
IHS and collapsed on a mat, didn't surface until almost six on Saturday
morning. One thing that place really does have in its favor is providing
the security to totally disappear into dreamland, and by then I was more
than ready for just such a disappearance.
"Have you disappeared?" asked a reader about my absence from on-line life.
"Like the Cheshire Cat, nothing left but a grin," I replied.
870
Poor little Chico. I'm afraid I just cannot be the Sugar Daddy of his
dreams. Certainly there is a part of me which would love that role, but I
can't afford it. Financially or in terms of energy, especially that
mysterious energy called sexual desire. I know, sitting in the park on
Friday evening, drinking beer with the Cherub, I had thoughts about how
much fun it would be to have round three with Chico. But when the
opportunity actually presented itself on Saturday evening, I declined.
Sometimes I really am an idiot.
I enjoyed a quiet, solitary day on campus, spent a couple of hours
catching up with on-line life, then sat in the secluded grove with a beer
and a sandwich, finishing that excellent M.M. Kaye epic. I think it's one
of the most accomplished novels about India, equal to her earlier Far
Pavilions, even with its improbable but satisfying happy ending.
Considering how many British perished in that uprising, it seems unlikely
her hero and heroine would have made it. But the biggest shortcoming of
the book was how little it touched on the people of India themselves,
concentrating almost entirely on the (often, in those days, very stupid)
British. Or so I see it.
On my second trip down the hill for another beer, I stopped in the used
bookshop which was offering 25% on all used books. With that extra
incentive, I abandoned the fifty-cent cart and splurged a little on Andrew
Greeley's White Smoke. Father Greeley is, to use one of his
favorite words, arguably, the only writer who could have tackled the idea
of writing a novel around a conclave of the Catholic Church, an election
of a new Pope. He's also probably the only priest who would dare to write
about the present Pope in the way he does. As always with his books, it's
also just a very entertaining read, aside from its controversial and
thought-provoking aspects.
When I finally returned to the mall for my sunset brew, it was raining
lightly so I stayed in Philo Walk and thus missed seeing Chico earlier
since he had been in the park looking for me. I resisted the temptation
to have a fourth beer, was waiting somewhat impatiently at the bus stop
when he walked up, asked where I'd been and told me he'd been hoping to
see me. A friend had cut his hair and it's now one of those slightly
comic affairs with shaved sides and a thatch roof on top, the thatch left
longer than most young men have when adopting this fashion. Chico is
young enough and cute enough to get away with it, but I think he'd be much
more attractive with something less severe. I didn't say so.
He was ready to go, willing to give it up just for a beer. Sexy Chico. I
declined as gently as possible, blaming it on feeling tired and just
wanting to get to IHS and go to sleep. I gave him the money for a beer
anyway, thinking he'd go off to buy it. Instead he put it in his pocket
and waited for the bus, too.
Fortunately, we arrived when there were still a few mats left and, equally
fortunately, I grabbed a spot with no nearby vacancies. I really did just
want to go to sleep and didn't want the distraction of having him too
nearby.
No, I'm just no longer up to the role of perfect Sugar Daddy.
871
A reader wrote: I had also wondered, lately, if you weren't falling out
of love and being depressed as someone who finds his world suddenly
becoming empty.
I replied: Well, there is certainly that aspect of life just now.
It's not easy adjusting to the fact that the long, long "love affair" with
the Sleeptalker is over, and I suspect poor little Chico is just a way to
temporarily ease the discomfort. I'm sure the infatuation has little
chance of developing into the kind of dance I had with the Sleeptalker.
And it is not, of course, absolutely certain that dance is over. It won't
be the first time I thought so and was forced to dance some more.
"Forced to" is the wrong phrase. "Charmed into". And the Sleeptalker
turned it on full force Sunday evening when he joined me in the park.
It was, indeed, charming even when he went into amusingly obvious overkill
that would once upon a time have been irresistable. He was sitting on the
table beside me, his feet on the bench, and twice lay back, pulled up his
shirt and rubbed his flat brown belly. Cute, sweet ... and contrived. He
even went to the extreme of leaving aside his precious CD player rather
than his usual routine recently of keeping the headphones on constantly.
I saw him briefly earlier when he walked through the secluded grove, asked
how long I'd been on campus. "Since early morning," I told him. "The bus
is running?" he asked, and I told him it was. He continued on his way.
Questions about the bus had been part of the day from the start since it
was Honolulu Marathon day and although buses were running, they took
extensive detours to avoid the race route. Shortly before the Sleeptalker
passed by, the Ferret had stopped to chat for awhile. He has found a room
in a building which sounds similar to the one Mondo lived in, single rooms
with a washbasin but sharing a toilet and shower with three other rooms.
The Ferret is paying three hundred a month for it which seems very high
for such an arrangement but so things go in this costly "paradise" and
it's a possible option for next year.
Aside from those two encounters it had again been a day of quiet solitude,
a brief time on-line and then sitting in the grove continuing Greeley's
fascinating book. I went downhill once to get lunch which I was still
eating when the Sleeptalker walked by. I may be one of the few people who
enjoy Campbell's "Chunky Chicken Noodle" soup eaten cold from the can,
crushed saltine crackers added. I could no doubt find a container and
warm the stuff in the campus microwaves, but I like it cold, even if it
does seem a little too "hobo" to be sitting, eating directly from a can.
Late afternoon, I returned to the mall, got beer and cigarettes and went
to the park. I didn't expect to see the Sleeptalker and was surprised
when he did arrive, even more surprised by his friendly, chatty manner,
but maybe not so surprised when he turned on the seductive charm.
Eventually I told him I will always love him but I'm no longer "in love"
with him and added that he really should be relieved by that. I don't
think he believes it. And there is no question that he's still very
desirable physically, proven by the barechested episodes which probably
would have turned me on had it not been so comical.
Someone had left a shopping cart, complete with its quarter, very near our
table. So when Joe Guam walked over and begged for the dollar he needed
to get beer, I gave him three quarters and told him to take the cart away.
I was tired of sitting there thinking I should be doing just that and
considering the amount of effort I sometimes put in to get my own beer
money from those carts, I thought it wouldn't do Joe any harm to do the
same, at least once. He didn't want to, though, continued to plead for
that one more quarter. The Sleeptalker didn't have it, said he'd left his
money in his storage bin (?!). Finally I told the Sleeptalker if
he wheeled the cart back and gave the quarter to Joe, I'd buy him a
beer. Once again, a little to my surprise he did.
So when he returned, we walked back to the mall together for more beer and
a tub of raw fish since he said he was hungry. The beer, of course,
didn't help at all with his earlier charmingly seductive routine. He just
can't drink without the anger and aggressiveness surfacing or least
showing through cracks in the shell of charm. I didn't mind, find it
easier to deal with him as he really is than with the act, no matter how
delightful it is. I responded to his grumbles about Chico, "You're the
one who told me there are plenty of fish in the sea. So I hooked one."
And I said once more, "You should feel relieved." Probably again
incorrect
phrasing there. "Was hooked by".
The early part of Monday was again a quiet time on campus, finishing the
Greeley book and so making a trip to the State Library in mid-afternoon.
Back at the beach park, Joe Guam made several stops by my table but
fortunately had beer already and was only hinting for tobacco. I had a
box of meagre snipes ready, a neat ploy when there are two packs of cheap
smokes in the backpack. Then the Sleeptalker arrived. "Aren't you
hungry? Don't you want a burger?" which translated to "buy me a burger".
I declined, said if I was hungry I'd walk over to the Krishna truck. So
he asked for a cigarette. I declined again. If the rascal is keeping his
own money on ice in his locker, he would have been smarter to have kept
quiet about it.
He got up to make the walk to the Krishna truck, said he'd be back to
"nag" me some more. But a short distance from the table he stopped to
talk to an old, probably local Japanese, man and the two of them headed to
the mall instead. I guess the Sleeptalker had found his burger. Further
proof that I should stop subsidizing him in any way at all since he not
only gets more money than I do, he also has what seems an inexhaustible
supply of part-time sugar daddies.
One more chance to say no during a day of saying it over and over since
Chico was sitting outside at IHS, loudly called "give me a cigarette!"
when I walked in. I just shook my head.
No fool like an old fool, but even we have our limits.
872
I begin to feel about the Sleeptalker and his daddies as I do about the Quarter Hunt. I don't really care how many are scored but I'd be
happier not to actually see it. Dame Fortune, though, seems to be working overtime on arranging unexpected encounters and the first on
Tuesday was when I got on a bus headed back to campus after a trip downhill for lunch. The Sleeptalker was on the bus. He stayed in the
secluded grove for a short time, complained of being hungry. Foodstamps all gone already? Yes, and he blamed Angelo for persuading him
to sell the foodstamps to fill the glass pipe. I suspect Angelo hadn't had to work too hard on that persuasion. And the Sleeptalker had
blown the rest of his Crazy Money as well after leaving me on Monday afternoon.
He hadn't met the man he left with before, he said. The fellow works on a ship which goes back and forth between here and California, so
is only in town about every two weeks. He had taken the Sleeptalker home (a hotel maybe, details were sparse) and fed him spaghetti.
"Maybe he's gay," said the Sleeptalker. Uh-huh. Whether the man had actually scored or not wasn't revealed but I suspect that was the
case. In any event, afterwards the Sleeptalker had bought lots of beer and got very drunk. I'm glad I was spared that.
I didn't volunteer to buy lunch for him on Tuesday, so he left for IHS. Later I was sitting in Philo Walk since it was drizzling yet
again (and had at frequent intervals throughout the windy day). The Sleeptalker walked by with yet another daddy, obviously enough gay
there was no maybe about it. How does he find them all? I doubt he could grab them any faster if he hung out in the town's gay bars.
And I won't be much surprised if he eventually starts to do just that. If only he could just relax and admit to himself that he actually
wants and enjoys sex with men. Anyway, as I said, I do wish the Good Dame would spare me the encounters.
The Sleeptalker arrived in the secluded grove again on Wednesday morning. Since he doesn't rush off to play MUD as he used to, I suspect
his main purpose is the hope of getting free lunch and/or beer and he got lucky because the Cherub joined us. We talked for awhile, the
Cherub asking the Sleeptalker if he had any ideas about how to make money aside from selling his body. Good one. No tips from the
Sleeptalker on that score. Eventually I got up to leave, make a trip downhill for beer and lunch. "Aren't you taking him with you?"
asked the Cherub. No, I said, if he's crazy enough to have spent all his money and foodstamps already, let him suffer awhile. When I
returned to the grove they weren't there, but I guess they'd made a visit to Sinclair Library since I saw them walk past a little later.
Then they returned with beer, indirectly supplied by the Cherub's mother who had sent him money for Christmas. She was clever, since
most of the gift was in the form of gift certificates (now done with plastic cards) from Border's and Macy's. The Sleeptalker didn't
have a backpack with him so was going to sit there with the forty-ounce bottle clearly visible in the thin 7-Eleven bag. I said I wasn't
taking a chance on getting busted, left to sit somewhere else. No matter how enjoyable the company, getting banned from campus for a
year is too high a price to pay for it. I know, it's a risk to do it anytime, but I do try to be as discreet about it as possible.
I returned to the mall and beach park once I finished my beer. I was reading Frederick Forsythe's Icon and was inclined to take
it back to the State Library and find some alternatives. The spy novel is not a form I've ever much liked, no matter how w