Classic Bitch Flip

July 26, 11:15 AM Su
No one around.  I'm at lower Rainbow Falls on the middle fork of the San Joaquin.  More Devil's Postpile hellishness:  Shirelle's cunt got all inflamed.  We were at the top of the freakish formations of some long-ago inferno of molten rock.  It had taken about five minutes to climb up there, but Shirelle acted as if we were on the Bataan Death March.  Just over the trail a little more was the trail to the falls, but Shirelle said, "I don't want to go if it's going to be all uphill.  Isn't there some flat way we can go?" 
"Hello?" I said.  "We're in the MOUNTAINS.  There are going to be some ups and downs on the trail."
She made some bitchy noises. 
"Fine," I said.  I led us back down the trail below the Postpile to our camp.  
"Where are you going?" she asked.  "I thought the trail was the other way."
"I'm going back to the car because you don't want to walk up any hills."
She abruptly turned and walked the other way, down the trail to the falls.  I stood there.  She'd done it again.  The classic bitch-flip:  Complain against my idea until I give up, then do my idea.  I let her go, thinking how stupid she was.  If we had just continued from where we had been, she wouldn't have had to climb the hill again.  I was carrying the water, too.  Shit.  I decided I better go after her.  I needed the exercise anyway.  The trail passes through a forest of scorched black trees.  In other places the trees are ashy white skeletons, the result of a 1992 conflagration.  It makes the place even more eerily devilish.  Two and a half miles in, about a half mile from the falls, I came upon Shirelle marching back the other way.  We passed each other wordlessly.
 Now I'm here.  A few scattered raindrops fall.  I  can't tell if I hear a roll of thunder over the roar of the waterfall.  I guess when I get back, we'll pack up and go.  I'm sick of her crappy attitude.  I'll read a little before or head back... or maybe not.  The raindrops are becoming less and less scattered.  In fact it's coming back down pretty good now.

Devil's Postpile part 3

It was very dark before we got on the road again.  We stopped at a Shell station in Mammoth for firewood.  Then we took the long, winding road down into the canyon.  I thought I glimpsed a silver fox, but maybe it was a coyote disappearing into the woods.  Sure had a bushy tail.  We actually got a nice campsite even for how late it was, right near the San Joaquin River and the Postpile.  Site A 13.  I got the lantern going and put up the tent.  "Tents," I should say because Shirelle brought a second tent "for the clothes."
I didn't really even argue or ask any questions about that beyond the most cursory inquisition, I pretty much just put up the second tent, too.  Before going to sleep, I emptied my pockets into the bag that hangs from one of the interior walls of the tent.  My wallet was not among the contents. With lantern and flashlight, we searched all over. We looked in the car.  Looked and re-looked everywhere in the vicinity.  No wallet.  Did I leave it at the Shell station?  I'd had it to buy the firewood.  Nearby a ranger station with a payphone in front guarded the entrance to the campsite.  I called information, and got the number to the Shell station.  I called and asked if they had found a wallet.  Of course not.  There had been about two hundred cash in it, not to mention credit cards, ATM, license.  Shirelle had fifty dollars and nothing else.  Was that enough to buy gas to get home?  FUCK  FUCK FUCK!  WE'RE DOOMED!  WE'RE CURSED!  THIS IS THE DEVIL'S TRIP! There was nothing left to do but go to sleep.  It was a very cold night.
The next morning, the ranger strong-armed us for twelve of our fifty dollars, even though we'd gotten in after midnight.  We decided to call home and ask someone to wire us some money.  We called my mom.  She said she would do it.  On the way into town, I decided to stop by the Shell station and threaten the manager with some civil action.  I walked in.  He was on the phone.  "...some guy left his wallet in here last night..." he was saying.  I waved my arms and pointed to myself.  He asked me my birthday and my last name and handed me my wallet.  Hooray.  I handed him a twenty and said thanks.  We came back to the campsite.  I looked over some newspapers I had brought back from town.  Shirelle wanted to fish.  We tried the river first, but it was raging with El Nino snowmelt.  So we drove up to Sotcher Lake.  I was positive we wouldn't catch any fish. We hiked around the lake to a sandy beach.  I tossed out a line, rolled and lit a joint, and opened a beer.  I reeled in my line. There was some resistance.  An underwater branch or something.  I kept reeling.  It was a rainbow!  About a one-pounder.  I used a corkscrew on my pocketknife to get the hook out of its throat and put it in my creel.  We fished another hour.  Shirelle fell in the lake and wanted to return to camp.  We hiked up over some bluffs around the lake back to the car.  We showered at Red's Meadow natural hot springs.
Back at camp, I started a fire and cleaned and filleted our trout.  I thanked God a little fearfully for the trout, a little guilty about killing him, and then I cooked him with butter and seasonings and onions and plopped the fillets in warm tortillas.  We ate him with baked beans and grilled sourdough bread and beer. 
It's dark now.  The fire's going.  The lantern's on.  Shirelle's smoking.  I guess we might play some cards before we turn in.  I'll read some of that Maughm and a chapter of Fante.  Thanks, again, God for the fish and for giving me my wallet back.  Bless our hike to Rainbow Falls tomorrow.

Devil's Postpile part 2

Now it wouldn't even click.  Had I drained the battery?  I went back into Kmart and bought some jumper cables.  The line at the checkout stand wasn't too long for once.  There were two stands open with only one lady buying stuff at each.  I waited behind one of them.  A little while later another shopper got in line at the other.  Just then, three girls and midget came up who were with the lady in front of me.  They were buying Beanie Babies.  Each of them paid for their Beanie Babies separately.  The woman who got in line in the checkout stand next to me after I had gotten in line paid for her things and left, but now another shopper had taken her place.  The midget put her Beanie Baby on the counter and pulled a handful of change out of her pocket.  She dropped about half of it on the floor, and the kids all scurried around collecting it.  Thus far, the woman had avoided eye contact with me, but now she smiled apologetically and said, "I'm trying to teach them about money."
"Maybe you should teach them about waiting in line," I didn't say.  The midget, I could see now, had a touch of Down's Syndrome.  She needed a lot of help from the clerk counting her change.  Another shopper who had come after me paid and went to the parking lot, but another two people had gotten in line behind him.  Finally, I paid for the cables and walked out.  A guy in a pickup tried to jump us, but it didn't work.  I had to call the Auto Club.  My card says it doesn't expire until June of next year, but the guy on the phone said my dues haven't been paid.  He says there's a thirty-day grace period, and I guess it's not too hard to believe that this, he informed m, was the thirty-first day.  I was, however, able to renew it over the phone with my credit card number. 
A truck came out.  He jumped the Mustang with his super charger, and it started right up.  Shirelle and I got about fifteen miles out of Bishop before the car died again.  There were no call boxes anywhere.  We tried to use Shirelle's cell phone and got this total fuckaround.  You call the number, and a recording gives you another number to call and you listen to a menu, and then you get an operator on the line, who takes your credit card number, and then they give you another number to call which takes you back to the original recording. 
We tried for about an hour to get the Auto Club on the phone.  Shirelle started crying. I finally decided we would hitch a ride into town.  A guy name Scott with a snake tattoo peeking out from his sleeve picked us up.  He dropped us at a service station back in Bishop.  A local Bishop kid took us out to the car and towed  us back to town.  He needed my Auto Club info.  He called it in, and they told him it was expired.  I explained what had been going on all day with the car and that I had just paid it and should be up to date, and in fact a truck had already come out once today while we had needed a jump at Kmart.  After about twenty minutes being on hold and getting transferred around, our guy determined that the lady on the phone "had her head up her ass."  I wonder what he thought of me.  He told us they would have to run some tests to figure out what was wrong with the car, and that it would probably be an hour or so before they could get to it.  We went to a restaurant to eat.  While we walked up the street it started raining.  I paid for our meals on my credit card, afraid it would catch fire. 
Back at the service station, we learned that the Mustang's alternator needed to be replaced, to the tune of a hundred and fifty bucks.  The office was full of mounted dead animals.  Puma and bison and coyote and trout. It was after dark before we were on the road again.  It was very dark. 

The Devil's Postpile part 1

7-25-98 7:45 PM Sa
Devil's Postpile National Monument.  [a pointy tail and horns on the D, the l is a pitchfork]  We left L.A. yesterday morning.  I ate a bowl of cereal in the morning, and then I puked it up in three nasty heaves.  It was only the beginning.  We'd angered the gods, or we'd invited the devil into our day.  I don't know for what past karmic transgression we were paying.  I believe there's a rhythm and pace to camping and it begins in the planning and packing;  You have to get into nature's flow, sit quietly, and the voices will tell you what to pack and when to leave exactly and where to stop.  Shirelle's not into that.  "When are we gonna go?"  "Where are we gonna camp?"  "Are you ready yet?"  "Did you pack underwear?"  Etc.  I finally just threw a bunch of shit in the car and we left.  Somewhere around Big Pine she started complaining she was thirsty.  I said we'd stop soon.  I pulled into an Arco station.  I pumped gas, and Shirelle went into the market.  I thought she was going to get something for her thirst.  After I'd filled her up, I waited in her Mustang for her to come out (We had decided the Chrysler probably wasn't in any shape to make it up 395 through the Sierra).  When she got in, I pulled onto the highway.  "Where are you going?  What are you doing?  I thought we were going to that market back there?" 
"What for?"
"I said I was thirsty, and you said you would stop."
"I thought you went into the market at the gas station."
"I did, but I thought we were going to go to that other market."
"Well, there will be another one coming up soon."
"YOU SAID WE WERE GOING TO GO TO THE MARKET!"
A battle ensued.  I gave up and made a three-point turnaround.
"This kind of backtrack is bad luck," I said.
We were already planning on stopping in Bishop anyway because we'd forgotten towels.  I didn't see any wisdom in making two stops when we were trying to beat the weekend crowds to the campsites.  I waited in the car.  After a while, she got in with her bag of groceries.  I waited.  I watched.  She just sat there.  "I thought you were thirsty," I said.
"I am," she said.  She uncapped her water and took a little sip and put the cap back on."
"You weren't thirsty," I said.  "You just want to hassle cuz your bored."  We battled a little more.  Suddenly the traffic got bad.  I knew that stop was a bad move.  We pulled into the Kmart at Bishop and bought assorted bullshit after waiting in the long lines at the checkout counter .  We went out to the car and loaded our stuff and got in.  I turned the key and click click click.  I popped the hood and had a look.  The clicking was coming from the solenoid.  It was right on top and looked easy to replace.  Were we in luck?  There was a Napa Auto Parts Store right across the street.  I went over and bought a solenoid and a set of wrenches, after waiting a long time for the guy in front of me to finish asking questions.  There were seven different wrenches in the set.  There were three different sizes of nuts and bolts on the solenoid.  None of the wrenches fitted one of the bolts.  I went into the Kmart and bought another set of wrenches, after waiting in the long lines at the checkout stands again.  I changed the solenoid.  I got in and turned the key.

She Told Me That, and I Thought About a Fly Buzzing

7-22-98 Wed 5:45 PM
I'm at Pio Pico again.  I'm hiding out in an unused classroom to write this.  I'm bummed.  I didn't finish yesterday's three pages.  I put the serviced radiator in the Chrysler today.  Seems to be running pretty good, although now I'm noticing a hitch in the transmission.  I breaded and fried the zuchinni Fumi gave me from her garden next door.  I walked home the three miles from Shirelle's, but I'm still fat as ever.  I've got some weird rash on my back now, too.  What else?  I took "White Dawn" back to the video store.  I stopped at IL literature bookstore.  I was going to pick up Henderson, the Rain King, but they didn't have it.      I took $140 out of my account.  I guess I'm going to have to make small payments on my credit cards the next two months thanks to the fucking district switching my pay calendar. I don't know how I'm going to have any cash for Pennsylvania.     Shirelle told me she told her dad we're getting married. There's a fly buzzing around in here.  I keep hearing him hit the wall.  Doesn't that hurt him?  Maybe that's why he keeps doing it; he wants to knock himself senseless. The only other writing I did today was my fifteen minutes of typing.  I guess I'll write a page in the third person when I get home.  I cooked with a towel wrapped around my waist.  Carlin called.  She asked if I was still pissed at her.  "No," I lied.  She told me that Toni Morrison is going to have a book signing at that bookstore south of here, Eso Wan, I think it's called. Too bad I'll be out of town, I would love to meet Toni Morrison.  Man.  I'm going camping in the Sierras I guess.  What else?  Nothing.  There's nothing else?  That's it. That's all.  Life's a burn.  Life's a bore.  There's nothing more.  Today anyway.  I ate too much olive oil.  Still no "Jeopardy!"  Fuck.  I hope class passes swiftly tonight.  Maybe I should call in sick tomorrow.  Fuck a duck, Chuck, buddy-o.  Jesus.  What else?  I read Maughm while I walked home.   Was that guy pretentious.  The Modern Library released a list of the top hundred novels as voted on by I don't know who.  Number one:  Ulysses.

Just Passing Through

7-21-98 Tu 8:20 PM
I'm in my night school class.  Enthusiasm is lacking tonight.  The days are already starting to get shorter.  I picked up the radiator for the Chrysler.  On the way, a handcuffed black man in blind man's glasses stood alone next to a cop car on Crenshaw.  A little further down were the two cops, a guy and a gal.  The guy was holding his shotgun, peeking around the corner of a barber shop.  A helicopter was flying overhead.  I drove on. A little while later, an ambulance drove by. At the radiator place, the door to the garage next store was open.  An old Chevy Bonneville with big fins stood next to an even older-looking Buick.  I paid $45 dollars for the serviced radiator.  I realized now, I probably could have sealed it myself for about ten dollars worth of sealant.  I bought some coolant. I didn't feel like putting in the radiator, so that will be a project for tomorrow morning.
I stopped at Berkelouew Books, but only for a few minutes because book-hater Shirelle was with me, badgering the whole time.
I refried my fries and onion rings and had them for lunch.  Then I fell asleep in front of ESPN.  Then I had to wake up and come to class.

Because That's the Trip She Always Lays on Me

10:21 Su July 19, 1998
The pencil doesn't write as outrageously as the red pen.  It is more unassuming.  It seems fearless.  Fearless because its mistakes are eraseable, unassuming because of its impermanence.  That seemed like something to write, but I goofed it up. 
10:50 PM Mon July 20
I'm at the kitchen in Shirelle's apartment on Gardener and Santa Monica.  I walked here from Keniston and Pico.  It must be about four and half miles at least.  I thought about stopping at a café to write this, but it didn't seem necessary.  A bowl here holds lemons and freckled bananas, and I think those are orchids in the vase.  Shirelle has a set of Toulousse-LaTrec inspired dishware.  "Reine de Joie," "Montmarte," "Chamsonier," Black-stockinged girls can can across a plate.  The kitchen has a black and white checkerboard floor. One of the orchids just gave up and fell off its stem.  Shirelle has hung bouquets of dead roses all around the kitchen.  It's unlikely they're all from me.  There's a poster-sized print, done in pencil originally, I guess, but it almost looks like a black and white photograph, of James Dean on a Harley, Marilyn Monroe behind him with her arms around his waist resting her cheek on his back, eyes closed.  There's a JERRY SEINFELD LIVE ON BROADWAY poster on the side of the refrigerator.  It's held in place by a magnet on each corner: a corn on the cob, a carrot, a pretzel, and a Howard Stern.  Shirelle's making a salad.  I'm eating some bar mix I remember getting back in March when we were shopping for her birthday.  There's an old-fashioned gumball machine here, but there haven't been any gumballs in it for a long time.  The salad has lettuce, cucumber, green bell pepper, purple cabbage, shredded carrot, some artificial bacon, and bleu cheese.  I said to Shirelle, "I hope you're going to join me."  She said, "I'm watching 'Tombstone' now."  I said, "Okay, you've got better things to do than hang out with me," because that's the trip she's always trying to hang on me.  She came over and sat down.  "I thought you were trying to write in your journal and didn't want to be bothered," she said.  Got me.  I said, "Go ahead and watch your movie if you want."  She went upstairs with her salad.  I wonder if McGwire hit any homers today.  I have to pick up my serviced radiator tomorrow.

The GIP and His Toilet-Clogging Dumps

3:06 AM July 17, 1998
We play chess every night.

The carpet!

                                         That's not how
I feel, that's the way it is?
On some things nothing will happen until push comes to shove.
      Struggling against likelihoods.     A lot more unrelated
garbage.
11:32:45 PM July 18 1998 Sa
There's nothing doing today. Just my pot belly.  Parducci merlot.  In the house tonight.  Ate pizza with Rawler and Thing and GIP this afternoon at the Pizza Show in Hawthorne.  Mark McGwire didn't hit any homers on the tv hung up in the corner.  I told about zipping my dick at school and about bringing up Suheidi's peaches.
Dead end.  Finished that little book of Bukowski drivel.  I marked a few pages, though.  Got two different radio stations on at once.  One of them talks of Lincoln going down the Mississippi to New Orleans.  I know that's random, but that's what it said.  On my desk sits an old black and white photo that I shot of a sailboat by an island up near Vancouver.  I don't know about sketching black and white photos in red ink, but I don't know what else to do. [sketch of photo in red ink]  Rawler was on GIP's roof adjusting GIP's new satellite dish for him.  When Thing and I pulled up, the first thing I said was, "You pulling any porn down on that thing yet?"  He laughed.  I said, "Let me know if you need any help.  I brought my work boots."  I held my foot up in the air.  I was wearing drug store sandals.  Thing and I went into the house.  Rawler came in a moment later.  "How about a beer, GIP?"  GIP never has beer, even though he drinks plenty of it out of my fridge.  I knew he wouldn't have any.  I said, "Man, this guy comes to my place and drinks like a six pack and takes stinky, toilet-clogging dumps whenever he feels like it; You would think he'd offer a beer when he knew he was going to be having guests."  The thing of it was, I just really wanted to say "toilet-clogging dumps."