Sa 8-9-01 8:41 AM
Today is the reunion. I should email Tom and Aunt Kay. Today is Tim's wedding. We still haven't picked up a gift. Rochelle has been sick. She had a hundred two fever Thursday night. I've been taking care of the baby while she gets some rest. It hasn't allowed much writing time. I did type fifteen minutes yesterday. It took all day to read the newspaper. The kid was on the go from noon to nine. I took her with me to my doctor's appointment for my TB test. They informed me that they do not administer TB tests of Fridays. So, we wasted an hour or so and a dollar and seventy-five cents parking when they should have told me this over the phone when I made the appointment. And why don't they give TB tests of Friday? Nobody knew. The baby stood on the porch while I unlocked the door. That was a surprise. She loves to walk now, but only if you are holding both hands which means I walk stooped over behind her. It kills my back, but she gets mad if you won't hold her hands when she wants to walk. We walked up and down the hallway and all around the backyard and up and down Hudson. The world is a wonder to her, and she is to me. She's crawling around the fireplace right now with her Pat the Bunny book. Our chimney topples in the 'Sylmar quake or maybe even the '33 Long Beach quake, at any rate, it's not there anymore. It's walled over with brick and mortar now, and we just keep candles in there. Rochelle is still in bed. Her doesn't seem so bad, but her throat still hurts, and she's rundown. Or else she just likes me taking care of the baby while she lies in bed. I don't think I'm going to be able to play baseball tomorrow. I think I have a sprained right big toe, a strained right Achilles tendon, and a pulled right calf muscle. A chart on the wall in the doctor's examination room said I am twenty pounds overweight, seven pounds from being obese. I need to

[black and white photo of Bumpass Hell] start riding my bike again. Rochelle's mom is coming up to babysit today while we go to the wedding. I don't know if Rochelle's going to go now. I'll read the newspaper next. I've got to get Jim out of jail.

 

[color photo slumped back at a desk swivel chair in the shadows, a shock of light brown hair, an eclipsed shoulder, bicep, elbow, forearm, wrist, hand, the implication of fingers holding up a newspaper, the shape of books on a shelf,  US map in the background]

8-2-01 10:06 AM Th

I'm at Wilshire Hill, Room 2, upstairs. I typed fifteen minutes here on the laptop. Read another couple chapters of Conrad's blather about honor--not that I don't believe in honor; I just don't believe it's as complicated as he makes it.     After this class, I've got to walk back up to La Brea Chevrolet and get the car back from its oil change. Then I'll go to Osh for screws and batteries and to Sav-On for frames and dairy products and envelopes. I'll mail some pages of Jim to Mac. He sent a letter about a jailhouse fight, him and a sheet full of soap against a guy with a knife. When I'm back from running errands, I'll read the news and write a third-person page. I'll get Jim out of jail. Send him home or end that reverie? I've still got to call Slim Phantom, and we have to get Tim and Sarai a wedding present and birthday cards for Jim and Mardi. I should look on the internet about Atlantic City. I have got to double my efforts for Jim. Ugh. Looks like having and agent or and advance before it's done are pretty unlikely. Go teach again tonight. Mr. Cool, the Sikh, had loaned me a really bad-looking, embarrassingly bad-looking contemporary Indian love story on video. Maybe I'll try to watch the rest of it.     I've got a doctor's appointment tomorrow at four. I have to have a TB test and also see if I require any amputations or tendon implants. The appointment isn't until four, so I'll either have to wait five hours after school before I drink or go into the doctor drunk. I guess we're going to skip the 35er tomorrow night. Tim and Sarai are having that party. I'm writing all the same crap I wrote yesterday. The wedding is Saturday night. My game's at 12:15 Sunday. Back to work Monday. Rochelle and the baby leave Tuesday for Idaho. I'll be too broke to enjoy any feelings of bachelorhood other than loneliness.

 

8:57 AM W 8-1-01                                       $1100 net

I still feel discombobulated a week after our stay at the hospital. It seems like there is less time than ever, and this is during summer school.  I get up, go to work, come home and try to get things done, help with the baby, pay the bills, put up blinds—whatever, back to work, come home, got sleep, and do it all over again the next day. I’ve got to quit one of these jobs, but how? How can we afford it? As it is now, we barely get through the month. I’ve got to get Jim finished. Certainly, that can win some breathing room. Ugh. I typed fifteen minutes before work last night. There are eight Hernandezes in my class. Most of my students are Salvadoran, a few are from Mexico, and one is Korean. Martin brought me another loaf of gourmet bread. We watched “The Cameraman” in bed last night. Rochelle fell right to sleep. It wasn’t quite the revelation it was when I saw it frying at the Silent Movie Theater on Buster’s hundredth birthday, but it was still a joy. The baby’s teeth are bothering her, I guess. She has been crabby the last couple of mornings. We give her baby aspirin and Orajel and ice cubes and try to distract her from her discomfort. Maybe her guts still bug her after being tangled. I had a hard time getting out of bed wanting a few moments of wakeful reflection. I skipped my shower. Just brushed my teeth, washed my face, and dressed. Rochelle made me a turkey sandwich to bring to school. I drove here. Ate the sandwich already. Am drinking coffee and writing while the kids do an exercise on using adjectives and adverbs to build interesting sentences. Tomorrow, I’ve got to take the car in for an oil change before school starts. I’ll have to leave bright and early. I’ve got to mail Jim to Mac. I guess I’ll have to call Idaho to see what his new cell number is. I’ve got to go to the hardware store and get screws for the cabinet latches and rechargeable batteries. I’ve got to get two eight-by-ten frames and a gallon of milk from Sav-On. I’ve got to call the Museum of Natural History about that field trip for my night school class. I have to pick up my pants from the dry cleaners that my wife dropped off about a month ago. I’ve got to write a third-person page for Jim. Read some more of that Guide to Literary Agents. We have to get a wedding present for Tim and Sarai and birthday cards for my sisters. I have to call Slim Phantom.  I’ve got a doctor’s appointment on Friday. The 35er pre-nuptial party that night. The wedding the next day. On Tuesday, Rochelle and the baby go to Idaho for nine days. I have to write five pages for Jim. I’ve got to close up this gash.

 7-31-01 Tu 10:45 AM

After running a tube up her nose, down her throat and into her stomach while we held her down kicking and screaming, the doctors left. I typed this yesterday. She mercifully passed out. Just like every other time she got to sleep, someone came in to poke or prod or otherwise subject her to some alien-abduction examination. None of them had any answers or ideas, and when they assured me she was stable, I finally threw them out. I told them to leave her alone and let her sleep. They said they'd come back in the morning. I slept on the cold tile floor next to the cot for a couple of hours. When morning, a guy introducing himself as Hans came in. His manner was more confidence-inspiring than the graveyard shift stooges', but he asked all the same questions we had already answered for everyone else. Finally, Dr. Huxtable McClaren came in, the head pediatric surgeon. He ordered another x-ray and barium enema. We had a woman radiologist this time who knew what she was doing. First try, she diagnosed intussusception which, they explained, is when the intestine telescopes in on itself and becomes blocked and tangled. On the next enema, we were able to see on the x-ray imager as the barium popped through the blockage. Hurray. We just had to hang around the hospital to make sure the vomiting had stopped and if she could poop. She did! Hallelujah! Then, it was a short eleven-hour wait while they got together discharge papers. 

I had an audition with Hollywood Squares in the afternoon. I probably botched it. My dad called in tears, saying that I needed to fax over my brother's case file to his lawyer in D.C. so that she could file a motion to have him released because he had had to tussle with some white-haters in that prison. My dad feared for my brother's life. I faxed it from Kinkos. Naturally there was a road-construction nightmare to be sweated, and I only just got to Hollywood Squares in the nick of time.