A Few Memories of Grandparents

Saturday November 16
Shirelle is shaving my face while I write this. Penn State is at Ann Arbor to take on the Wolverines. The razor scrapes on my face like a badger at the door, then she clinks it musically in a glass full of water to bang out the whiskers.
How old was I in Stony Point, feeding lettuce to raccons out the porch screen door, lightning flashing in the night sky, illuminating the woods? I think it was the first time I'd ever seen lightning. My grandmother explained soothingly that it was nothing to be afraid of, and I believed her unquestioningly, and watched in fearless fascination. I might have been three.
A few years later I remember going to pick my grandparents up at Union Station (My grandfather refused to fly). The crowd parted and there they were. Grandpa in his knee-length overcoat, Gramma's maroon with wooden buttons. Grandpa lowered, bending his knees, arms outstretched, Grandma made loving grandma noises oh's and ah's.  She wore black-framed glasses. They had brought books, one about a little tug boat, and another about some playful puppies.
What else? A few years later they came to care for us kids after my parents split up. I don't remember it so well. Hot dogs and apple sauce. Once by my bed in my room, maybe my brother and I were fighting, maybe my grandfather was remembering his lost son, he raised his hand to strike me, but he didn't. Once I was crying because I was not allowed to stay up past eight thirty to watch a special hour-long "Happy Days" with Fonzie and Pinky Tuscadero at the demolition derby. It was obvious from the promos that it was not to be missed. My grandmother tried to soothe me into bed, but I wasn't having it.
Another time, after studying the new Satuday morning cartoon lineup in TV guide one fall, I got up confused and thoguht the new Woody Woodpecker show started at three AM instead of six. My grandfather, who slept little, was in an EZ chair under a lamp reading. He said, was I sure? We checked the TV guide and saw that it was on at six. He said to go back to bed and he would wake me up at six. Once they took us to Knott's Berry Farm, and one of the old carnival rides in the Old Mexico part of the park, The Whip, knocked a gallstone loose from my grandpa. He suffered the rest of the day in pain, not wanting to ruin our trip to the amusement park, and went to the hospital that night. They took us to the Artesia Park Community Center haunted house one Halloween, and my brother and sister and I were giddy with terror...Won't be no beer at their house tonight. I'm nervous about how to act. I'm afraid I'll be bored. Or I'll say the wrong thing. I have to leave soon. Tomorrow I'll be home before nightfall to write my three critiques and read the Bible.

Friday November 15
I didn't have this book yesterday so I had to do my three pages in another book. I felt wrong about not doing them; just as Julia Cameron predicted, it's easier to do them than not do them. They critiqued Jim Crack last night. It was largely unsatisfying. I did get a few clues as to how to clean it up. The complaint was that the narrative meandered away from the story too much. I felt like I wasn't given a sophisticated enough reading. They were asking to have it spelled out for them. They didn't want to be challenged.
I'm disgusted with the world. I want to smoke pot. I want to drink wine. I want to stumble around Hollywood. I finished Seize the Day. Wilhelm grieving at a stranger's funeral. In this day and age Wilhelm is dead to the world, or to the world of America, anyway. No car, no money. No home, not a member of society. Fuck society. That's what Jim's all about. How can he drop out? I've got on Mozart "Divertimientos", soothing strings. My head feels better, but my chest is still congested with hatred. I want a drink. I've got to go to my grandparents in Hemet this weekend. I'm going to spend some time with them before they move to Idaho. I wonder if I'll ever see them again. Will I ever go there? I don't care to see my father. He's emblematic of all that fucks with me. I subbed for Ms. Spalla today. I had them write what they would do to make friends with the Indians if they'd just arrived on the Mayflower. I have to submit to the court on Jan. 23. I have a dentist appointment on December fourth. I have nine more community services to do. If I don't get called Monday, I'm going to go to Wilshire Crest El, and that other one on Wilshire and to Los Angeles High, and Leo Politi and Bancroft Junior High to look into subbing or even transferring. The new UCLA Extension catalogs came out. I better only sign up for one class during the winter quarter. When this quarter is through, I'll have to bring my transcripts to Pam so I can go up the payscale. I should have a little extra coming in February for my coordinatorship. I'll start This Side of Paradise for my next novel after I read a couple of short stories and the collection of Los Angeles poetry. It's been foggy out. I saw "The Ghost and the Darness" with Val Kilmer and Michael Douglas. Too Hollywoodized. I'm depressed enough, I just might go up to McDonalds. I need to get a hold of GTE about getting the internet up and running at school. Peter Lee wants a letter of reference. Agurg. What the fuck else? I need a blessing. I need a break, a skosh of happiness. Alger Hiss had never been a spy. McVeigh will be tried in March in Denver next year. Fuck it all save my soul fuck it fuck it save me help.

November 13 Wednesday

I went down to another brain skills class in Downey. I left an hour early. I hope Rose doesn't forget to pay for the off-track time. I'll remind her tomorrow. I've got to see Pam, too. I need to clean up my desk tonight and find that GTE brochure or ask Rosa if she has a copy. I've got to write seven first lines and write a short where one character tries to persuade another character to do something he doesn't want to do or something illegal, or an epistilogical story; Plus, I've got to write to John Bayles and thank him for the card he sent. I'll bring my tape recorder to my grandparents this weekend. Wonder if they would mind being taped. Wonder if I can fish Lake Perris. Last time wasn't fun. What about meeting Getoff at Joshua Tree? Actually, I've got to work Monday if I can and if I don't I've got to work with DMV on getting my license back and make arrangements to substitute at schools around here. I've got to pick up my Proventil prescription from Payless Drugs over on Larchmont right now., plus stamps, light bulbs, and wart remover. What should I eat tonight? I haven't drawn or photographed anything lately. I feel hurried and screwed and doomed. I have to treadmill tonight. I'll stay up until eleven thirty. I'll wake up at six thirty tomorrow. I'll bring a disk to school so I can work after school before class. Maybe I can see a movie tomorrow. There are so many. Tomorrow I will be hearing reactions from the class. I really have no idea what to expect. I'm burning out on Jim the last couple days. I must pray to the creator for inspiration.  A lady at the workshop said I was a genius because I answered all the comet questions. I should have told her her motherhood was a lot more genius than my keen memory.

The Old Cosmic Fuckaround

November 12 Tuesday

I'm in a waiting room at Hollywood/Wilshire County Health Services. Isn't it just like the county not to be able to decide between Hollywood or Wilshire for a name? This place is nowhere near Wilshire. It's on Melrose. Today has been one of those days. I almost feel a fondness for this kind of aggravation. Two weeks ago, I rented some tables for an ill-conceived party. The tables were due the following Monday. I had work and class Monday, so I asked the Thing if he would drop them off for me if I loaded them into his truck before I went to work. The place is on Arlington and Venice, not far at all, no more than a couple of miles. No problem, he said. But on Thursday, I play my messages, and it's the inbred retardo Asian woman who works there asking me where is the equipment? I called her back and told her the equipment had been dropped off Monday. She said she had no receipt. Luckily the Thing left the invoice right here on my desk. I told her I had my copy. She said, "Who signed for it?" I read her the name: "T. Andrew." She said she needed to see the invoice. I asked her what difference it makes? I read her the name; how would seeing it make it more authentic? It's not my mistake, I said; why should I be inconvenienced by having to find time in my busy schedule to assure them that what I said was true. She's the one getting paid, why doesn't she come out to get it?
Friday I had to go to Palm Springs, so I gave Butt the invoice, and asked her if she would take it over there. She said she would. This morning, Tuesday, she told me she hasn't done it. As if she hadn't already fucked with my credit enough. She said she'd lost the paper. Then she said she found it on Saturday, though. I said, "Why didn't you take it on Saturday?" She said she had things to do. I said that makes me mad. The she flipped and wigged and started doing her bitch routine.
My car is still over-heating. I'd asked her earlier if I could use hers to go to court in Van Nuys. When I picked up her keys to go she said, "Oh, did I say you could use my car?" She had, but I threw the keys on the floor. I got mine and walked out the door. Dealing with the over-heating car in rush hour traffic was going to be easier than dealing with her. I stopped at Chief Auto Parts on Highland to buy a new radiator cap and some coolant. They weren't open yet. I thought I'd read over the paper and wait. I went to the news stand. It takes quarters only. I had a nickel and two dimes. Then I spotted a bundle of papers in front of the KWIK-E-MART. I took one and left the twenty-five cents. The auto parts store opened. The clerk got me a radiator cap which his computer said should fit my make and model. I asked if I could try it on before I paid for it. He said I could. I went out and took it out of the cardboard and plastic packaging. Then I took off the leaky cap. As I did so, a scalding geyser of rusty radiator water scalded the inside of my wrist, and stained my never-before-worn clothes. Ha ha. Then I tried on the new cap, but it didn't fit. I went back in. The guy said he would have to charge me a one dollar re-stocking fee. Ha-ha, I said, and reached into my back pocket for my wallet. It wasn't there. I drove back home and got it, then back up to the store to pay the restocking fee and try another radiator cap (I didn't want to be driving all over looking for a less evil auto parts place, if such a thing exists). The second cap fit. I paid for it and coolant, poured in the coolant, screwed on the new cap and drove up to Van Nuys hoping the problem might be solved.
There was no parking near the court unless I wanted to pay two dollars every twenty minutes. Ha ha. Fuck them. I drove a mile away and parked at an International House of Pancakes. A sign in the parking lot says they tow. Ha ha. Fuck them. I wouldn't fall for that old bluff. I walked away. Then I spotted a parking attendant. I went back and moved the car farther away.
I waited in line at court sixty-eight minutes to find out I would have to come back to see a judge. I said, "Do I get any compensation for parking and for the work I've missed because I've had to correct the court's clerical error?"
The lady said, I should have called.
Ha ha.
I said, "I spent half a day yesterday trying to get through to you people; your phone system is a joke.
She said, "Yesterday was a holiday. Nobody was here."
Ha ha ha.
The way she smiled then, I'll let you imagine.

Leaking Hollywood Juice

November 11, Monday Veteran's Day

I got tree planting duty with Hugo today. He drove us down Cesar Chavez to Logan Elementary, and we gave trees there water and vitamins. First, though, we had to move a mountain of full garbage bags leaking Hollywood juice from the yard out to the street, and then when the truck arrived, we had to move the mountain into the back of the truck. It took ten men forty minutes, there was so much trash.
She looked like a Pamela. She told me to write her story. Said she was twenty-two when she started doing porn. Her first job was in a cheesy bathroom. She couldn't finish the first set. ~~The owner of the strip bar picked them up in the desert. She lived with him. He paid for her boob job. They did lots of speed. Tink takes the blame for the Corvette. She feels sorry for Dotty. She just wants to be loved. Naive honesty. He pulled a gun on Dotty cuz so much shit was missing. Next he paid for her nose job. And more speed. Uncle Raymer. The narc. She took the rap for the club owner. She started doing contests when she got out. A guy named Rex got her into it. She said she was appalled at first. Says she was kidnapped, arm broke. Signed the contract to get away from Brad. "Grace of God," I want to know more about the moral decision going from appalled to willingness. But we have to go back to work.

_______________

I have to comparte the first and last chapter of Judith Hearne for class tonight. I was supposed to write a scene where Jim's mood and the tone of the piece change, build to a crescendo, then drop back to what they were. I haven't even started working on it. I have about two hours until I have to leave for class. Maybe I can write it then. Get a good two pages. Pick it up from right where it is. Jim goes from empty and immobile to brightly animated. Tink shows up? Tink calls? Tink and Jim and Adam at a bar? Tink's got a fake ID? I'm alread having trouble. At the end Judith gets comfort from the photo of her aunt and the picture of the sacred heart, just as in the last sentence of the first chapter. Judith is so limited. She needss a Van Gogh on the wall and some flowers on the dresser and should start playing the piano more instead of always being so helpless. I think the book's failing for some people. Judith puts all her stock in those two pictures. It's a good novel for us because it's a first novel which has been published, not because it's great, but because it's technically competent.