A Note in My Box

 10-5-00 Th 1:07 PM

I typed fifteen minutes this morning. Rochelle gave me a ride to school. I bought a newspaper. I read it. It made me wonder why I’m not wealthy. Pbbt. Anna left a note in my box inviting me to happy hour, in apparent gratitude for hooking her up at LACAS. @Urk~~ Whatever. Fuck me. Let’s see. I have a baby on the way. In the next three to five weeks, I guess. I can maybe go up to happy hour tomorrow and spend Saturday taking care of business. I have to get paint and a dresser. I guess I should wait on the dresser until after the shower. The Cards and Braves are on the radio. The kids are doing their silent reading. We corrected our phonics this morning. Learned about the difference between statements and questions. Went to the auditorium for music. Miss Johnson reminds me of a graham cracker. A plain graham cracker. Or maybe a Nilla wafer. We studied subtraction. Gabi comes in and interprets for my deaf students. I ate an apple for lunch. We’ve got story time and social studies still. I’ve got to read some more Misery—I mean Joy of Fatherhood. I feel like ordering a pizza and alfredo today, but I’ll just make some stuff out of the fridge. This weekend is a three-day weekend. We have Monday off for Columbus Day. I have go get spackle and sandpaper to paint Saturday. The cable guy is coming that day, too. The Cards have taken a seven to two lead over Glavine and the Braves. I wonder if I can bum a ride home today. I should probably walk. I think I’ll have cough drop when I get home and a smoke, too. I want to go to Borders. I want to get the Science of Hitting by Ted Williams. What else? 3:09 PM Home now. Rochelle’s sizzling up some kielbasa to put in the past she’s making. [pencil sketch of Arenal] Man, am I hungry. Rochelle put beer in the fridge.

Pregnancy or..?

 10-3-00 1:30 PM W

I'm at school. The kids are reading their papers about The Giving Tree. I typed fifteen minutes this morning. I took the car today because the back tire on my bike is still wobbly. I got a newspaper. Palestinians and Jews are suffering through another paroxysm of violence. Bush and Gore dueled to a yawn in their first debate. A's beat Yanks, Seattle over Chisox, and the Cards topped Atlanta. It's a bit chilly today. My nose is running. I could go for a smoke. Rochelle has to work four to one tonight. I think I'll drop her of so I can pick up some books. Pick up a new copy of Catcher in the Rye. Maybe a CD. Get a radio. I ate Cheerios for breakfast. I had a bagel with cream cheese, an orange, and coffee for lunch. We have eleven pages to go in Of Love and Other Demons. Marquez is a master. Love is a demon. I got stinky farts. Ugh. I wish I could quit my night school job. I've got piles of shit on my desk at school and on my desk at home. The Giants and Mets are on the radio. They'll be on TV when I get home in an hour. Oakland and New York start at five, but I'll have to leave for work shortly after six. What else? I have to rad some more about the Joy of Fatherhood. 3:09 PM I'm home now. Rochelle skipped work again. You wonder how much of this pregnancy fatigue is just a weak psychological constitution. Whatever. What else? We gave the dog another medicated mange bath. She writhes against the easy chair trying to wipe the shampoo off. It's supposed to stay on for thirty minutes, but she won't stand for it. We have to buy paint and get a dresser and measuring tape and curtain rods. [post card of Lake Arenal with the volcano rising beyond]

 # 51 10-2-00M 9:42 pm

I'm at home. It used to be imperative to write in here anywhere but home. My life has been such that those aspirations are thwarted. Natch. I read a Cheever entry for inspiration. He blathers on about the thousands of starlings that take flight from the woods. I have only the walls to observe. Rochelle is lying in bed in the depths of her pregnancy. Dread lashes my shores, erodes me. But I'm no continent, merely an islet. The pup sits attentive, gathering sounds for her meager files. She's already smart and cocky. My writing shows I'm shattered. I'm fragments of looking glass. I feel like a smoke. I feel hairier than usual. I read the first chapter of Death in Venice. I don't know why I chose that. So many other titles were in line. Because it's short, I guess. And famous. Now here's a beautiful passage from Cheever's diary: An autumn day, 1960, a Hudson meadow, high school football, his absent son angers him. He puts on his son's shoulders and realizes his own indiscretions and perversions. He believes his quarrels make or unmake his son's character.