Frolicking alone

TUESDAY — No gunshots, screaming, or loud prayers to Mecca overnight, so the new place is quieter than some rez hotels I've called home.

The sun rose at 6:28, through my window, through my eyelids, and into my brain. The curtains were old sheets stapled to a rod, inadequate at battling dawn, so I tore them down and hung generic Hefty bags instead.

Then I went back to sleep, something I could never do in Berkeley, not with Lugosi the dog barking in the hallway. My new rez hotel remained delightfully quietish, and let me sleep till ten. 

Then I slipped into pants and BARTed under the bay, to finish bagging and boxing my stuff at Judith's now nearly-empty house. Stacked everything by the door and even swept my old room. Then I tossed a tennis ball for Lugosi, for one last half-hour. Gonna miss that monstrous dog.

Tomorrow I'll return with Bill and his van, and we'll haul what little I own from suburbia to the slums.

♦ ♦ ♦  

WEDNESDAY — I was lying in my new bed and reading a zine, when something moved on the wall beside me. Turning my head, I said hello to my first roach at the Hotel McMillan.

Squished it, of course, savoring he delicate mix of crunch and splatter, the marvelous feel of its antlers rolling to dust between my fingers. Nobody likes having roaches, but they're fun to kill, and it's been too long…

That first roach, though, was so scrawny, so alone. If roaches there must be, I prefer them larger please.

Ah, but unless that was the only Cockroach Americanus in the building, there'll be plenty more once my stuff is moved in and my mess scattered around. I've always provided their natural habitat.

♦ ♦ ♦  

There's an argument down the hall, something else I've missed about rez hotel life. Opened my door a crack to make sure I heard every word, most of which are 'fucker' and 'asshole'.

Seems the guy in 408 was supposed to come home with the SSI check, but arrived with a little cash and a lotta liquor instead. His roommate — two people live in one of these tiny rooms — would've rather had more cash, less booze.

You fucker.

You asshole.

♦ ♦ ♦  

Stuck in commuter traffic cuz we unwisely started at 4PM, it took Bill an hour and a half to drive us from Frisco to Berkeley.

Everything I own fits into the back of his van with room to spare, so I sat back there to stabilize things. It was a quick drive into the city, and then Bill parked illegally right in front, and helped bring my stuff inside.

Mr Patel even lent me a key to the elevator — it works, but only with a key — so we didn't die traipsing every box and bag up four flights. 

Now all my junk and clothes and zines are leaning against the wall, and the room looks like a catastrophe so I guess I live here. Thank you, Bill, for being my Bekins man.

I'm too tuckered to put anything away, and let's be honest — I'm a slob, I'll never put most of this stuff away. And tonight I'll fall asleep instead. 

Christ on the wall for SuperTaco, I hate moving. Hope I live in this hotel until the day I die, and also I hope that's not today.

♦ ♦ ♦  

One last thought before the planned highlight of my day, masturbating myself to sleep: Surprisingly, the bed is big enough for two to comfortably share, but it might as well be an army cot for all the frolicking I'll ever do on it. Is it frolicking when you do it alone?

With the hotel's "no visitors" policy, alone is all I'll get here, and I'd be alone even if visitors were allowed.

My room is my castle, my space. No intruders, please. Even when I fantasize about a woman wanting me, she's doing all those things at her place, not mine, or sometimes on the J Church.

From Pathetic Life #23
Tuesday & Wednesday,
April 2-3, 1996

This is an entry retyped from an on-paper zine I wrote many years ago, called Pathetic Life. The opinions stated were my opinions then, but might not be my opinions now. Also, I said and did some disgusting things, so parental guidance is advised.

1 comment:

  1. WikiSource is in the process of transposing into digital form the early works of Dashiell Hammett. All (or most) of his Black Mask work has reached the 95-year copyright boundary, and WikiSource is waiting for volunteers to transpose Hammett's short stories into WikiSource docs.

    So far three Continental Op stories have been created. They are short and as readable as English gets. IMHO, Hammett's Black Mask work forms an important transition from the 19th century prose of Poe and Hawthorne and Melville and even Twain into the later 20th century work of Hemmingway and Salinger and Vonnegut. It would be puerile to suggest that Hammett was the linchpin on which literary American language transitioned into the modern and post-modern language we speak today, but I don't mind being puerile from time to time as I have established on these pages.

    And I have asserted on Doug's site repeatedly my opinion that Hammett was one of the creators of the storytelling we read today. And, what the hell, I find Hammett a kick in the pants to read.

    Here's the Hammett WikiSource site . . .




🚨🚨 BY THE WAY... 🚨🚨
The site's software sometimes swallows comments. If it eats yours, send an email and I'll get it posted.