Brooklyn Diaries

THE BROOKLYN DIARIES
THE
BROOKLYN
DIARIES
1969-1981
RICHARD GRAYSON
Dumbo Books - Brooklyn

Copyright © 2010 by Richard Grayson.
All rights reserved.
Printed in the United States of America.
Dumbo Books
72 Conselyea Street
Brooklyn, NY 11211
First Edition
ISBN 978-0-557-59184-8
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
For my family
The Brooklyn Diaries
Summer in Brooklyn
1969-1975
Monday, May 26, 1975
A kind of manic Memorial Day. This morning I drove into Manhattan and went to the old U.S.
Customs House (a magnificent building) to the Second New York Book Fair. Last summer I
went to the first one, at the Cultural Center on Columbus Circle - that place owned by
Huntington Hartford.
All the small presses and little magazines and various feminist, Third World, gay and radical
publications had set up exhibits, just like last year's. It was a kind of huge candy store for me,
going from table to table collecting leaflets and catalogues, and looking somewhat wistfully at
all the books, pamphlets and magazines I could not afford to buy, and signing up for mailing
lists.
At the table for The Magazines - 6 fairly well-known publications including Fiction (published
by Mark Mirsky at CCNY - his new novel just came out, published by the Fiction Collective)
and Partisan Review, I saw a somewhat familiar figure with a Parnassus head visor. I asked him if
he was Herb Leibowitz and he said yes and I told him I was Richard Grayson. He said he
enjoyed many parts of my thesis, particularly "The Peacock Room." I thanked him for the kind
words and told him I'd drop off the other copy of my thesis at his office so I can get my M.A.
this summer. He said they're having a meeting of the M.A. Committee on Wednesday, and
they're probably going to eliminate the comprehensive exam. I told him I was teaching at LIU
and said I'd see him around. He's the editor of Parnassus - Poetry in Review and a frequent book
reviewer for the Sunday Times.
The Fiction Collective had a table, but the coordinator of it, Peggy Humphreys, would be there
on Wednesday. Moving from table to table, I felt surrounded by kindred spirits: poets, fiction
writers, literary people. (It probably was a great place to get laid; various black-stockinged girls
with granny glasses and long dresses were similarly moseying along.)
I came across the New Writers table and introduced myself to the editors, Connie Glickman and
Miriam Easton (both pleasant, Jewish and 40ish), whom I've corresponded with. They showed
me Volume 2, Number 3 of New Writers with my story in it; I decided to buy a couple of copies
even though they said they'd just mailed my contributor's copies out to me. They said I should
send them another manuscript. It felt surprisingly good to see my name and "Rampant
Burping" in print; I was more than a little excited, and when I came home, Mom and Dad made
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Richard Grayson
a semi-big fuss over the magazine.
Lest I should get a big head, however, I ran into an editor from a little magazine who had
rejected "Alice Keppel." I didn't say who I was, but got to talking to him, and he said he always
sent criticism except when rejecting manuscripts of no value whatsoever. Needless to say, I got
my story returned that way, without even a note.
But I feel at home in the semi-underground, somewhat counterculture literary world. I see it's
much easier to publish poetry than fiction and much easier if you're a woman (and probably
easier still if you're a lesbian).
Alice, my own friendly neighborhood little publisher, came over this afternoon after finishing
the latest issue of Henrietta. We had a raucous time, for Alice is still the best raconteuse money
can't buy; even Mom and Dad think Alice is a genuine original, a kook.
We watched "Another World" (Steve Frame was killed in a copter crash today; the actor playing
him had demanded better scripts and was summarily fired) and took a test in the issue of
Cosmopolitan that Alice brought over, to see what kind of lover we are. (Apparently I'm a manic
lover, Alice an eros type.) Alice saw Mr. Blumstein yesterday at the Washington Square art
show - she's so crazy about him - and then went to meet Andreas. Alice says I must see the
apartment (she still calls it "Renee's place" for lack of a better name): they've painted a fake
fireplace on the wall, with a cat sitting on top of it.
Wednesday, May 27, 1970
A cool, gloriously sunny day. This morning I was on my way to the college when I noticed Kjell
on his porch. He invited me up and we talked for a couple of hours - we have a lot to talk about.
We are both nervous - he has tranquilizers, too. Kjell converted to Judaism recently since is
going to marry his girlfriend Sharon. He also signed up for the Reserves. Mrs. W came out on
the porch and talked with us for a while - she's such a nice person. I like the Ws - they're
fabulous people.
It was so late I decided to grab a bite at home, then I left for school. Mark wasn't around, but
Juan and DB on the Spigot staff were in the office. DB and I talked away for hours - he's
interested in some of the same things I am: television, modern literature, journalism,
playwriting and politics. Another nice person. What's wrong with the word "nice"?
I spoke to both Uncle Marty and Aunt Arlyne. They took Joey home this morning. He's fighting
Arlyne and refuses to open his eye, but is fine. Everyone's tired from the tension of the last few
days.
On the bus going home I talked with Mrs. J and I tried to impress her. I want people to think I'm
[2]
fantastic. Tonight, with a story about Brad swimming through my head, I drove to Avenue U
and bought the Voice. People make life worthwhile - for me at least - and today was good.
Tuesday, May 28, 1974
It's a cool, sunny afternoon. In a couple of hours I'll take my final in Bogen's class and then all
my schoolwork for the term will be done. I got very ambitious at about 11 PM last night, took
my typewriter downstairs and knocked off the last paper for Cooley in a couple of hours. So I
went to sleep late, had delicious dreams all night and woke up feeling like a new man.
I met Avis at the Junction at noon - she's very involved with finals until next week. But she
mentioned that she went to the ballet with Teresa on Sunday and they want to do something
with me before they each leave town. I went to LaGuardia to hang out for awhile before
heading downtown. Mike is staying in the student government office until June 30, when the
fiscal year ends. Eddie was around, trying not to look to anxious about him and Rose moving
in.
I enjoyed hanging out with Ross and Susan, and I cuddled a little with Libby (everyone touches
her and she's always kissing people). Debbie said that they're having a party next week and that
Ronna and I are invited, while Laila said she'll be around this summer and that I should call her
and we'll go out on her cabin cruiser. It was especially good to see Vito - I miss him a lot. We
discussed movies and other junk, just like old times. Then I went to my session with Mrs.
Ehrlich.
I discussed my dream about having a surprise birthday. She felt it was curious it that I had had
it on the weekend of my parents' silver wedding anniversary; I didn't have a party for them
because I didn't want to go through all the trouble. But then I realized that I've never given a
party. Part of the reason is because I'm afraid of a failure, but Mrs. E feels that more
importantly, I worry about being "sucked dry." It's a term she's used in connection with sex, too.
What she means is I'm afraid to give of myself, my vital essences, freely. I suppose it ties in with
my childhood fear of vomiting. It may even have something to do with the difficulty I've been
having lately coming to orgasm. I have no trouble getting erections, but in sex play, it takes me
such a long time to come and sometimes I don't. Yet though I don't give of myself, I do put
myself out for other people, always with the hope that they'll reciprocate. Which is probably
why I always remember everybody's birthdays and I'm disappointed every year when I don't
hear from everyone.
Mrs. E liked the way I put it when I said was "an accountant of the emotions," keeping mental
books on how much love or stroking I've given to this or that person and what they've given me
in return. I need material approval from a lot of people because I have this underlying sense of
worthlessness - so what if I've made Phi Beta Kappa? And it's especially on my mind now when
I'm preparing to seek employment. I'm putting myself on the open market to be evaluated;
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Richard Grayson
potential employers can say what I'm worth. And, as Mrs. E said, reality is that it will be
difficult because these are rough economic times and jobs are scarce.
And I discussed with Mrs. E a dream I had last night: there was a reunion of my friends from
public school and junior high. It was triggered by seeing my old pal and fellow member of the
Sultans, Arnie, in Kings Plaza yesterday. Part of the reason I didn't go over to him was because I
wanted him to come over to me first. I am pretty anxious, but this summer will prove
interesting. I'm putting myself to a test of my manhood, I suppose. Although maybe I shouldn't
look at it that way...
I've been moody these past couple of days. I have my English final tomorrow afternoon and my
Afro-American Lit final on Monday, and I have hardly studied for either. To tell you the truth, I
don't care what I get on these tests. I feel as if I'd like to be out of school already and over with
the whole damn thing.
I guess it's just that the glamorous part of graduating is over - except, that is, for commencement
- and now it's reality time, which is usually a letdown. Which means (after finals): finding a
summer job, deciding definitely on a grad school, getting an apartment, leaving my friends. I
am going to resent having to become an adult, but like the man says, it's got to be done.
I've really had it easy these past few years: no job, no responsibilities except schoolwork,
nothing to do but hang around and explore life with people. There's so much drudgery in life,
that either through my upbringing or inclinations, I can't accept. I want to be an artist, an
observer - all right, a rich effete snob, if you will.
They call it "getting into the world." Well, I take a look at this world we have and I want to puke
- there's so much ugliness and pain. Which is why I'm taking refuge in the study of literature
(oh yes, I understand my motive) - a world of beauty, elegance, and when the ugliness and pain
are present, at least they're depicted beautifully.
I went to LaGuardia today. Brenda said she saw me on the TV show; I'm liking her more and
more. Tony was in his usual top form, and Susan said she and Felicia were definitely going to
Europe - it must be a relief to Ronna that she's not 'ruining' Susan's summer.
Vito and I reminisced about her our first meeting, almost exactly a year ago, and Mikey agreed
with me that he was fed up with finals, too. I talked with Debbie and Bruce and B.J. and Avis -
I'm going to miss those little time-wasting talks more than anything else at college. I tried to
study this afternoon, but I got disgusted and so, to cheer myself up, I had my hair styled at
Cutting Crib.
[4]
A warm, humid day. The car was having new gears put in today, so Mom drove me to school. I
paid my consolidated fee of $51.50 for both summer sessions and went to Roosevelt to register.
I'm taking only one English course first session - Modern Drama with Prof. Galin. The second
I'm going to take Classics 1 again and a Poli Sci course on race. Coming out of the gym, I met
Gary, who finished registering, and Timmy, who was about to institute "emergency Plan A" to
avoid getting closed out.
Back at LaGuardia, I found B.J. and Libby, Mike and Mikey, and Elspeth. It looks as though a lot
of people will be around this summer; Elayne and Charles will be taking courses, too. Mikey
told me that Ira was hit by a car while riding his bicycle yesterday - he hurt his knee badly and
required 18 stitches. I was really upset, but tonight I called Ira and he said he was okay, he'd
just have to stay off his leg for a week, but his bike was wrecked.
I had lunch with Mikey, Mike, Ari, B.J. and Libby, and Moe, who'll be leaving for British
Columbia next week. Mikey thinks his chances of going to Miami as a delegate are diminished
now that the regular slate, heretofore "uncommitted," is also backing McGovern. Mike seemed
back to normal again, probing everyone's emotions.
After lunch, I went with Mikey and Mike as they got permission to get into an Anthro elective,
then sat down next to Stacy on the grass. She was friendly (with another "I was going to call
you") and we talked until a sunshower came and we had to go inside. Stacy will forever be an
enigma to me.
I went out for some tea with Ronna and Susan; Ronna and I are getting quite close for the first
time, and I think she's learning to trust me. I can see how much her parents' divorce has hurt
her.
I left to take a taxi to Dr. Wouk. B.J. and everyone else say I don't need therapy, that I'm
healthier than anyone in LaGuardia, but I want to stay healthy and today we had a good
session. Dr. Wouk thinks I should sleep with Avis, that she wants me to - but I'm not sure he's
right.
Tonight I called Marty and Rose. She's still weak but better and he's enjoying teaching most of
the time but doesn't want to make it a career.
Another cloudy, rainy, miserable day. May ended today with Memorial Day. Tomorrow is the
first of June, and five months of 1971 have whizzed by. At the start of this year I would have
never guessed what things have happened, especially my romance with Shelli. By the end of the
week I shall be twenty years old, two decades of living. Yet I feel I've only begun to live. I didn't
really begin living until perhaps two years ago, when I started to recover. Despite the fact that
my bar mitzvah was 7 years ago, I have just recently become a man.
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Richard Grayson
I had a dream-racked sleep last night. I hurried to Kings Plaza after breakfast to take advantage
of the sales in the department store. But the place was already a madhouse, with women
fighting each other for bargains and hundreds of people milling about, trying to get something
for nothing. I got disgusted and walked to the Pants Set, which was empty - Cousin Merryl was
in the store. I came home, watched some soap operas and went to pick up Shelli.
We took a long drive in the drizzly weather to Coney Island. This was the first day the beach
and the amusements opened, but Shelli didn't really want to stop, and I wasn't too enthusiastic,
either - Coney Island, is sad to say, a bad slum. We got onto the Belt, and as Shelli wanted to
visit Ivan, I drove to Rockaway. But Ivan wasn't home, so we headed back to Brooklyn, fighting
the Kings Plaza traffic. We bought Italian ices on Utica Avenue and went to my house. In my
bedroom, we had a good time, laughing and frolicking (Mike says we're always frolicking) and
making love (I bought some condoms earlier).
Shelli had to get home early, to prepare for her sister's graduation tomorrow. I'm looking
forward to hearing Ramsey Clark. I spoke to Shelli tonight, but she's not feeling well - I hope
everything goes all right. On the news, I spotted Mansarde on a film clip of a Madison peace
march. Dad took Mom out for their 22nd anniversary tonight. I watched TV, began Pere Goriot
and prepared to go to bed early.
Monday, June 1, 1970
A bright, humid first of June. Dad could hardly move this morning and stayed home the whole
day. Mom took him to Dr. Robbins, the chiropractor, who gave him some treatments. They told
Dr. Robbins of my yoga and he heartily approved. I had to take a cab to Dr. Wouk, as the IRT
service was delayed. His back hurts him too - he told me he'll be away for August. We
discussed my major - he advises me to major in Political Science and minor in English, with an
eye towards law school, which leaves a lot of room for me. Dr. Wouk thinks I'll probably end up
as a well-adjusted bisexual - but he isn't pressuring me to make a decision about my sexual life
right away. There's no hurry, so why not let it be? I stopped in the Slack Bar and said hello to
Grandpa and Joe.
At home I read by the pool for a bit, then bought a pair of tennis sneakers in the shoestore
where Stan works. Marc had his braces put back on, and he's been grouchy ever since. Miss
Glikin, the bastard, only gave me a B in English. After dinner, I cleaned out my drawers and
threw out a lot of junk. I gathered three dollars in pennies and gave them to Grandpa Herb.
Tonight I went for a hair styling at Joe Pepitone's. Tommy introduced me to Joe Pepitone. I
didn't like him - too cocky. Lennie gave me a pretty good haircut, although I don't like my hair
over my ears because it makes me look like a sheepdog. It's been too hot to sleep well.
Saturday, June 2, 1973
[6]
A warm evening. I'm going to Scott's party tonight, although I doubt I will enjoy myself there. I
don't really enjoy these huge, see-how-many-friends-I-have affairs, the kind Allan was so fond
of. But maybe I'm just jealous because I don't have the nerve to give one and find out how many
friends I really have. Anyway, I'll go pick up Ronna, and then take Avis - she called to ask if she
could hitch a ride with us; I suppose Rob is climbing some mountain in New Paltz or
someplace. I have to show up tonight, or else Scott's feelings will be hurt, although I have to
admit that his ego bruises quite easily on matters like these. There will be drinking and
smoking, and making out (although that's kind of déclassé) and little witticisms exchanged
between people who see each other every day anyway.
Last evening I went over with Dad to see his parents. Grandma Sylvia is going for her third
acupuncture treatment tonight, she misses Miami, and Grandpa Nat looks very tired. I spoke to
Gary, too - he's getting out of the depression over his grandfather's death. Gary's mother ended
her sitting shiva, and things are getting back to normal there. I got a birthday card from Gary
today - he signed Wendy's name to it, too, of course. Other cards (both graduation and
birthday) came from Uncle Monty and Aunt Sydelle; Marty, Arlyne and the kids; and Grandpa
Herb and Grandma Ethel.
This morning I shopped in Kings Plaza until noon, when I went over to see Ronna - I handed
Ronna's sister her birthday card. Ronna and I drove into the city, to the Theatre District. We had
lunch at Sam and Ben's, where I'd previously taken Donna when we saw "Lysistrata," and also
Alice. Then we had tickets for a preview showing of "Uncle Vanya" at the Circle in the Square
Theatre. Chekhov's plays still hold up very well, and George C. Scott, Julie Christie, Elizabeth
Wilson, Nicol Williamson, Cathleen Nesbit and Lillian Gish were all superb. We met Maddy
there with her friend Helene. On the way home, I showed Ronna where she'll be working.
11 PM. In an hour it will be my birthday. Today was pretty good; for one thing, the sun came
out, reviving hopes that summer may actually come this year after all. I woke up early this
morning and took the subway into Manhattan like any commuter. As I approached Fifth
Avenue, I noticed a lot of people outside on the street - the strike was on. The shop steward
from the union came up to take Juan off the job - he was reluctant to go - and they wouldn't let
anyone ship their goods. Dad says if the strike goes on for a long time, a lot of businesses could
go under. He didn't mention anything about Art Pants, but I was afraid to ask him.
Business hasn't been very good lately anyway.
For four and a half hours, I did the billing and some bookkeeping; I mailed some letters, made
out a deposit slip and took it to the bank with some checks. Dad had to show me what to do,
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Richard Grayson
but it wasn't difficult to learn. I had a raging dull headache, probably sinus caused by the
weather - Dad was suffering with it also. We had lunch in Brownie's. I left "the place" around 2
PM, feeling that I'd given Dad a bit of a hand (otherwise he would have had to come in on
Saturday) and glad to have the $20 he put in my pocket. When I came home from the city, I
changed into shorts right away and went to sit in the backyard. Marc and Fern came out to set
up the pool for the summer, and I added my strength to help them take the canvas off.
Josh called to ask if he could have the extra ticket to graduation that I've got. Usually I enjoy
Josh's cynicism and rebelliousness, but today it was just a bore. He won't wear a gown to
graduation, wants to sit in the lily pond during the exercises (exasperated, I tried to explain
why he couldn't), is going to be stoned the whole time and doesn't give a flying fuck about
studying for finals. He's so anti-establishment, he's almost a caricature. Vito said last week:
"Your friend Josh. Oh yes, he's the guy who's so smart he always gets C's." For a while tonight, I
just wanted to shake Josh. To top things off, he said he was going to drop by to pick up the
ticket and didn't show. He kept talking about his seeing Aurora again and how maybe she
would get back together with him (she's dropping out of FIT and is working as a
photographer's assistant), but when I mentioned to Josh that I'd passed my comprehensive
exam, he didn't seem to hear.
Ronna later said that Josh says "fuck it" to so many things because deep down he's afraid to face
their importance; if he does not try at school, he can't fail because of his unwillingness to put
himself to the test. I suppose Ronna's right - she's become a rather astute psychologist. Our
phone conversation tonight was interrupted a zillion times by the dog barking at her cousin
Barbara, by her baby brother's antics, by our going outside (separately) to look at a magnificent
red sunset. Ronna's final final is tomorrow, and perhaps I'll see her after her group in the
evening. I told her how old I'm getting, that I'm old enough to be her baby brother's father
(although it seems illogical to say that now since I've always known that) and she said she was
old enough to be his mother. Her cousin then asked Ronna when she had her first period.
Ronna said she was 12, and her cousin replied: "But was Ivan that fast?" I laughed and told
Ronna that's what she got for hanging out with 11-year-olds when a sexy guy of 14 like me was
available. (I don't think I thought I could do anything with my cock at that age.) Philip Roth's
new novel is entitled My Life as a Man. I wonder if I've begun mine yet.
Friday, June 4, 1971
My twentieth birthday, a hot and humid day. My eyes and head hurt very much after a good
night's sleep. I have congestion in my sinuses and felt dizzy and headachy all day, but I tried
not to let it spoil my birthday. Since I felt ill, Shelli said she'd come over here. Mom left me $25
as a gift from her and Dad. I went outside in the backyard, sunning myself by the pool. Shelli
came outside and gave me a kiss and my present, a beautiful skinny rib knit shirt in several
colors. Her card was beautiful:
A rainy night in Prospect Park
[8]
I realized I loved you

I'd never loved anyone as I loved you then
I love you more now
We talked quietly in the yard in the hot sun as we got very tan. After lunch we went to Kings
Plaza, where I wanted to spend my birthday money. I saw my stepcousin Merryl in the store -
she's going to teaching riding at camp this summer. I bought jasmine tea, fluffy white socks and
at Macy's, a beautiful small gold peace sign on a gold chain like the one Shelli's cousin's
boyfriend has. Shelli and I went for coffee in The Apple Tree - we didn't say very much, but
then we don't have to. She was having trouble with her period, so at home we just kissed and
fooled around, which was enjoyable enough.
I got a lot of birthday cards: sentimental ones from my grandparents; funny ones from Mom
and Dad and my brothers and Gary; a cute one from Alice; and a surprise, a card from Brad that
read, "I wish we were together... hand in hand...arm in arm..." Shelli must have wondered why
a guy would send me a card like that, but I think she understood. I'm going to call Brad. Is it
possible that he's been in love with me still all these years? Shelli and I took a long drive tonight
after dinner, smiling and laughing and making each other happy. When I kissed her goodnight,
I realize that I never thought I'd ever be this happy. I stopped at Irving Cohen's house, where
his wife gave me a birthday kiss, and then at home the family had a birthday cake waiting. You
know something? I'm the luckiest man alive.
Thursday, June 5, 1975
10 PM. I'm just 'coming down' from having written since early afternoon. I completed a story
called "In the Lehman Collection," without Mao, but it's very much like "Garibaldi." I got very
worn out after writing, even with these pieces that aren't taken from my own private life. It's as
if the skin were torn away, and I were a mass of bones and nerve endings. But it's wonderful to
know that I can write without the constant pressure of the MFA program; I feel like a writer
now, or at least an apprentice writer.
At least I'm good at creative writing because so far I'm a washout at creative dreaming. The last
two nights I've not been able to stop myself from being frustrated. In the first dream, two nights
ago, I was taking Prof. Heffernan's final and stepped out of the room to get a drink of water;
when I returned, she was leaving with the exams because the test was over. Frantic, I returned
to my desk, but it was cluttered with papers and I couldn't find my final. Last night's dream
was also set in a classroom: I was trying to take down an important announcement, but couldn't
do it because of continual interruptions. I tried to follow the book's advice and take positive
action, but it's didn't work and both times I awoke feeling terribly frustrated. I've had dreams
along these lines for years. I did have a dream in which Harvey appeared and was quite nasty
and sneaky, so unlike the picture I have of him.
[9]
Richard Grayson
Perhaps I dreamed of Harvey because Ronna called last night. I was hoping she would call to
wish me a happy birthday; I had been hurt by not getting a card from her, but the call more
than made up for it. Ronna said I am a very accomplished person for a 24-year-old; coming
from her, it was high praise indeed, even though she said that years ago I looked like a very
unlikely candidate for any kind of success.
Ronna's still in a terrible quandary about quitting the publishing company. Gwen is her friend,
and Ronna doesn't want to leave Gwen and Cathy in the lurch; if Ronna quits, her tightwad
boss Mr. Gladstone may eliminate her position, and then the workload on the other two women
would be enormous.
Neither Ronna nor I mentioned last week's conversation; we were really clicking last night and
when she asked if she could see me this Sunday, I quickly said, "That would be great." So
perhaps Ronna and I can yet be friends and sometime lovers. I realize now that my not having a
girlfriend these past 7 months has been one factor in my literary output. So I don't think I'd
want a full-time girlfriend now; I'd rather concentrate on myself and my writing, selfish as that
may be. (I told Ronna last night: "I am the most selfish person I know.")
There was a birthday cake from Carvel's for me last night - just the five of us, and it was
pleasant. There were the little jokes and family talk, and it all seemed like something I'll be
nostalgic for one day: Dad being on a diet, Jonny talking about his golf swing, Marc trying to
explain to a very dense older brother how color TV works, Mom cutting the cake the way she
always does: making a circle inside the cake with a knife dipped in water and then slicing the
pieces. Twenty-four candles are a lot; I could not blow them out with one breath. I wished for a
teaching job in the fall, and Dad guessed my wish. I called up both sets of grandparents to
thank them for my gifts.
Alice came over this morning with what she says is "the first half" of my birthday present: a
collection of poems by and an interview with Erica Jong (the book inscribed: "May you be as
rich and famous as Erica!"). Alice brought us ice cream, and we talked in my bedroom for hours.
Tomorrow, after her graduation from Fordham, she's going to see the editor of the Sunday
News Magazine; he's going to help her fix up a story she wrote having to do with the theft of
her brother's stamp collection. Alice's article on Mr. Blumstein will be out in Flatbush Life next
week; I don't think our old Spanish teacher is going to be entirely happy with it because he may
feel embarrassed. Andreas was supposed to take Alice away for the weekend, but he'll be busy
working on a sculpture for some church's competition.
[10]
Tuesday, June 6, 1972
Sometimes things happen so fast I wish I had time to catch my breath. It was a cool, cloudy day
- not too hot or too humid. I arrived on campus this morning to find the talk in LaGuardia again
centered on politics - 'tis the season. Elspeth came in with a red, white and blue Larry Simon
umbrella. I see that man's face everywhere, on buses, posters, in newspapers. But despite the
lavish expenses and the work of Jerry, Shelli, Doc, Marty, Mason, etc., I hear the campaign is
floundering. Late tonight come the big results from the Calif. primary - which could give the
whole show to McGov.
I talked with Mike as I walked with him to move his car and confided in him about Avis's card.
He termed it "a proposition if I've ever heard one." I suppose it was sort of saying she wants me
to sleep with her. I've wanted her for so long, so futilely, I find it hard to believe. And her
writing about my being "too sweet," Mike said that I can't say "fuck it" to some people - and
then I get hurt too easily.
In Drama, we had a great discussion on Ibsen's A Doll's House; at one point, Prof. Galin
remarked that "you have to learn to be alone before you can be with people." Coming toward
LaGuardia, I saw Leon sitting on the steps with...Greg, who looks slimier and more dissipated
than ever. Greg was telling Leon about Madison - Leon's got to decide whether to go to
Wisconsin or Chicago for grad school in Sept.
I went to lunch with Elayne and Elspeth, and coming out of Campus Corner, I saw Avis
walking a stroller with the baby she's been "sitting on," as she calls it. She showed me a letter
Scott wrote to both of us. He's doing fine but is a bit lonely and scared. (Tonight I wrote him.)
Avis and I took the baby to the playground, where we played on the swings and watched him
pull leaves from bushes and hugged him and talked. There was a moment when the baby
walked away and Avis turned to me and I looked at her directly and things got so weird and
heavy I had to turn away.
I told her I'd call her and went to Dr. Wouk, where I got a mild jolt. My shrink announced that
he's leaving NY City and his practice for good, in two weeks. Dr. Wouk thinks I should
continue with therapy and will refer me to somebody else. But, wow, after three years, how am
I going to relate to someone else? Dr. Wouk has been a constancy to me and soon he'll be gone.
5 PM. I feel a bit like Dustin Hoffman in "The Graduate": for the past few days I've been loafing
by the pool, getting a sunburn, indulging myself - but I'm not really happy doing that. I have to
keep moving, get started on some new goal. Perhaps that's the curse of being achievement-
oriented; once I've completed something, I feel aimless. I have everything, I guess: a nice house,
all the possessions I want, a not unsympathetic family, a girl who loves me, a college degree
[11]
Richard Grayson
and the prospect of a comfortable future - but I'm still dissatisfied.
Ronna was saying last night how she could see how people can waste their lives on stupid jobs
like the one she's got for the summer. You wake up early in the morning, go do your mind-
rotting tasks all day, fight the rush hour traffic home, and by then you're too exhausted to do
anything but sleep in preparation for the same thing the next day. But Ronna's job is only a
temporary thing, and my...my drifting is also only a temporary summer thing.
I got a birthday card from Alice today, postmarked London. She writes that she'll be home this
week after seeing Madrid. I miss her, perhaps because she's
my oldest friend and provides a sense of stability and continuity that no one else can.
I went to bed early last night and was nearly comatose for 12 hours. This morning, I stopped by
the college for a minute - yes, it's hard to break away - it was deserted. So I drove uptown to see
a movie with my student discount pass: Bogdanovich's "Paper Moon," a lovely, old-fashioned
kind of picture about the 30's. I can see how easy it is for people like Stanley to escape into
celluloid. I crossed 3rd Avenue and looked around in Bloomingdale's, then drove to downtown
Brooklyn to have lunch at Junior's. It was a pleasant enough day, but I feel so restless and a bit
under the weather. I've got to see Mrs. Ehrlich tonight.
A sunshiny day. Mom gave me the car this morning and I drove downtown. Dr. Wouk and I
got into heavy stuff after he showed me some of the tricks his dog Psyche does. I've been trying
to hide my sexual feelings, be asexual and ethereal and it just can't work. Which way will I turn
- to the gay life or to the straight world? Dr. Wouk says there's no hurry but that I don't want to
jerk off my whole life, that I need love. What can I do? Gay bars, dating girls, the beach,
computer dating? I'm gay, so would it be fair to see girls? Altho I've never acted out any
fantasies, I know, or rather, I feel at least 70% homosexual. Maybe I should contact Brad or
Carlos again - but answering their ads, though, were probably once-in-a-lifetime things.
Sometimes I wonder if I've gotten anything at all out of therapy.
At home, I took little Scotty to Georgetowne, where I bought lemon hair lightener. It worked a
bit as I sat in the back, reading Thomas Mann and Erik Erikson. Mom and Dad were quarreling
at dinner, Marc was grouchy and Jonny was bitchy. Marty called Monticello and learned Space
Age came in 2nd on Saturday. Mom went over to the Cohens' and Dad went to 86th Street
because Pat became sick and the new manager, Marc, was left alone in the store until Dad came.
Tomorrow I start my job. I'm sure I can handle it. It's what Dr. Wouk called an "assistant Puerto
Rican" position. I've got to start writing again - facing myself is good if difficult. I've been living
the life of a boy and not the life of a man.
[12]
Sunday, June 9, 1974
11 PM. Things have settled down somewhat, but I still am finding life enormously interesting. I
just watched a program by Barbara Walters on the sexual problems of men. (Freudian-
slippingly, I nearly stopped the pen after the "e" in "men". Of course I have a lot of sexual
hangups but as things become freer - both in society and within myself - things will get better.)
At least that whole "macho" mystique is dying away, except in the mind of self-styled studs like
Costas.
Last night I was very satisfied, and if Ronna didn't have an orgasm, it happens often enough to
satisfy her, she said; it's not like being on a playing field. It's a relief to have many people realize
that a guy isn't always ready to have sex any more than a woman is. Today I could handle my
impotence with Stacy with honesty and openness and I wouldn't have to go through the trauma
and embarrassment I felt back in October '72.
Ronna starts summer school tomorrow, taking Soc and English courses relating to American
Studies. After seeing Ronna on TV, Mom told me, "You don't know what you've got" - but I do
realize what a great person Ms. Ronna is. Speaking of openness, remember Harold, Ronna's
mother's erstwhile fiancé? It turns out that he had made up not only his son's accident and his
flight to London to see the boy, but also the son as well! He fabricated the whole story about
having an ex-wife and children in England, his career as an Army major, his job, his entire life.
What a sickie! He called up Ronna's mother recently and said now he could be honest, but she
quickly hung up on him. Ronna, it seems, was right all along in her suspicions about the man,
and her mother now admits that. So do I.
Alice came over this afternoon on her trusty bike, bringing me delicious presents (an Indian
flute and a German set of tiddlywinks, purchased at the Brooklyn Museum) as well as a hand-
made birthday card from Mark, "to the best reporter I ever had, from the best editor you ever
had." He told me to call him, and I was trying his phone all evening but got no response.
Alice told me some horror stories about her school, like the one about the 6'4" 8th grader named
Mario who's stabbed 8 people already, and John, who steals street cleaning vehicles and calls
Alice "Gorgeous." Alice said she spent a masochist day yesterday. In the afternoon she biked
with Hal, who said he feels like Marlowe in Heart of Darkness and who finds his brother Bob
"morally perfect." And then she spent last evening with Renee, who's depressed because she
doesn't have an escort to her sister's wedding to a guy named Tevye Ratz.
We talked for hours about little things which seemed fascinating at the time. Alice went to a
show with Peter on Thursday and he said that Wednesday's party depressed him, I guess
because he felt out-of-place with all the new people. I told Alice thank you for the gifts and said
I'd see her this summer; she'll be going to Richmond, mostly.
It was very hot today and the pool was finally set up, so I went in with the family and Fern.
[13]
Richard Grayson
Fern is a very sweet girl; last night she and Marc went with her parents to see "Damn Yankees."
Gary had told me he and Kathy enjoyed it very much, too. Gary left yesterday for Guard
training at Fort Drum; he'll be back in two weeks and hopes to see more of that girl.
I've been doing a lot of thinking about "The Peacock Room," making up dialogue, thinking out
symbols, playing with my characters. I hope to finish the story by September and school. Avis
said her friend Julie's sister Barbra will also be in the BC MFA program. She's 24 and spent a
year in her house, as I did.
A mild, bright day. Getting up so early in the morning isn't easy and I haven't been able to get
used to it as of yet. Shelli called me late last night, very upset. I was half-asleep and told her
stupid things so this morning I called her to make sure she was all right - she was. We met in
school before classes - we sat in LaGuardia lobby with Richie. In Poli Sci, we started to go into
party organizations, and it's more interesting although I was so tired, I had a hard time keeping
awake. After class, I shared a peanut butter and jelly sandwich with Leon. Elspeth wants to
come with me to see Elihu off on Sunday - she didn't mention the fact that Jerry was also
leaving then.
I wanted to stay and talk with Juan and Mike, but Shelli wanted to go home. At home, she made
us salads, then we went upstairs to my bedroom to make love. It was fantastic today, very
earthy and real. It was a bit too cool to do any swimming, so we went to Georgetowne, where
we had coffee. Shelli has been on a strict diet all week and it's making her not herself. But she's
been hurt a lot because of her weight and if she can lick the problem, it'll be worth it.
Shelli got me a gift subscription to New York Magazine. I was reading about the revival (by
Bella Abzug) of the Mailer-Breslin scheme for making NYC the 51st state. A drive is on for
secession and with the recent developments, it's gotten a lot of publicity.
We went to the Marine and saw a double feature: "Little Murders," a wild movie about violence
and feelings in the city, based on the Feiffer play, and "Making It," about a high school kid's
sexual adventures. Shelli was upset by the abortion scene in the last movie - she may take the
pill after all.
I called Brad. He's now working at St. Vincent's Hospital and was rejected from medical school.
We rapped for half an hour about impersonal things. He said to keep in touch by phone but he
never expects to see me in person again.
[14]
Wednesday, June 11, 1975
I needn't have worried about becoming smug and overconfident. By tonight I'm practically
brimming over with self-doubt. Two rejection notices didn't help: one from the Long Island
Review, a form letter, and from The Smith, a neatly typed note that says, "Thank you and good
luck." But I guess I needed a little humility, right? I was going to be the Man to Save the Novel.
Let's just see if I can save my own life. I am becoming a little bored, and I would like to be
working. It would be better for my self-esteem even though I have money in the bank and have
been as stingy with myself as a constipated spinster.
Speaking of that, I called Vito today and we had a nice chat. He said it's now a year since his
stay in the hospital and he ventured that if he ever got the idea to commit suicide, he'd do it by
constipating himself to death. He'll be going to summer school at BC when the graduate session
begins. Right now he's movie-hopping, at least until the end of the week when the Rugoff
passes run out. Vito asked me if I wanted to go to the premiere of "Nashville" with him today,
but I spent my discount last night when I saw "Monty Python and the Holy Grail" at Cinema 1 -
it was fairly amusing.
But I was in a bad mood after weathering miserable Manhattan traffic and an acid stomach
compounded by my inability to get into the new Woody Allen film. I strode down 3rd Avenue,
fuming. A passing woman gave me a chance to ventilate my wrath when she asked if she could
"borrow some change." "What do I look like, Rockefeller?" I shouted at her madly. "Go get a job,
you good-for-nothing bum! It's people like you who are ruining the city!" Etc. etc. until she
slunk away. Passing people were probably convinced I was viciously maligning some
unfortunate old soul, but I didn't give a shit.
Anyhow, getting back to Vito, he was in fine fettle; he thought my story about Scott and Elspeth
was "a classic"; he said that Helen's been seeing a lot of Mason but that she may see Frank after
all (apparently there was a falling-out between them). Vito's family is all fine, he said; his
brother stayed out on a date last night till 3 AM and Vito was waiting up for him like an
anxious father. Mario and Tony are OK, too. God knows where Vito gets the money to see every
show and film in town, even the ones that are all impossible to get tickets for. It was good to
hear from Vito again, and I must see him soon.
After hanging up with him, I dialed Mavis's phone number; she was just on her way out, to
meet Helen and Grace at Brighton Beach. I told her to stay up and I'd be right over to pick her
up. Mavis went to Washington over the weekend to visit Phyllis, who's working there over the
summer, and she saw the Univ. of Maryland and was favorably impressed, as that about makes
her mind up about grad school. She said graduation was one big bore, and as we drove she took
photos of me with Bob's camera.
We finally found a parking space and then met Helen and Grace on the beach; they were sitting
with Grace's grandmother, who only speaks Spanish. It was great to see Helen again; she's
[15]
Richard Grayson
gotten thinner and I noticed she bleached the hairs on her chin. Helen also seems very mellow,
as befits a Californian; she was very interested in my MFA program. From her conversation, I
gathered she was seeing a great deal of Mason -- she and Grace were planning to go to his
house this weekend. I know that Mason's always been terribly fond of her, and that's
understandable. Grace was her usual sprightly and quirky self; she's going to summer school at
BC. Her abuela is funny too. We sat out on the beach for an hour or so, then Mavis and I left, as
she had to meet Bob in the city at 4:30. Mavis will be going to that camp in Honesdale, Pa., in
two weeks, so we made tentative plans to see each other before her departure. It would be nice
to see Helen again before she leaves for the West Coast, but I'm glad I didn't miss her altogether.
Quite a few of my friendships and acquaintanceships need patching up, and it's good to work
on that.
A very humid, cloudy day. I didn't feel well this morning so I didn't go to Eikenberry HQ as
planned. Instead, I stayed home and finished Newfield's book, a beautiful portrait of a great
man. Robert Kennedy was an existential hero and could have helped us so much.
This afternoon I drove out to the college, but few people were around. Mark took me up to the
office and for an hour he taught me about journalism: lead stories, headlines, doing interviews.
Mark and I get along famously and sometimes I think he sees me as a protege. I picked up
Jonny at school, then went over and chatted with the Cohens for a bit. At home again, I finally
wrote my long-delayed letter to Barbara; I hope she forgives me for not writing sooner.
I thought of trying out for the play Leroy was talking about but decided against it. Acting
makes me very nervous, although I like the sense of community among theater folk. Miss
Wachsberger gave me a P in Art - her card arrived today.
Driving around tonight, I saw Marv walking with a friend, and he returned my wave. Last
night I got out last year's diary and added to the quotes I've been saving - I love to look at them.
I've been feeling hopeful lately.
Margaret Mead was on TV tonight and she was fascinating. Fighting continues in Jordan
between the government and the commandos. Tonight I started reading Martin Luther King's
Where Do We Go From Here?
Tuesday, June 13, 1972
I got the car back tonight, and after dinner I test-drove it out to Rockaway. I parked it on the
first street you can park legally on in Neponsit and walked to the beach. I guess I'm sort of
taking a leaf out of Mikey's book, as he often takes long walks along the beach. It's a good place
[16]
to think, especially when the sun is setting: it's really beautiful and I was alone except for two
boys frolicking in the water. I walked past Ivan's block, kind of hoping to see him - and yet if I
had, would I have gone over to talk with him? I think not.
Avis said Shelli told her, referring to me, "How can you just have no contact with someone you
were so close to?" Avis answered, quite rightly, "That's the way life goes." The water seems to
make things clear and I thought about what Dr. Wouk and I talked about in our next-to-last
session this afternoon. He thinks a lot of what Elspeth and Avis said about Shelli thinking about
me is bullshit, that they may be jealous of Shelli being married. Perhaps I wanted it to be so - it's
ego-gratifying to think that your married ex-girlfriend can't forget you. She's probably much too
busy to give me more than a passing thought, and that's the way it should be. Dr. Wouk said it's
high time I had another girlfriend, and I agree, but it's not easy to find the right person. He
asked one thing of me, that I invite him to my wedding.
My trip to Miami for the Convention is uppermost in my mind right now. I'm apprehensive
about it, but it's something I really want to do, to be a part of history and politics and life - the
best play of the year, so to speak. This morning I saw Mark at school. Brooklyn Today came out
today with an article by him. I had him put me down for a subscription. He's really a fine,
gentle person even if I don't agree with his lifestyle.
Mark was so proud when he told me that Conseulo was three mos. pregnant; I didn't have the
heart to tell him I knew already and pretended to be surprised. English went rather well today,
and I came home early - I got a ride home with Charles, who said Leon's film turned out very
well, so far as he can see. And I declined an invitation to join a camping trip to Split Rock with
Leon, Skip, Elspeth, Jessie, Allan and Josh –
a weird assortment of people even if they are all
my friends.
I feel quite depressed tonight and there's no reason for it. I've been fighting off waves of nausea,
so perhaps it's something physical, say a stomach virus. But more likely it's just a passing,
momentary thing. I awoke this morning from a night of heavy dreams to a dark, cool day. I took
the car to school and arrived on campus at 10 AM. Mike, Mikey and I went to Campus Corner
(they had lunch, I had rose hips tea) and we bullshitted as always. It's strange how you become
close with people, but it's a good feeling: to know that there are people you can talk with about
anything. We joke and kid and help each other. Slade once wrote in his Kingsman column that
"friends slow down hell," and they certainly do do that, at least for me.
We had another good discussion in class, this time on Synge's "Riders to the Sea," a play I found
primeval and comforting. After class, Prof. Galin told me I've been really helping him out with
my comments. I felt very flattered.
[17]
Richard Grayson
I found Leon in front of LaGuardia and gave him his birthday present: the children's book Alice
got me (not the same copy, of course) and an autographed photo of William Scranton. I sat with
Ken and Skip and John and enjoyed their chatter. I think Leon's getting into the gay bag, as Skip
keeps prostelytizing for homosexuality. But Leon told Skip not to bring along acid on the
camping trip; Leon's not tripping any more after a bad experience.
I went to lunch with Elayne, a congenial meal partner, and then met Allan. Allan doesn't like his
typing job and is looking for another one - at least he's not mad at me anymore. Back home, I
found a card from London, from Alice. London, she writes, will never make her "top 10 list:
weather gloppy, uninteresting food and a 6th floor walkup shared with two 80-yr-olds and an
Irish girl who doesn't speak much and looks at me funny - so far she's kept her distance." I
spoke with Gary for a while, then Avis called and she seduced me into cutting school tomorrow
and doing something with her. I went down to McGovern HQ and worked, writing down
phone numbers of people already canvassed who favored McGovern, so we can call them up on
Primary Day.
It's difficult to take responsibility for your feelings, but more often than not it's satisfying in the
long run. I remember in group therapy with Dr. Lippmann, a girl became annoyed with me
because "All we know about you is that your mother hates when you walk on the living room
carpet and so you do it to annoy her!" I did hide behind intellectualizing in those days, but what
I told the group was still important. I'd been brought up to believe that what looked nice and
"proper" was more important than feelings and instincts, and my walking on the carpet was
more than adolescent spite: I was telling my parents that I would not submit to not feeling.
Even my anxiety attacks were a kind of rebellion, as my body forced me to listen to it.
Things started rough with Ronna last evening. We knew we had to talk, so I drove
unconsciously and told Ronna that I wanted to sleep with other people, males and females, that
I don't want to marry her or even live with her, and I tried to find out how she felt about our
relationship and how we stand a month after our Mother's Day talk. At times I felt I was
reaching out to her and she wasn't there - she had her head turned, looking out the window. I
guess it's harder for her to trust me than vice versa. But after a long, difficult talk, she finally
told me that she felt much the same way as I did although she admitted to being a bit hurt
because I don't love her passionately. (She said, though, that this is probably more comfortable.)
She didn't seem shocked or disgusted by homosexual inclinations and said it doesn't make me
any less of a man in her eyes, maybe more of a man because I'm honest with myself. We talked
a long time and took deep breaths and after awhile, we both felt better.
Ronna and I decided to go to Brooklyn Heights - it was still daylight at 8 PM. I parked on
[18]
Remsen Street, by Shelley Wouk’s old office, now adorned with a sign that says "Somebody,
M.S.W., Primal Therapy." We took in the shops around Montague Street. There was a beautiful
sign in a florist's window, a sort of essay called "Diversity, Thy Name is Life," talking about how
wonderful the differences between people are and how they should not lead to hate but love.
There were those trendy stores and tea shoppes and cheese places and the sidewalk cafes.
Children were playing and people were walking their dogs.
We strolled the length of the Promenade, holding hands and staring at the river and the
Manhattan skyline. We walked along Willow Street, looking for Norman Mailer, and Ronna
pointed out Mona's old apartment on Pierrepont: she and Ivan broke up there one night when
they baby-sat for his niece. We got root beer ice cream at Baskin-Robbins, and it started to get
dark so we went back to Canarsie, where I gave her my parents' graduation gift: a music box for
jewelry. Her mother gave me a Writer's Market '74, something I could really use; maybe I'll even
sell some stories.
We were alone in her room and made love. She let me do some things for the first time. We lay
on the couch a long time and I felt good and calm and clean. I left at
2 AM, came home and fell asleep right away.
Josh called today to ask me if I wanted to buy Earth Shoes with him, but I declined without
feeling guilty about it (another step forward!). I got my new TV set today, and I called Joey to
wish him a happy sixth birthday. My godson is growing up; hopefully, he'll be happy.
It was cool and cloudy this morning, but it turned fair and sunny later in the afternoon. I met
Avis early this morning. Stacy called her up last night and asked her if she wanted to go to
Scandinavia. So, after the term ends, Avis and Stacy will go to Europe. Alice said she's leaving
for Spain in two weeks. Unfortunately, it's the day of Shelli's sister's wedding, so we can't see
her off at the airport. Shelli came by and said the preparations for the wedding are getting more
hectic day by day.
In Poli Sci, we again had an interesting discussion. The government got an injunction against
the Times and they can't print any more of the Pentagon Vietnam report. I joined the summer
crowd on the steps of LaGuardia after class. Slade is very interested in becoming the editor of
the Spigot, and I think it would be great. And so does Elspeth, who has a huge crush on Slade,
who is pretty sexy, I must admit.
Gary still doesn't know how his mother found out about the party. Shelli and I were going to
lunch, and I asked Gary to join us, hoping he'd refuse. But he came along and spent a half-hour
boring us with that faulty diction, those malapropisms of his. He conferred with Allan and has
[19]
Richard Grayson
decided to have the party on the beach in Neponsit. There are so many problems with that, but
I'm glad that he stopped trying to talk me into having the party at my house.
Shelli and I went home to bed, and I don't know why, but it wasn't terrific today. I was edgy for
some reason and she was tense, as she had to see Dr. Russell. But it was still wonderful. I did
my Poli Sci paper and I think it's pretty good, but I'm wary of Prof. Gluck. I took Shelli to the
college, we had coffee and I dropped her at her shrink's. Then I went home, did some work and
picked her up at SUBO. We drove to Prospect Park and walked and watched the sun set. I think
Mom found my condom boxes, but she didn't say anything. But I feel strange, like that time she
called Dr. Wouk asking if I was gay.
Tonight I made a birthday card for Leon, using quotes from my 1969 diary. I realize now that I
like Leon, and maybe, just maybe, I could have loved him.
It's Sunday evening, the beginning and end of a week, a good time for taking stock. It's two
weeks since my graduation and I've managed to survive, maybe even thrive. I've had diarrhea
for the past three days, but I’m sure that it's only a psychological reflection of my emotional
uncertainty. This leisurely gadding about has been fine, but it can't go on much longer: I've got
to make some kind of future for myself.
So I've made some tentative decisions. First, I'm going to register at Richmond for the summer
on Thursday and go there in the fall unless I discover it's really horrid. I started looking at the
apartment ads, but I don't want to move out until the end of summer. And I've decided that I'm
very much in love with Ronna. I found a long reddish-brown strand of hair on my bed, and I
remember the smell of her body, her firm plumpness (I suppose I have old-fashioned tastes in
women), and even more, her gentle humor, honesty and earnestness. She says she's happy to
continue just as we are, with no thought to the future, and so am I. Well, that's good enough for
one day's thought-work.
A cool Father's Day. I gave Dad his present - he liked it a lot - and then went to Rockaway to see
Grandpa Herb (I couldn't get to see Grandpa Nat because he wasn't home). Today was Mikey's
barbecue. Ronna couldn't make it because she was with her father, so I went alone, stopping off
on the way from my grandparents' to Carvel's to get an ice-cream cake that said "Happy
Anniversary Watergate" since a year ago the break-in occurred. Everyone appreciated it.
Bill was there but left early - he stayed a week with Allan in Tampa and is working at a
construction site. Most of the people there were friends of Mikey and Mike who live in
Rockaway or go to Buffalo: Helene; Charles; Rhonda, a vacuous redhead; a few others
including Neal from Calling Card. Mike showed me a letter from Pres. Kneller (obviously
[20]
written by Holly) which refused to "certify" him because of the 30% BHE rule but "appointing"
him and Linda as Kneller's "designees" to take over SG. I spoke with Felicia, who seems sweet if
a little dull. But perhaps that's unfair; I don't know her. The food was great, and I enjoyed the
company, and Mikey's mom was her usual gracious self.
It was cool and cloudy this morning as I went downtown to see Dr. Wouk. Before I went in, I
walked around by the Manhattan Bridge. The sky was darkening and everything was filled
with a kind of luminescence. Dr. Wouk said he's a follower of Ayn Rand and I should be selfish.
He said it was very important not to change. I must not give in to Shelli on this or she'll change
me to be her pet cipher. He said I should be proud to be a male chauvinist as he is. To tell you
the truth, I think he's full of shit, but I listened politely and said I'd see him next week, before he
went away.
It was raining when I got out and I went into the Slack Bar to visit Grandpa Herb. He and
Grandma are leaving next Monday for Canada. I had lunch at home and then Avis came over,
early, as usual. She and Stacy set back their departure until next Friday because Stacy broke her
toe. Avis said that Scott separated from Roger and Lewis and went to L.A. by himself.
Shelli came soon after, bringing a card that said "thank you for being you." When I told her
about Dr. Wouk, she dialed his number and shouted "Pig!" into the phone. She was upset, and
as the three of us went to Kings Plaza and looked around, both she and Avis tried to convince
me that Dr. Wouk is a nut. I'm very confused at the moment.
We went to the movies to see "Summer of '42," a pretty good film about a teenage boy's growing
up during World War II. Avis took the bus home, and Shelli and I came back to my house. We
lay in bed, not having sex, but just hugging and kissing in each other's arms. I do love her very
much - very much.
She told me that on the phone Saul had said he still loved her and wanted to see her alone, not
with me. Despite all the things that are pulling us apart or trying to, anyway, I know Shelli and
I are right for one another. I reluctantly took her home, giving her a long passionate goodbye
kiss.
I called Carole, who still isn't feeling well. She said that she went to Homowack with Hymie for
the weekend. There she met Elayne, who told her Mark and Consuelo are having a baby. Avi
asked me to come to a meeting of "key" Spigot staff members tomorrow. What's he got up his
sleeve?
[21]
Richard Grayson
A rough, humid day. I went to Eikenberry HQ in the Heights this morning and licked stamps
for a mailing that's going out tonight. On the IRT going back to school, I ran into Juan, back
from his parents' in Panama, and we went to the office together. Mark was at his desk and
showed me how to copyedit. He left to see an orthopedist - he's trying to use his trick knee to
get out of the draft. It was sunny for a bit, and I went into the backyard and began reading
Galsworthy's Maid in Waiting.
There was a rally at the Junction at 5:30. I saw Adam Walinsky there, but he didn't quite know
me. Adam seems very nervous about his chances. After I said I'd been talking him up, he asked
me, "But do they know who I am?" I still respect him greatly and he made a fine speech. Basil
Paterson spoke against Con Ed and Ma Bell, and seemed popular with the crowd. By mistake,
Adam was introduced as "the next Att'y Gen. of the U.S." - I wish he was. It started to rain
heavily and they said Goldberg was delayed indefinitely so I left.
Dad went to the track with Sid tonight. Grandpa Herb called and Mom and I went to him at the
toll bridge. He skidded in the heavy rain, ran into a fence and got two flat tires. We drove him
to the gas station - he was soaked and shaken but unhurt - where they fixed the tires. Mom
drove him back to the bridge and Grandpa got home safely. He's lucky he wasn't killed.
It looks like a real upset tonight in Britain as the Conservatives may have toppled Harold
Wilson's Labour government.
9 PM. I was just noticing how light it is at this hour, and then I realized that we're approaching
the summer solstice. After Sunday, it will officially be summer and the days will begin to get
shorter. I was working on "A Sophomore's Diary: April 1971" last night and today. I had to
make a list fictionalizing the 75 or so names that appear in the diary - I don't want to slip and
inadvertently put down a real person's name. For it is fiction - a tenuous kind of fiction, to be
sure, but I'm withholding my judgment until I've completed transposing the diary into a
fictional manuscript.
Actually, I'm certain it's my reading of Manuel Puig and my admiration for his narrative
techniques which made me try this experiment. I don't really expect anyone to follow 90% of
the "characters" - on the first three pages of the story, I introduce about 30 names, and that's all
most of them are, just names. But it does give me a feeling of movement, of the kind of circus
that LaGuardia Hall was. And doing this is a kind of self-analysis for me. I look back and see an
intensely romantic young sophomore, caught up in a clinging neurotic relationship; a person
terribly concerned with listing people's names as a kind of show of his own worth (the more
[22]
friends you have, the better you are); a phobic guy, totally out of touch with his feelings,
panicked by his own homosexual desires, unsure about enjoying his first sexual adventures
with a girl; a boy who wants recognition and who is essentially a manipulator. In these 4 years
I've changed and I haven't changed. At least I hope my writing style has become more
sophisticated; the 19-year-old me would be hurt to know that I find his earnestness and
emotional outpourings rather funny. Yet it's affectionate, gentle laughter, and perhaps the 1971
Richie would understand.
I overslept and missed Jonny's graduation from junior high this morning; it was at 9 AM and I
just couldn't rouse myself. Dad took the day off and later took Jonny to play golf, which is my
littlest brother's sole passion these days. Marc's been home with a vague illness past couple of
days; he says he feels very weak. I bicycled over to Harry's this afternoon, and he invited me up
to his porch. He was sitting, wearing only shorts, of course, with a woman I recognized
vaguely. Even with my bad eyesight I know she wasn't Fran, and it turned out she was Annie,
Marv's little sister: we met several years ago at a party given by Julie, Harry's then-girlfriend.
Evidently Annie's still friendly with Julie, and what Harry's relationship with her is, I can only
guess, and I really am trying to give up gossip. There's nothing wrong with Harry and Fran
having an open marriage. Fran always struck me as a very wise woman and she has learned by
now how to live as Mrs. Harry.
He was disappointed when I told him Ronna and I are no longer seeing each other. "She's
probably the only girl who was in my car for 12 hours and still came out a virgin," Harry said.
Harry and Annie are planning on taking a camping trip to the Adirondacks and asked if I'd be
interested in joining them, just the three of us. I told them I wasn't much for camping out but
maybe Ronna might want to come along with them, as I know how much she enjoyed her many
camping trips with Ivan.
Harry brought us out plates of chocolate chip ice cream as I stroked the head of his friendly
little dog. I get along great with the dogs of all of Ronna's old boyfriends - as I did yesterday
with Tiger. Harry has begun writing stories again; the first one he wrote this summer is about a
married man who screws around. I wonder where he got that idea from. Actually, I think most
of Harry's fiction is autobiographical, first-person narrative. When he was an undergraduate,
Baumbach dug only his violent scenes, Harry said. That sounds exactly like both Jon and Harry.
He mentioned getting a mouthpiece yesterday, so I assume he's still boxing; one of these days I
should ask him to teach me something. Annie and Harry
were very pleasant companions to while away a spring/summer afternoon with, and I'd like to
see more of them.
[23]
Richard Grayson
It's late afternoon on the first day of summer and there's a thunderstorm outside; it's hot and
muggy. Today was the day I registered for the summer session at Richmond College and my
first real feeling of what it's going to be like there as an M.A. student. First of all, I feel proud to
report that the strange new experience didn't leave me a mass of anxious bewilderment. I think
I let my instincts and curiosity take over.
I timed the drive at 45 minutes, so I figure I'll give myself an hour for traveling each way. The
drive is pleasant, along the Belt Parkway onto the Verrazano Bridge and up Bay Street along the
waterfront to St. George. The ferry is a block away, and faded mansions line the side streets.
Boro Hall and the courthouse are across the street from the main building, a 9-story, air-
conditioned modern office-type building.
The school is an upper division college, starting at the junior year, and seems to be one of
CUNY's more experimental schools. There are no departments, just divisions, no letter grades
but Pass, Honors and Fail, and the curriculum is rather experimental and disorganized. I went
to the Humanities Division to talk briefly with the adviser, Prof. Cullen. When I asked the
secretary if I needed an appointment, she laughed and said, "No one needs an appointment to
see Pat Cullen." Indeed, I found him to be informal; he looked like Mark, younger than me even.
I'm going to have him for a teacher for Victorian Poetry.
I picked up the course card in the Humanities office, then went to the cafeteria, standing on a
line to give in my personal card with the course card, until they brought my bill back from the
computer. Then I paid the tuition and it was all over - relatively painless.
The President of the college has just resigned; from what I can gather, the Board of Higher Ed
and most of his administration felt he was too liberal and too indecisive. Perhaps a change to a
stricter, more traditional type of governance (like BC's Kneller) is in the offing; the students are
afraid of that. But the place seems remarkably free and friendly. Faculty, administrators and
students squeeze into the elevators laughing all the time, and a rubber chicken hung over the
Registrar's desk.
7 PM. I just awoke from a short nap after feeling deliciously serene and fuzzy. I awoke with an
erection and the feeling I was floating. Perhaps it's because I was on the raft in the pool today.
It's summer officially and in reality, de facto as well as de jure, as the lawyers say.
I had a much better time last evening than I expected to. I picked up Ronna at her house and she
looked terrific, wearing this sleeveless blouse that covered up her chubbiness. We went over to
[24]
her cousin’s house for Barbara's 18th birthday party. I was not looking forward to spending
time with such young kids and Ronna agreed that we only had to put in a token appearance,
but I surprised myself by wanting to stay the whole evening. Maybe it's because I was relaxed
and was myself, but I didn't feel a bit uncomfortable.
Ronna's Uncle Jake left for a poker game and her aunt Violet was a visible presence, preparing
watered-down Sangria punch and cheese and chocolate fondue. Ronna had been over there
earlier in the day to bake some sour cream bread, which was very delicious. Ronna is talented in
the kitchen. Her little cousin Al was around, getting underfoot and instigating everywhere.
Ronna asked Barbara how she was feeling and Barbara replied that she still got tired a lot and
often had sick headaches. Even Barbara has come to believe that her illness is psychogenic in
origin; she doesn't get on at all well with her grandmother Minnie, with whom she shares a
room.
I had met some of Barbara's girlfriends in the hospital and I remembered her friend Tom from
seeing him in "Arsenic and Old Lace" and meeting him when we saw "Women in Love" at BC.
"That was good," Tom said, and I replied, "Seeing the movie or meeting me?" and after that, we
got along really well. My guess is he's definitely gay or at least bisexual. He's an opera freak, so
I immediately thought of fixing him up with Tony (God, am I a busybody), likes "All About
Eve" (somehow I knew he would when Ronna and I were sitting on the stairs drinking, and it
reminded us of that movie) and well-versed in politics (he says he's a cousin of Mario
Procaccino and whenever he's depressed, he calls up Mario, who does his crying for him). It
was his overall sense of humor that made me recall my first encounter with Vito (whom I
haven't heard from in a month).
As I sampled Barbara's angel food cake, I listened to her friends talking about what it would
have been like in the old activist days when colleges went on strike and students took over the
president's offices. I felt very old because I was there.
Ronna and I left at 10:30 to go back to her house. Barbara kissed me as we left - I had told her
not to worry about "another year without a boyfriend" and it was an enjoyable role, like being
her older brother. Susan said to me, "I'll see you later," and Tom, who was sitting on her lap,
said, "Where?" Susan replied, "They're going to my sister's bedroom." I feigned embarrassment
and we left.
Ronna and I went straight to her bedroom, without the usual preliminaries and got right into
bed. It was heaven, really. She just looked so gorgeous, I was hungry for her touch. Ronna is
letting down her guard a lot too. She seemed to have a terrific orgasm and mine must have
equaled hers; it was so intense, I couldn't help moaning with pleasure. We hugged and nearly
fell asleep holding each other. Later we talked -- little anecdotes and gossip. She said I smelled
like I used to when we first started going out; her smell was incredibly arousing. I left at 2AM,
running into Susan at the front door after Barbara's friends had dropped her off.
[25]
Richard Grayson
I spent today outside by the pool with my brothers.
A hazy, humid day. I still can't adjust to getting up so early - I'm afraid by the time I get used to
it, I will no longer have to get up early. I'm a bit worried about Richie. He cut his gym class
again today, getting into the same rut that made him fail and not graduate before. He's so
wrapped up in his better transit committees and looking for a job for once - if - he graduates.
Shelli got a call late last night from her friend Brian, who goes to the U. of Florida and
consequently she was tired this morning. In Poli Sci, Prof. Gluck discussed electoral behavior
and such. After class, I met Alice. Andreas wants her to go to Spain and will even join her for a
weekend. She said Howie really looks "terrible" now and it's obvious they no longer care for one
another. Alice said she might join the Spigot, now that Slade is editor. Slade has severed his ties
with Kingsman; in fact, Laura, who despises Slade, asked him to clean out his desk. I asked Slade
and Mike to come back to the pool with Shelli and Elspeth and me, but Slade was busy and
Mike has a bad cold. Gary was by LaGuardia and I didn't want him to come over, so Shelli and I
left early; Elspeth was to meet Jessie after her class and come to my house.
Shelli and I had sex in my room and it was cool, as it always is. We had a real good
conversation with Marc afterward - he's finished with school now. Next week, when the others
go away, Marc and I plan to have a good time, with cousin Scott staying over.
Then Elspeth came over and we went swimming - Elspeth enjoyed it, and I'm glad. She has a
huge crush on Slade, is looking for an apartment with Ray and still likes Greg. Elspeth stopped
taking the pill, though, because she's not sleeping with anyone. She confided that she slept with
another guy while she was engaged to Jerry. Jessie didn't come and went back to Elspeth's
house instead. I drove Elspeth and Shelli to the Junction. Shelli later said her appointment with
Dr. Russell went all right.
Daniel Ellsberg, the hawk-turned-dove mystery man who leaked the Pentagon papers (popping
up in paper after paper as injunctions come out daily) had an interview in secret on TV tonight.
There's more to come out, apparently.
The primary results were not all bad. Bella Abzug beat Farbstein and Rangel upset Powell.
Badillo won, but Eikenberry lost narrowly. In our home district reformers Halperin and Sharoff
beat old-line regulars.
[26]
I guess Goldberg is better than Rocky, but I don't think he can win.
My Speech teacher, Mr. Cohen, tried to allay our fears about speaking, but it just didn't work for
me. I'd like to drop the course, but I'd have to take it eventually. For tomorrow, we're supposed
to make a speech for two minutes on a gripe. My English teacher, Mr. Graves, gave us a book
list but then wondered if the list was any good - his vacillation did not impress me.
Mark asked me to go to the beach with him, but I told him to come over to our pool instead. We
had lunch at Wolfie's and spent the remainder of the afternoon in the backyard - I lent him a
pair of shorts. Mark and I are very friendly, but it seems more of a kidding, jocular relationship
than a friendship. Maybe that will change.
Dad looked better than ever as he went off to a conference of Pants Set managers at a Plainview
motel. He's offering the managers a profit-sharing incentive plan. Marc's math teacher told
Mom he couldn't raise his mark and advised Marc not to attend summer school - so he won't. I
read some poems by Yeats for English and listened to Dr. Wouk on the Joe Franklin radio show.
He makes a good guest.
I think I have to face the fact that I'm going through a rough time emotionally, the roughest time
since those days of the breakup with Shelli. It's all so absurd - I thought I progressed so much
emotionally, and now I seem to find myself in another psychic quandary centered on the trip to
Miami. Frankly, I'm beginning to have severe anxiety about the trip. It'll be the first time my life
that I'll really be on my own. I have so many doubts and fears, remnants of my neurotic past.
Can I get through it okay? Compounding this is my loss of Avis and Dr. Wouk, and the general
feeling that I don't know where I'm going. These past weeks have been fulfilling emotionally,
yet I feel depleted, as if I'd been fighting a fierce battle ending in a draw. I didn't sleep at all well
- I kept thinking of Miami and the convention and Leon and Skip and Mikey. Every time I hear
news about the convention, I feel a twinge of anxiety.
It was raining out - naturally - when I got up. After breakfast, I drove into Manhattan (I almost
smashed up the car when I skidded wildly on the Brooklyn Bridge). I parked on E. 64th Street
and 2nd Avenue and went into the Beekman Theater to see "Portnoy's Complaint." It was really
a bad movie, conveying none of the bitter comic anguish of the novel, yet leaving in all the
tawdry stupidity. I did like Karen Black as The Monkey, though.
When I came out of the theater, the rain had stopped and I strolled down Second Avenue and
up Third, browsing at antique stores, buying some herbs, looking at galleries and sidewalk
cafes and people. Manhattan is like a wonderland to me, a place to escape. I drove down Fifth,
past Tiffany's and Bonwit Teller and the library and St. Patrick's and Dad's office. I get a good,
[27]
Richard Grayson
secure feeling as I read the sign "Art Pants Co. - Marc Richards Creations." Washington Square
was crowded because of the Gay-In, so I returned to Brooklyn for a delicious burger at Junior's.
I came home, finding Jonny ill in bed with a cold. I spoke to Avis and she'll see me tomorrow -
for the last time in a long time. God, I sometimes wonder if I'm not like Soames Forsyte: "He
might wish and wish and never have it - all the beauty and loving in the world."
How am I doing? I'm not sure. Psychologically, I've been holding my own. Physically, I've
caught a rather nasty cold (from Jonny - or from my neurosis?) Anyway, I feel slightly rotten
today, which was, needless to say, another rainy, cloudy mess. Isn't it about time we had
summer already?
I spoke to Gary last night. He'd spent the weekend at Lou's estate in Great Neck. It's funny:
when I'm depressed, I always seem to turn to solid, dependable Gary, but at other times I treat
him cavalierly. I got a call from Avis early today. She wasn't feeling well, she said - he neck was
stiff and she had a bad reaction to the pill, so could I come up to her ap't instead of us meeting
at school? Sure, I said.
Before class, Charles showed us the movie he'd made. It really came out well and I enjoyed it,
although I wince when I see myself on the screen. He'd showed it to Prof. Giuriceo and she'd
given him an A- for it; Charles has finally graduated and wants to drop those math courses he's
taking.
I walked to Flatbush Avenue with Max, this fat Poli Sci lecturer who's been hanging around. He
introduced me to Liz Holtzman, who's a pretty gracious person - she was suffering with a bad
cold too, so I gave her some rose hips tea. She called me "Richie" when she spoke to me; I said
I'd see her in Miami.
Before I class I saw Stacy, who asked me for my address so she could write me while she and
her sister are in Greece. What a strange lady! In class, we went through "Death of a Salesman"
and finished it, thankfully. I had lunch with Charles and Barry. Charles hasn't been around
much, as Pauline's mother's been in the hospital.
When I got to Avis's, she was in pain with a really stiff neck - she was lopsided and so
pathetically cute. She wouldn't let me crack her neck, but I massaged it and got pretty horny
doing it. We sat, talking, and finally we went out to the Junction. She couldn't comb her hair, so
I took a brush and brushed her long silky black hair. We browsed in card stores and bookstores
and pet stores and she treated me to a soda. Back at her ap't, we talked in her bedroom. She
leaves tomorrow for the camp in Milford, Pa. I told her to have a nice summer as I kissed her
goodbye. But I wish Avis were not going away.
[28]
5 PM. My head has cleared up a bit since yesterday. It was on the cool side today. Anyway, I
finished "A Junior's Diary: Autumn 1971" last night and then had a hard time getting to sleep. A
million things kept running through my mind. I thought of the Village Voice's review of the
Fiction Collective's new books and their quote, "Not even the Fiction Collective always errs..."
Baumbach, Spielberg and Company have such a holier-than-thou attitude, as if, to quote the
Times reviewer, they were "the last of the beleaguered experimentalists" (I used that line in my
last story).
I would rather reach more people than snobbily disdain the masses. As the Voice stated, if
you're reading James Joyce, the difficulty is well worth it, but feebler talents like me would do
better to appease the reader with some plot, characterization and continuity if they don't want
their books to be junked instantly. Baumbach could make fun of the late Jacqueline Susann in a
magazine article, but who in the end has the last laugh? Millions of people know or have read
Susann but I doubt if .01% of them have ever heard of Baumbach. His smugness, and
Spielberg's, raise my hackles (to use a quaint cliché). I'd rather write a daytime serial and know
how many people were hearing my words than write 100 Fiction Collective books.
Anyhow, I finally did cool down enough to get to sleep at 3AM or so and woke up late this
morning. I'm kind of surprised, though I probably shouldn't be, that Ronna never returned my
calls. I remember when I was going with her how she used to not return her other friends' calls
so as to spend more time with me. Again, an instance of something I once liked about a person
becomes exactly that quality that drives me up a wall. (File for future reference.) Ronna's not
calling bothers me, but I realized something: I've been reacting productively and positively all
along by writing. Now that I think about it, I did hardly any creative writing all the time I was
seeing Shelli and then Ronna; the relationships were so intense that there wasn't enough
psychic energy left over to write.
I got another non-acceptance today: the magazine folded for lack of funds. I went to BC to get
my stories xeroxed and saw Josh and Barry selling plants in front of Hillel Gate. Elayne came
upon me and walked me to the copy center, where I gave in my order. Elayne was on her lunch
hour, so we sat down on the quadrangle and hung out. She's a bit worried that her jobs at BC
and the Graduate Center are threatened by the budget cuts. I've told Elayne and Elihu about my
LaGuardia stories and they're both anxious to read them. I'm sure they have a very different
conception of the writing than what it really is - it's mostly my story, after all.
Elihu is going on his whirlwind vacation next week. Elayne said Elihu did some "impolitic"
things that got him into hot water with the Madison crowd, whom she thinks are all sickies
anyway. She told me that novelist Stanley Hoffman came over to her ap't and propositioned her
(they had met casually months ago at a party), using lines straight out of some bad novel. She's
the third person I know who's told me a similar story; both Stacy and Karen had the same
experience with the formerly fat novelist. Elayne says he doesn't even know how to kiss right,
[29]
Richard Grayson
that he does it with his teeth. I'd like to meet Mr. Hoffman one day and size him up for myself; I
don't think I'd like him very much, but he does sound amusing.
Mike joined us - his student teaching ended yesterday, but he has to attend lectures till the end
of July. Mike said that Gary's sister's coming along and will be put in a cast soon and sent home.
Melvin came over, and in response to a question from Mike, Melvin said he'll be graduating in
January. "That's what you said last summer," Elayne said, and I said, "Ah, but he didn't say
which January." Fitz dropped by with a dog that looked like a bear; he and Elayne are on good
terms now that all their crises are behind them. It was fun to be with them just like in the old
days. I got my xeroxed stories and came home for the rest of the afternoon.
A cool and cloudy letdown of a day. Shelli was very upset on the phone last night. The night
before the wedding she and her sister stayed up all night, crying and reminiscing. And last
night Sindy was with Kieran and she'll be with Kieran forever now. It's tough on Shelli. I tried
to help as best I could, but I felt impotent. This morning Kieran and Sindy left for Seattle, where
they'll live for the next few years. Shelli called me from the airport and said she was coming
over. I awaited her and listened to the news: the shooting at the Italian-American Civil Rights
Day rally of their leader, Joe Colombo, a "reputed Mafia boss."
Shelli cried in my arms when she got here - but, God, she looked beautiful, wearing a sexy
white blouse and a navy blue dress. I comforted her in my room - she looked like an angel fallen
from heaven. We made love and that relaxed us both, then we watched some television and
talked. Every time she mentioned her sister's name, she began to cry. I told her it will be all
right and I'm sure it will, that each day it will get better. She's worried about her schoolwork,
but I said I'd help her with it. In the late afternoon, I drove her home. Her aunt and her aunt's
stepdaughter were there but are leaving for Florida tonight.
Marc was disappointed that he only got a 75 average and Mom is worried about his getting into
college. Mom spent the rest of the day preparing for her trip to Paradise Island; she, Dad and
Jonny are leaving Thursday and will return next Tuesday. Dad, who told me yesterday in the
car that he'd never go to the track again with Lennie, did just that tonight - despite the
crackdown on the information Lennie’s been getting from the paddock.
I spoke to Shelli later in the evening and she sounded better and was awaiting a phone call from
her sister. I tried to speak to Elspeth, but she was working late at the dep't store. Daniel Ellsberg
admitted he stole the Pentagon papers and gave himself up to the FBI.
[30]
It's odd, but I've been sort of lethargic all day and now suddenly I've perked up for no apparent
reason. Later this afternoon, I decided that I was giving in to my own crankiness and that I
should call somebody and do what makes me feel better: get into other people. So I called
Mikey and although we had only a brief chat, at least I got a sense other people being in the
world. Mikey said Ari is enjoying med school in Guadalajara, Mason left for camp after
attending a party at Stacy's with Jill, and Mikey himself will be leaving for Canada this
weekend with Pauline and Charles, with whom he's been hanging around lately. And tonight I
get to see Ronna, and unlike my usual pessimistic self, I think we're going to have fun.
Last night's session with Mrs. E went very well. I apologized for my verbal jousting and she
asked why I have to. I'm defensive, probably because I get that as a way of dealing with Mom.
She's always been, I've felt, more concerned with her possessions than with me. As I told this to
Mrs. E, she noted that I kept defending my observations by using other people's, as if I were not
to be trusted, that I had faulty judgment.
We talked about how my fear of being pushed out of the womb is being brought back by
thoughts of moving out and of grad school. And we discussed how Prof. Cullen uses my
weapon - intellectualizing - and how I was affected by his comments on Carlyle's impotence,
wondering what he might see in my writing.
We went over that dream and two others in which Ivan appeared. In one, Mom had left Dad for
Ivan and threatened me with knife, and in another Ronna told me I was an illegitimate son of
Ivan's father, who had to pay Mom and Dad to adopt me (a reversal of real adoption and an
example of my own feelings of inadequacy). I've always viewed Ivan's family as a very close-
knit, loving group, but they did "give away" their only imperfection – Mona’s brain-damaged
daughter - which reminded me of Mom's cousin's death yesterday. At 33, Jean choked to death
in an institution for the retarded. In both dreams, there was a wish that my parents weren't my
parents, so I could act out Oedipal fantasies, with Ivan as a substitute for me. Mrs. E says I still
fear castration (Mom's knife) and am really scared of women in general, including Mrs. E
herself.
10 PM. A rain is falling now, but it was hot and sunny all day. I just realized that the first six
months of the year are almost over - half of 1974 is gone. I changed the calendar Ronna gave me
to July, which is decorated with her watercolor of an orange sun, a blue sky and some birds.
(June was a cutout of two teddy bears - from the wrapping paper I put her 1973 birthday
presents in - with the legend "Grazin' in the grass.")
[31]
Richard Grayson
I finally got to see Ronna today. I went over to her house at noon. Ronna's cold was still with
her, but her sister was much sicker, in bed with 103 fever. Ronna sounded a bit hoarse and she
kept a generous supply of tissues with her for her runny nose. We drove out to Rockaway, but
every parking space had been taken, even the driveway of the abandoned house across from
Mikey's, so we returned to Brooklyn. Ronna told me that last night she dreamed she was in bed
with both me and Ivan. We both wanted to sleep with her, but she refused, and while Ivan was
disappointed, I was a bit more upset and threatened to kill her although I didn't do it because of
her pleas against murder; instead, I decided to scramble some eggs. We went back to my house
- this is reality now, not the dream - and sat in the backyard by the pool.
Ronna and I were discussing Sociology (her midterm is tomorrow) and I made a beauty of a
Freudian slip: instead of saying "cities," the word that came out of my mouth was "titties." I
suppose it's understandable. I went into the pool and when we felt we had enough sun, we
retired to my room to watch the Democratic party telethon. We hugged and kissed but made
sure to avoid mouth-to-mouth contact to avoid spreading germs; keeping that distance was
difficult because Ronna looked so soft and grabbable (a new word?). We sat, touching each
other, and I told her it took me 22 months from the first time I saw her until I got the nerve to
ask her out. Ronna said Shelli told her in the spring of '71 that I was talking about asking her
out. I did it to make Shelli jealous, but there was a hint of desire for Ronna even then (Shelli told
then me that if I asked Ronna out, Ivan would beat me up). But Ronna said she wouldn't have
liked me then because "you were too scared to be yourself so you put on this front." Ronna said
that even Melvin mentioned how much I've changed over the past couple of years. Ronna and I
had lunch in the kitchen and I drove her home early, to study and rest her cold.
I went to visit Vito at Maimonides tonight; his friends, Maria and Ed, who are engaged, were
already there. Vito's mother told me the doctors finally realized the problem wasn't orthopedic;
they now think there's a blockage in his colon or intestines. The doctors told Mrs. M last night
and she broke the news to Vito today. "He took it well," she said. Apparently they've thought
the problem was gastrointestinal for a while. The psychiatric nurse was brought in to help Vito
cope with the news once they saw how very high-strung he is. I stood and joked with his
friends - Maria just graduated BC, is looking for a job and will be on a TV game show on
Thursday (she didn't win any money). Vito was in pain, but he's off painkillers because they're
doing tests and X-rays tomorrow. Hopefully they'll do surgery before the holiday weekend. I
tried to reassure Vito and then drove home his mother and uncle, who were very grateful for
the ride. Mrs. M is so tired. She's had a rough life and a lot of problems, but she seems not to
give in to things.
Wednesday, July 1, 1970
The second half of the year already - a warm, lazy day. I slept soundly and was awakened by
Mom from a dream in which I was eating spaghetti and talking to Sen. Wayne Morse. I was at
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school early and talked with JC, a Polish refugee who worked with me on the report yesterday.
In Speech, Mr. Cohen showed us how to outline our "speech to inform" - I'll spend tomorrow
preparing for my tea speech. In English, we reviewed more of Yeats - I'm still bored although
Gil, who had Mr. Graves, liked him immensely. I joined Mark in the air-conditioned radicals'
office and watched him mimeo something for Juan, then had lunch and browsed in the
bookstore.
I came home and drove to the beach, where I lay for an hour reading magazines. I stopped off at
Grandma Ethel's for a soda - she was having a card game. Going home, I decided I'd pick up a
hitchhiker but couldn't find one interesting enough.
Gary writes that after bivouac, he came down with a fever. There are some complications with
college and I must call his parents.
Sometimes I despair that I'll ever write anything but this diary. I'm still searching for a form and
a style. Do people read fiction anymore? Will novels go the way of poetry?
My birthday was #42 in the draft lottery - I have no luck. Nixon was interviewed on network TV
tonight. He named an ambassador to the Paris peace talks. Lindsay asked Howard Samuels to
head the off-track betting agency.
Sunday, July 2, 1972
I woke early this morning in my hotel room in bed after a surprisingly good night's sleep. I
always find it difficult to sleep in strange beds, but perhaps I'm becoming more...malleable.
Actually, the whole purpose of going to South Fallsburg was to try and drive a fairly long
distance myself so as to make the long trip down to Miami somewhat less awesome. I know
that drive down to Florida will be a taxing nightmare for me, but of course I am prepared to be
nervous, tired, headachy, faint and exhausted. Facing all this beforehand is good, I think,
although I wish I could feel differently.
I went downstairs with Jonny at 8:30 AM - like our parents, he totally loves owning a hotel -
and we took a walk. The countryside was beautiful, with the dew still on the leaves and the
promise of a warm day. We had a huge country breakfast in the dining room - cereal, bagels,
onion rolls, grapefruit, pancakes - and afterwards I decided I'd better get going if I wanted to
beat the traffic and the heat. So I packed my valise, took the car into town and got gas, then
went on the Quickway back toward the city. It was a pleasant trip back, if somewhat tiresome. I
arrived home at 12:15 PM, making fairly good time.
A letter was waiting for me from Scott in Sweden. He's really having a god time now. He writes
that Swedish girls are "fuck-machines." Also: "You stay at home too much, Richie. I'd like to see
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Richard Grayson
you get away from things and leave the womb. Find yourself a woman and get away from
things. It really makes a difference." Scott's right, of course. Perhaps that was why it upset me.
I spent the afternoon in 90-degree sunshine in the backyard, enjoying myself in my "womb."
Dad came home at 5:30 and we went out for dinner at the Floridian. I spoke to Gary later. The
news about his father is somewhat encouraging, thank God. Marc arrived home later in the
evening, driving down from the country with a friend.
I went over to Mark's house after he called. The place was a mess, as usual, with cockroaches
everywhere. Consuelo was resting and looked tired and drawn, not her usual self. I suppose it's
being pregnant that does it. They decided to call the baby either David or Lisa, like the movie.
Thursday, July 3, 1975
6 PM. The July 4th holiday weekend is upon us, and I've cheered up considerably since
yesterday. I slept well and was up bright and early this morning; it's becoming easier to adjust
as the days go on. It's pleasant to be out in the morning before the heat of the day really wears
you down. I'm enjoying my French class a lot; I just wish I had the textbook. Ms. Belfer is a
marvelous teacher: interesting, witty, vibrant and entirely un-self-conscious. I was quite lucky,
because Prof. Flaxman, the director of the Summer Language Institute, came in today and split
up our class because it was too large. The people in the class are in a lot of different fields:
there's a man getting his Ph.D. in Math, a woman going for her doctorate in Anthropology, and
Dr. Allen, a black woman who's a Psychology professor at John Jay. Taking the subways isn't so
bad - I did it all the time when I was a Voice messenger in January, and most of the D trains are
air-conditioned. I suppose I've always been comfortable with routines, and now that everything
is becoming routinized I'm very happy.
I got an envelope from the Alumni Association containing a photo Neil took of me with Skipper
Jo Davidson. I don't know if that means it's going in the Alumni Bulletin or that it's not and
that's why I could have the photograph. There was no note of explanation sent with the picture.
Harry called last night, asking if he could borrow my Writer's Market. It seems he's been writing
a lot and he wants to send out some of his stuff now. I told him to drop by anytime today and
he came at 4 PM with Fran, who didn't really remember me. I think he had just picked her up
from work at the hospital; she said something about supporting Harry the way my parents are
supporting me. It's odd to have married people to a house that's not really mine; still, my room
is mine and that's where we stayed.
I showed Harry and Fran some of my writing, and as I expected, neither of them really 'got'
"Rampant Burping" or similar stuff. Harry read a good portion of my "Seance" section and he
recognized most of the characters as the old LaGuardia people, who he thought were very
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weird. He mentioned talking to Charles, who defended Leon as a great person. It seems Harry
and Fran went to North Carolina last week to see Charles and Pauline. The two women have
been very close since public school; Fran said Charles is going to school for biostatistics,
Pauline's working and that they have a lovely apartment and are very happy. That's good - I've
always liked Charles and Pauline, and I miss them.
I asked Fran about Marc's mono and she said she had it one summer when she was very
depressed about breaking up with her boyfriend of 4 years - she wasn't eating or sleeping and
finally her mother made her go out and do a wash and she passed out in the laundry room. Her
mono didn't show up right away, but she was ill for 6 weeks. She mentioned that having mono
might give one immunity to cancer; there are some studies that indicate that.
Fran and Harry said they'd have me over to dinner - they also want to invite Ronna but I told
them Ronna doesn't return my calls. Harry said he phoned her last week about going on that
camping trip with him and Annie, and that Ronna said she was going on trips to Virginia and
up to Cape Cod. It felt odd to hear of Ronna's plans from someone else; Fran tried to make me
feel better by saying, "All girls are crazy" - she's as sweet as I remembered her. They left as it
started to rain.
After 5PM, I called Scott in Washington to wish him a happy birthday. He was very glad to hear
from me. Despite all of Scott's obnoxiousness, I can't stay angry with him for long. And I
figured he was feeling a bit lonely; he was, and it made me feel good to be able to cheer him up
a bit. All my gracious gestures are ultimately very selfish. Scott mentioned writing Avis a long
letter and hopes she'll write back. I said, "I'm sure she will." We talked only a few minutes. It
was 95 in Washington, and Scott's going to the 6th Annual Smoke-In on the Mall tomorrow.
Tuesday, July 4, 1972
A sunny and warm Fourth of July. I've just been outside, standing with Susan and Al, watching
the neighborhood kids send up flares, Roman candles and other fireworks that make bright
colors and loud noise for a while, then become nothing more than a big mess. It was giving me
a headache, and so I left Susan and Al and Marc and Marilyn to watch what I think is idiocy.
Still, it was a pretty nice holiday. Although the trip is in only a few days, I decided this morning
to keep myself occupied and my mind too busy to worry.
So early today, right after breakfast, I drove into the city - the traffic was fairly light. I parked at
Third Avenue and 58th Street and first did some shopping for herbs. Then I got in line at the
Sutton Theater and went in to see "The Candidate." It was superb, the best film I've ever seen
about contemporary American liberal/media politics. Robert Redford was great as the young
Democratic liberal and Don Porter came over well as his conservative Republican opponent.
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Richard Grayson
I drove back into Brooklyn and enjoyed a burger with smothered onions at the counter of
Junior's. When I got out of the restaurant, it was still early and nice out, so I took the car into
Manhattan again. What I really wanted was a nice, sexy girl with long blonde hair and a great
body - I was feeling very horny. I watched girls go up and down Fifth Avenue after I'd parked
in front of the Modern Art Museum. I didn't go in, as the guards were striking and I didn't want
to cross a picket line.
So I went down the block to the Museum of Contemporary Crafts and saw this odd exhibit of
"American objects." I walked into St. Patrick's Cathedral and looked at the statues of the saints
and the candles and stained glass. It was dark and beautifully serene. I saw in a pew for some
minutes just thinking about things.
On the street I bought some ices and strolled around Rockefeller Center, then came back home
at 6 PM. Mom and Jonny had come home from the hotel. Jonny said I'd gotten a call while I was
away and the other person didn't say a word, just breathed. Could it be Shelli, I wonder,
although I doubt it - it's wishful thinking to imagine my married ex-girlfriend calling. Not that I
like her, it's just that her calling me would be a tremendous boost to my poor ego.
This evening I had an early session with Mrs. Ehrlich. Upon entering, I remarked how I never
had seen her neighborhood in daylight before except of course when I sometimes drive by on
Atlantic Avenue. She wanted to know if I looked at the building then, and I said of course I do,
I do it with all my friends' houses. And then I began talking about my own search for a place to
live. Mrs. E detected a noticeable lack of enthusiasm for moving out on my part and although
I'd noticed it before, I never realized how much it was present.
"But I don't want people to think I'm a baby," I said, and I realized how much social pressure -
by peers, today's "be on your own" philosophy, Ronna's desire to have a private place for us, my
parents' wanting me to leave - was affecting my plans. I really, deep down, don't feel ready to
move, and the day, August 1, that I put down as a deadline for getting an ap't, coincides almost
exactly with the end of summer school and Mrs. E's vacation. Perhaps I'd better wait until the
fall - to see how I like Richmond, to see about therapy, and to get some more structure into my
life.
This is all bringing back feelings of when I first went to kindergarten. I can remember how,
while all the other kids around me were bawling, I wouldn't cry. Yet I must have felt the same
feelings as they did, the anxiety about leaving my mother's care and being thrust into the world.
I always found it extremely difficult to cry and it embarrasses me to see others do it. I feel as
though it's something shameful.
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I related to Mrs. E how, during my breakup with Shelli, Dad one day came into my room and
said, "You're 21 - too old to cry," and I replied, "Maybe I'm just becoming old enough to cry!"
"Good for you!" said Mrs. E. And I use trivial incidents, like impetigo or Monday's accident to
take all of my sad feelings and let them burst out. I started feeling very sad in Mrs. E's office. I
was feeling the same feelings I did that first day in kindergarten and I laughed nervously,
trying to change the subject so that I wouldn't cry in front of her.
Therapy is really working now. I feel as though the therapeutic tide has turned and I'm on the
road to finding out about what I'm really feeling.
There was a severe storm at about 6:30 this morning and our telephones were dead all day, as
cables were knocked down. I spoke with Elihu last night. He told me about his dull job at
Nabisco, that Elspeth had left Monday for the Coast (she's apparently going to return to New
York) and other gossip.
Monday, July 6, 1970
A warm, sunny day. Knock on wood, my stomach's been fine today. Mom drove me to school
very early and I returned books to the library. Jose in my English class told me that he met Mr.
Graves and he wasn't holding class today. In Speech, both Lou and Jessie said they missed me. I
gave my tea speech and think it went fairly well.
I found Mark in the radicals' office running off something for them on the mimeo machine. We
went upstairs and I helped him file documents and stuff. Mark put up a welcome mat in front
of the office. We went shopping in the bookstore, then had lunch in the faculty dining room,
which is a lot nicer than Boylan cafeteria.
I took a cab downtown. Dr. Wouk thinks my stomach troubles are a way of getting back at my
parents for not treating me as a baby. He says that I've been struggling to return to the womb.
I'm going to bring Mom and Dad in next week.
I stopped in at the Slack Bar. Marty, the manager, was in Monticello Sat. night and watched
Space Age break and come in last. I took the D train and on then the Mill Basin bus home I met
Barbara, who was coming from the beach.
Grandma Ethel called with sad news - George, our old barber from Church Avenue, died. So it
goes. Tonight Grandpa Herb brought over some new fish for Marc's new fishtank. I studied for
tomorrow's Speech test and watched TV. Things seem to be looking up. More fighting in the
Middle East and Cambodia.
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Richard Grayson
A very hot and humid day. I woke up troubled from nightmares and went to school. Shelli
called in the morning and said she was tired and not going in. I passed Mrs. W on the way to
the bus stop, and she said Kjell is now at a base in Virginia and will be coming home weekends.
Alice said she's going to Switzerland with Andreas for 10 days in a couple of weeks. Avis was
very depressed with Scott away for so long; she misses him deeply. Poli Sci was a bore - interest
group leadership. I talked to Teresa after class and she was also down because she ran into her
old boyfriend and she's lonely. Rob took some photos of all of us. I stayed for awhile at school,
talking with Richie, Elspeth and Jessie, then went home to have lunch.
I had a terrible sinus headache, but it cleared up when Mom gave me the car and I picked up
Shelli. We went to the Pancake House and had a bite to eat, then roamed through Georgetowne
- she met an old friend from public school in the bookstore. We took a nice, long, relaxing drive
- through Prospect Park, to Sheepshead Bay, where we stopped to get ices. Shelli got a call from
Wendy, who says she's broken up with Ronnie "for good" - for the umpteenth time. I dropped
Shelli off at her psychologist's, then went to the library, where I did some reading about the
coming '72 campaign. There are so many Democrats running. I had a bad sore throat and felt a
cold coming on, so I went home.
Shelli called me from SUBO. When she told her shrink about what Dr. Wouk said, Dr. Russell
said she should date other guys. I began to think maybe the shrinks are right, that we're just
clinging to each other neurotically, and I said she should see other boys. She hung up, crying. I
sorted out my feelings in a letter to Jerry and concluded that I do love her, not neurotically but
healthily. She called - I picked her up at the Junction and drove her home. We kissed and cried.
She gave me a card saying "I don't love you because I need you. I need you because I love you."
When I arrived home last evening, Jonny had told me that Allan had called, so I phoned him.
We had a long chat. Today he was to begin his job at the Columbia School of Business and start
an evening Art course at the school (the job allows him tuition for 6 credits a semester). He said
that he's angry with Mike for not driving him to the airport on his visit here last March. He's
generally fed up with Mike's self-important attitude. Allan left Brooklyn thinking he had a lot of
friends, and I'm afraid very few of them are left. But I guess that's what happens after an
absence of two years.
I was awakened this morning by a call from Vito. I mistakenly thought both of the two phone
messages were from Allan. Vito asked if I could please drive him to Canarsie to the radiologist
and to Dr. Robbins, the chiropractor I recommended, and I agreed. Before going to pick up Vito
and his mother, I stopped off at Hirschfeld HQ and handed in my petitions and got paid $25 in
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cash. It felt good to get the money. And the woman in charge said they'd call me to work at the
HQ itself.
I got to Vito's house in time to help him complete dressing. Leading him down two flights of
steps was difficult, and it was also hard to get him into my car. I drove him to the radiologist,
who happened to be across the street from Ronna. I left Vito with his mother at the doctor's and
rang Ronna's bell. I shared some lemonade with her - Ronna had to clean up the house today. I
gathered that her mother was giving her hell for being a slob, for wasting her time taking
courses and not having a job. Last night they went out to an Israeli nightclub with the family for
her grandparents' wedding anniversary. I was invited too, but declined - I'm not a part of the
family, after all, and I don't want to give anyone the impression that I want to be.
I hurried back to the corner. Though the x-rays had been taken, they have to take them again on
Thursday because the barium enema and so much shit is inside Vito. They did show the spasm.
We had about an hour's wait at the chiropractor. It's pathetic to see Vito struggle to walk with
his cane. People on the street stare at him, and I feel so sad seeing a once-lively person so down.
Dr. Robbins is a genial, always-joking man; at first he thought I was Vito's brother. Mrs. M
didn't believe in chiropractors, but I think Dr. Robbins convinced her. My parents have a lot of
faith in him, and he seems to know his stuff. Vito told him the whole story, and Dr. Robbins got
angry at the indifference of the doctors, saying the traction only made him worse, the Percodan
could've become addictive. He was also amazed that they didn't give Vito a back injection. He
gave Vito various treatments: electrodes, freezing his back with ethyl chloride, and massaging
him. We were in there for over 30 minutes and the doctor gave him tips on how to go to the
bathroom and how to sit. Vito is to call him tomorrow to see what's what.
But Vito is still very discouraged and without hope. Perhaps it was from the strain, but I was
afraid Vito would faint on the way home. It was torture for me to watch Vito, in agony, climb
his stairs, but knowing I'm doing a good deed made me feel better. Mrs. M thinks I'm so
wonderful, "especially for a rich person." I really should write up Vito's recent medical history
and send it to Geraldo Rivera or someone.
I'm going to watch the Canadian election returns now.
I just got home after getting some groceries at Publix, and everyone must have gone to the
beach or someplace.
We all went to the Diplomat at 10 AM for the Youth Caucus. There were about 50 delegates
under 30 from New York, but the whole thing seemed sort of silly. There’s a Women’s Caucus
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Richard Grayson
and a Gay Caucus and Black, Latino and Jewish Caucuses. I made a joke about everyone being
the Captive of the Caucuses (Caucasus) to Leon, figuring he might get it because he’s going to
grad school in Comp Lit. But he just looked at me blankly, so I don’t think he’s read Andrei
Bitov. Mikey just sat there saying nothing, and seeing how other people like Mike Gerstein
sounded, I think he did the right thing.
In the lobby, I ran into Rob, who took me to see Liz Holtzman, who I guess is looking for a
Congressional staff since she won the primary against Manny Celler. I can’t imagine what she’ll
look like if she serves 50 years in the House like he did. The big thing, Liz said, is the seating of
the Calif. delegation – if McGovern gets all the delegates, he’s got the nomination. But isn’t it
kind of hypocritical to rely on the state’s winner-take-all primary rules when he chaired the
committee to reform the process?
It took a long time for all the 278 state delegates to caucus. There’s a fight for the chairmanship
of the New York delegation between Joe Crangle, the state chairman; Mary Ann Krupsak, an
upstate legislator; and Bronx Boro Pres. Bob Abrams. Mayor Lindsay looked tanned and
handsome, as usual the Golden Boy even if he did horrible in the primaries; Bella Abzug was in
a feisty mood and a floppy hat; the Queens boss Marty Troy dressed like a slob; and sanitation
commish Jerry Kretchmer wore a T-shirt. I also spotted Al Lowenstein, Herman Badillo, and
Arthur Schlesinger in his bow tie. There was a minor revolt as the diehard reformers tried to
oust Crangle from the Rules Committee, but he survived.
Mikey and I had lunch in the coffee shop, then I went with Leon and Skip down Collins Avenue
to the candidates’ HQ at the various hotels. We collected lots of buttons and posters from the
campaigns of Muskie, Humphrey, and Chisholm, and we put this big poster, “Wilbur Mills for
President,” with his big red nose, on the hood of the Pontiac. At the Doral, Skip tried to say,
“We’re with Mills,” but I don’t think they believed we were workers for the chairman of the, as
it’s always called, "powerful Ways and Means Committee."
We were trying to find Gene McCarthy HQ, but the people at the hotel where it was supposed
to be said they’d never even heard of him. We also went to the HQ of the two idiotic Vice
Presidential candidates, Alaska Sen. Mike Gravel (who I actually shook hands with) and former
Mass. Gov. Endicott “Chub” Peabody. (There's a joke in Updike's Couples: Q: What three cities
in Mass. are named for him? A: Endicott, Peabody, and Marblehead.)
Then there was a cocktail party for the New York delegation back at the Diplomat, but they
served just watery punch and stale pretzels, not real cocktails. They turned the cameras on only
when Big John came in to mingle. I went up to Mary Lindsay and started telling her I first met
her when I was only 14 and they were campaigning on the beach at Rockaway, but she simply
nodded and smiled.
The atmosphere in this town is absurd. The Zippies and others are downtown camping out in
Flamingo Park, and the Convention Hall has barbed wire around it.
[40]
I spoke to Gary late last night and we had a talk unlike most of those we've been having lately.
It was not superficial in that Gary mentioned for the first time his feelings about Hilda. For
months, they've been so much a couple that one hardly thought of them as individuals. Every
time I saw Gary he was always with Hilda, on his way to seeing her, or just returning from
seeing her. But apparently there have been some problems.
"It's all been downhill since March," Gary said. Curious how it dates from their acceptances at
Columbia. Hilda says that Gary resents her getting him in with the Soc. Dep't, getting him to
switch his major and helping getting him into grad school at Columbia. Hilda says that Gary's
been "bitchy" and he denies it. They've leaving for Europe next week, and Gary hopes the trip
will bring them closer together again.
Gary also mentioned speaking to Kjell and that Sharon is indeed due this week. They hope for a
natural, not a Caesarean, birth.
On my breakfast table this morning, I saw Ivan's sister's photo again on page 4 of the News
with a headline, "Many a Guy Dials Page 1 Gal." The article mentioned how after "Mona's now-
famous dash through the Rockaway surf," everyone with her last name got calls for her
yesterday. It broke the "disappointing" news that Mona's a Mrs. and went on to catalogue her
food tastes, her interest in yoga and her dog Cinnamon. From clothing manufacturer's daughter
to sex symbol overnight.
At BC, I showed the paper to Mavis and Susan, to whom I'd pointed out Mona on the beach last
Friday. Vito said, "You just know she's going to get a movie contract!" Vito, Mavis and I went for
lunch and noted that Vito is stuffing himself again - I counted 5 cups of Italian ices. I told Mavis
that I liked Bob and urged her to keep seeing him despite his other girlfriend. Vito commented
that people usually think the worst and mentioned how many people think Mavis and I are
having an affair because we hang around a lot together, or the rumors about him and Tony,
who has a girlfriend after all.
On my way to my car, I ran into Stacy, who was exceedingly friendly, which pleased me. She's
having a relationship, but the guy is up in Syracuse, unfortunately. She's still hoping to get to
California this summer, but is meanwhile coordinating Scholar's Program theses in the School
of Social Science. I wished her luck - sincerely, I might add - and then went to Richmond to be
bored by Prof. Cullen's last lecture on Victorian prose.
I wrote to Mansarde, inviting her and Christine to stay with us - I doubt they'll accept, but it
would be fun if they did. It clouded up and may storm tonight. This is going to be a rough week
- a lot of work.
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Richard Grayson
Saturday, July 11, 1970
A hot, humid day. Jonny was up early and went for drum lessons. Marc and I woke later and
together we went to the Brook to see Boys in the Band. It depressed him although he admitted it
was great, and I have to confess I didn't come out of the theater feeling very happy, either. We
got home at 3:30 and I went out back to read Twain's "The Mysterious Stranger," which Mark
has been nagging me to do.
Gary called his mother this morning, very upset. He was recycled to a special training unit. I
guess they think he's trying to get out, so now he's on rigorous discipline: 8 hours a day of
physical training, daily inspection, no packages. His mother worried that now he may not be
able to go to school in Sept. I'm going to look in on her.
We got a call from Rose and Lou Gross in London. Their son David's been here for two weeks
and they have no word from him. His tour group checked out of the McAlpin, and all they have
is this Kane Street address where they send his mail.
Grandma Sylvia's and Grandpa Nat's 50th anniversary party was tonight at Carl Hoppl's in
Baldwin. The family went, but I stayed home. I hate those things worse than the plague. Maybe
it's my neurosis, but I just don't believe in doing things I don't enjoy. I hope Grandma and
Grandpa don't take offense.
Anyway, I had a nice evening. I went out to Wollman Rink and watched the young troupe
rehearse a play, "Now We Are Free." They're very good. Still, I wish I was a participant rather
than sitting on the sidelines.
A day concerned with other people's problems. The party last night was enjoyable, my parents
said, although I'm glad I didn't go. This morning I drove to the Kane Street address that David
gave as his mailing address. I found a letter for him in the hall (from the tour group, asking him
to contact his parents). There were also messages for him to pick up telegrams under the name
David Gross Chez. No one in the building is named Chez, but I called a Mrs. Scott who was
going to ask all the tenants if they know anything. She called me tonight: no luck. Curiouser
and curiouser.
Gary's parents, his uncle Izzy and Gary's friend Sidney and I had a long conference about Gary
in the Milsteins' ap't. He's sick, depressed and is at the end of his wits. He called later and said
he's going to try to pass the PT tests and seemed to cheer up a bit. Sidney said we should stop
letting Gary play on our sympathy and Mr. M said we should pull no punches. Mrs. M is very
upset and wanted me to write a letter to the chaplain, but the men thought it's best to let things
[42]
be.
From there I had lunch and went to a party given by the Committee to Defend the Panthers. All
my favorite radicals were there - Li, Cliff, Kenny, LeRoy, Lou, Iggy. I gave a contribution and
we listened to Dylan and a Cleaver speech.
I went to the Cohens tonight to see if they had any idea about David G. They said he's probably
just irresponsible. I think that's awful, as the Gs are worried sick in London. How can others
depend upon me when I'm so undependable?
One of those days when nothing really goes right. I hardly slept last night - I was having
nightmares and my legs ached and my stomach hurt. I went to school and talked with Red,
who's going to study in Spain next year. Avis joined me and we went to the steps of LaGuardia,
where Elspeth was burning a candle she'd made. Alice came along and the four of us sat
transfixed, watching the candle drip over the steps. Elspeth said we should sacrifice a virgin but
I looked around at her, Alice and Avis and said I didn't think we could find one. A couple of
Wackenhuts arrived and made us put it out. Lighting candles is probably a violation of the
Henderson Rules.
In Poli Sci, Prof. Gluck said he'd give me an A and I didn't even need to hand in the last paper,
so I did that work for nothing. After class, I met Shelli on the steps and demonstrated some
yoga for her and Slade. Charles came by and we walked him to his Cougar. We all drove down
Flatbush Avenue and had lunch at the Floridian. Charles is going to Madison next week to
check out the University of Wisconsin grad school, and he's leaving for Europe soon after.
Charles got a letter from Leon, who was in Italy and heading for Yugoslavia. Charles also got a
call from Gary. All Gary talked about was the Guard, Charles said.
The three of us came to my house and Charles was going to show Jonny how to play stickball.
Jonny hit three balls in a row and then Charles got 7 strikes in a row, after which he went home
to study for his final. Shelli and I sat around for a while, talking with Grandpa Herb and
Grandma Ethel, who came over while their car was being fixed at Bob's. Shelli had to read, so I
drove her to the college, stopping on the way to drop Grandma and Grandpa off to see "Love
Story" at Kings Plaza.
I took a nap and read the rest of the boring afternoon. My phone fell and broke but our
neighbor J.B., who works for the phone company, graciously fixed it. I tried to call Gary, but his
mother said he went out with Sidney somewhere.
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Richard Grayson
While washing my face just now, my reflection in the mirror looked handsome. Of course I
didn't have my glasses on. This evening I went over to Josh's to see him before he takes off for
California on Wednesday. Driving around while looking for a parking space, I saw this teenage
girl walking around with the best set of breasts I've seen in a long time. She was wearing a
danskin, which is enough to drive me crazy anyway (I think women look their best in
danskins), but her breasts seemed almost perfect: round, high and firm. "I'm in love," I said
dreamily to Josh as I entered his apartment. He knew the girl I was speaking of; she lives
upstairs from him. He and Keith are taking a noon flight to San Francisco on Wednesday; first
they're going to stay at this woman's place in Santa Cruz. Josh said he may spend a half-hour or
two weeks there. The woman sounds adorable from Josh's description, if slightly fucked-up
(but who isn't?). She doesn't like guys to come in her mouth, but I can't blame her for that.
Josh's friend Fat Ronnie, of whom he's spoken often, arrived straight from work at Starrett City,
the new housing project near the Belt Parkway. Fat Ronnie dropped out of college and is doing
construction work there - his father is vice president of the company and got him the job. While
Josh was cooking the spaghetti for their dinner (I had eaten at home: Mom's pepper steak), Fat
Ronnie took out some hash and we smoked - he and I did anyway; Josh always abstains. Josh
and Fat Ronnie must be friends for a long time, as Fat Ronnie knows Vinnie, who hasn't spoken
to Josh in a month. Leslie is the reason Vinnie's mad at Josh. Remember that day when I ran into
him in the rain and drove him to Leslie's apartment? Well, Vinnie heard about it and got the
wrong idea.) Fat Ronnie, who seems like a real nice guy, wants to move to California and set up
some kind of business there, a business where he doesn't have to work too hard and which will
enable him to live as he chooses. I must have gotten a bit stoned, because when Fat Ronnie said
the phrase "...to live as I choose," I thought he said "...to live as a Jew."
Anyway, I left at about 10 PM, telling Josh to have a great time out on the Coast; the only thing
that might upset him is that he's going to pick up his sister's belongings. But he should have a
good time - he won't be back until the second week of September.
I woke up early this morning, feeling pressure in my sinuses. It's like monsoon season here,
with rain every day and flash floods in the Jersey suburbs. I made the now-familiar trek to 42nd
Street and arrived early, as usual. Miss Belfer is going very quickly - today we did a lot of
translating and went over all the compound tenses. I enjoy our breaks in the cafeteria. Today
Miss Belfer talked about sitting in the bar of the Raleigh Hotel when some doofus file clerk for
the Welfare Dep’t came over and asked for her number. She told him that she moves around a
lot and that she'd better take his number instead.
I came home at 2PM, and after lunch I worked for over an hour on my homework, translating
the first chapter of Candide. I enjoy having some fluidity in French, and oddly enough, after over
7 years, my high-school Spanish is coming back. Marc has been feeling better and he went over
to visit Marilyn today. Mom was upset that he was gone so long on such a miserable day and by
[44]
the fact that he was probably kissing Marilyn and possibly reinfecting himself.
I ran into Harvey today and waved to him; he gave me a 'hello' and somewhat suspicious look.
I feel awkward with him, knowing how chummy he is with Ronna. Or, I should say, knowing
how close he is with Ronna. It's not the extent of their romantic relationship, if any, that bothers
me; it's the possibility that Ronna may often confide in him about me and that maybe he knows
why Ronna is angry with me. It's been 4 whole weeks since I last spoke to Ronna.
It's now Saturday night, 9PM, and I'm home, in bed, exhausted yet exhilarated. I know I've just
gone through one of the most meaningful experience of my life, the trip to Miami for the
Convention. I am glad I went and always shall be. I didn’t need my mommy and daddy to hold
my hand through this experience; I had some panic attacks this past week, but I came out okay,
and Leon, Skip, Mikey and I became a really tight unit. I learned a lot about living with people
other than my family. I slept in the same bed as Mikey, ate off the same plate as Skip, and
smoked the same joint as Leon. Wait, I’ve done that last thing a lot before this week.
Thursday night at the convention was a long one. The vice-presidential balloting was the most
entertaining part of the convention. Although of course Eagleton won, votes were cast for
Peabody and Gravel, Hodding Carter and Cissy Farenthold, and such lesser political lights as
Roger Mudd, Bear Bryant, Lauren Bacall, Father Berrigan, Martha Mitchell, and Jerry Rubin.
Mikey voted, God bless him, for Abe Ribicoff. But the hijinks went on for such a long time, it
was incredibly late when McGovern got to give his acceptance speech. The theme was “Come
home, America,” and it was great, but I think most people, even on the West Coast, were
probably asleep because it ended at 3 AM, midnight Pacific time.
On Friday we awoke at 11 AM and closed up the condominium, taking our stuff out. We
stopped off downtown to say goodbye to Leon’s Uncle Max and Aunt Leah, who seem sweet
and are so poor they don’t even have air-conditioning. Then we watched the Zippies and other
kids leaving their campground in Flamingo Park, backpacks on, hitching north or west.
We started driving at 1 PM, stopped for lunch and for Skip to throw up (I’m the only one of the
four of us who didn’t vomit on this trip) and to buy oranges, jellies, and Florida souvenirs. We
weren’t making very good time when, as Mikey was driving at 80 m.p.h., we had a blowout
near Cape Kennedy. We changed it, but the spare was no good, so we had to drive to Merritt
Island to buy a new one. Luckily I had Milt Littman’s $50.
After dinner in Titusville, we kept driving, driving, driving through the night. Skip drove
mostly, and Leon kept putting food in Skip's mouth to keep him awake. At about 4 AM, Skip
couldn’t go on, and we pulled over into a rest area. A few hours later we woke up all sore from
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Richard Grayson
sleeping in strange positions in a cramped car.
I got very dizzy while I was driving around Richmond. I thought I was going to pass out, and I
called Shelley Wouk from a phone booth to talk to her for a while. Reassured, I set out again.
Skip decided to get off at Arlington to visit his bewildered fascist parents. The Ds are a big
military family, so you understand how they feel about a son like Skip, a radical long-haired
faggot.
In one of my few serious talks with Skip – his name suits him so, as he’s hardly ever not smiling
– I learned how hard it was on him being gay and yet getting coerced into being a big jock and
enlisting in the Navy for Vietnam. He never talks about what happened to him in the war, but I
heard that his ship was bombed and he was the last person to get down the stairs or whatever
they call them, and that all the guys who came after him died.
We stopped in Bethesda, on Wisconsin Avenue, for something to eat, and I dropped by to see
Sid B at his carpet store. Then Leon, Mikey and I drove back to New York. It was great to see
the Belt Parkway again even though it was the only traffic jam we had on the whole trip back.
Around 7 PM we arrived in Rockaway, where Mrs. V and all the neighbors on Beach 128th
Street greeted us like conquering heroes.
While I was on the phone telling Grandpa Nat and Grandma Sylvia I’d arrived back home, I
noticed a phone message from Shelli. Mrs. V said Shelli had called, asking when “the boys”
would be home and could they come to a party she and Jerry were giving to celebrate the
convention. I wondered if that invitation included me.
When I dropped Leon off at his house on Snyder Avenue, he said that now, with another burst
of energy, I could continue and drive up the 100 miles to my parents’ hotel in South Fallsburg.
But I wanted to go back to East 56th Street.
Later Shelli called, saying Leon was at their party and telling everyone about the convention
and saying they’d like to see me too. Did the “they” mean her and her husband? It would be
freaky to go to their house, but I’m too tired anyway. I feel like I’m still going 70 m.p.h. and I
really feel funky after riding in a car for more than 24 hours.
It’s a long time till November and this young Democrat needs a bath.
[46]
It's only 7PM, but I'm extremely tired. I spent an almost sleepless night tossing and turning in
bed. Nothing is bothering me - at least not enough to
keep me awake for that long a period of time, but I was without my tranquilizers, which usually
give
me relief from sleeplessness. Insomnia is a great equalizer. When it's 4 or 5 AM and you're still
awake, it's as though your present day-to-day reality means nothing: you could be 17 years old
or 12, or 6. Needless to say, I felt so rotten upon awakening
from just a two-hour sleep, I decided not to go to school today. The car was being worked on at
the body
shop anyway, and I guess I can afford to miss one
class.
I got a letter today from Avis, from San Diego. She seems to be enjoying herself immensely,
going up and down the coast from San Francisco to Disneyland to Tijuana. Libby, she writes, "is
the sweetest and loveliest person," but Bev has been "cramping our style" although their days
are still busy and fun-filled.
Gary called last night; he'd gone to Great Neck for

the weekend to think things through. There's absolutely no doubt that he and Hilda are
finished. On Friday there was a "virtual war" in the office and that night
he went over to his house to retrieve his belongings. (An ancient ritual, Ronna and I recalled:
Shelli's bathing suits and my St. Christopher's medal were returned; Ivan's shorts and Ronna's
copy of Love Story were never given back.)
Hilda has turned very cold toward Gary and he dreads the hassles he may have to face in
Columbia, seeing her so often. Gary will probably go away, alone perhaps. He doesn't feel like
seeing people yet - prospective girlfriends, anyway. I don't think they're going to reconcile;
Gary says he's run after her twice already and although he may still love her, it's not worth it.
It's amazing the way people's feelings about their lovers change. Perhaps they were victims of a
stifling, clutching love as Shelli and I were. Ronna said that on Saturday night Jerry kept
hugging and kissing Shelli in public and it embarrassed her. But who knows? Ivan's father once
said he couldn’t imagine whatever Ivan saw in Ronna. "But, Daddy, I love her," Ivan said.
Maybe it's that simple - I don't know.
I went over to see Mrs. W today and she said Sharon's overdue and very uncomfortable. Kjell's
tense and she (Mrs. W) can't leave the house since she's always waiting for Sharon to call to ask
her to take her to the hospital. "You're a good mother-in-law," I told
Mrs. W.
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Richard Grayson
Late yesterday afternoon, I went to the Junction to buy Dad a birthday card. Brendan, whom I
met at Libby's house, was working the cash register and we chatted for a while. He asked how
my thesis is going (answer: it's going nowhere at the moment) and said he'll be leaving for
Maine soon, to that beach house that he so obviously loves.
I spotted Barbara's friend Tom going out of the subway and caught up with him. He was
coming from his new job at Warner Bros. in Manhattan and had to eat before a 6PM class, so I
joined him in McDonald's. We talked so much, discovering that we have a lot in common: he
has sinusitis, liked "Cries and Whispers" and "Discreet Charm of the Bourgeoisie." He said he
probably could use a shrink althoughugh he plays the role of a neurotic with gusto. I can tell
he's homosexual - his speech and mannerisms are vaguely effeminate and he has that sense of
humor that gay people like Stephen and Teresa's friend Jesse have. Tom said he liked me a lot
and I found him to be a really nice and funny person. I walked Tom to class - he said most of his
friends are still from high school, that he hasn't met anyone in college.
Driving around, I spotted Melvin walking in my neighborhood and dropped him off at his
parents' house. He was going to give them a thrill by popping in, he said. Melvin's working,
mostly; he thought he could make up his incompletes this summer but he just can't work it in,
so he'll graduate in January. I told him to tell his brother I'd return the book I borrowed and
then let him go. Melvin still always looks like someone just woke him out of a sound sleep.
I headed for Rockaway (when I told Melvin where I was going, he almost changed his mind
about going to his parents and said, "It's so beautiful at the beach").
I found Grandpa Herb and Grandma Ethel on the boardwalk and I joined them on their bench
overlooking the ocean. Grandma Ethel said that dusk is her favorite part of the day. It was so
mild, we stayed there until it became dark, watching the surfers and seagulls. I went home soon
after, wished Ronna good luck on her finals, and went to bed.
I was restless this morning, worried about Grandma Sylvia's operation. So I decided to drive up
to New York Hospital; even though I couldn't do anything, I wanted to be around. Does that
make sense? I know the operation was a long procedure and I was quite anxious. I finally found
the right building (Special Surgery) and inquired about Grandma at the desk. The nurse called
up and told me that surgery had been successful, the operation was over, but Grandma would
be in the Recovery Room overnight.
I felt better, and after calling Grandpa Nat at "the place" to confirm the good news, I went up a
few blocks to the BHE Annex. Ira sent me some Chancellor's Committee material and enclosed a
note saying he'd been trying to reach me, so I thought I'd visit him at the University Student
Senate office. Ira wasn't there when I arrived; however, Clay and Mary invited me to come to
have lunch with them. It was nice to be invited; they jokingly told me about getting drunk and
having a late-night card game last night with Ira and Dewayne. At another table, I spotted
[48]
Duncan Pardue with Vice-Chancellor Healy - he's University Public Relations Director now. I
remember him when he did the same thing at BC. Clay said that Dean Gedney is gone now and
they're searching for a replacement. When Ira arrived, he told me to sit in on the Steering
Committee meeting with him and look over some resumes of people who had applied for the
Executive Director's job. Steve and Wes were also there. I didn't find any suitable applicants,
though I saw that Avi submitted a resume.
It's early evening and I feel a little sad. I'm almost lonely, though I have no lack of people to talk
to and do things with. Even though Mom and Dad are away (and perhaps that foreshadows the
fears I have of leaving home), there are still dozens of people I can rely on, not the least of
whom is Ronna. But still there's that uneasy feeling - it's a throwback to something in the past,
something half-forgotten. Or perhaps I enjoy the feeling.
Ronna and I saw "Slaughterhouse-Five" last night, where the Tralfamadorian tells Billy Pilgrim,
"A pleasant way to spend eternity is to concentrate on the good moments and forget the bad
ones." It sounds fine, but the bad moments can keep recurring out of habit, and maybe the
reason I'm in therapy is to get at those bad moments, the first ones - but there'll always be bad
moments, anyway. So remembering the good: I picked up Ronna at 7:30 last night, and she was
punctual and looked terrific.
We went to the Quad in the city, and Ronna enjoyed the film. She's tired of working at the
insurance company, but they would like to keep her on for the whole summer. It was an
entirely pleasant evening - Ronna and I are close, and I think that's great.
Marc drove the rest of the family to the airport, and I had nothing to do, so I went to BC. It may
be immature for me to keep going back, but at least on campus there are always people to see:
Liz, working at the day-care center, and Allan, Mike and Lee. I saw Hilda and she waved to me
- I guess she must feel awkward. I hung around for a long time with Vito and Mavis - the three
of us are almost a unit. Vito told me how he went to the GAA Firehouse with Joe and they met
Skip, John and a whole Brooklyn College contingent there.
I ran into Barry, whom I've been avoiding every time he calls my house - I just don't feel like
getting involved with his craziness. But I was glad to come across Josh in the library. We went
to lunch at Jentz's. He's getting around okay despite his mono, although he can't kiss anyone
and still is the cynic, trying to outwit teachers and find relief from life's boredom. I missed
talking with him, although he does have the annoying habit of asking questions like "Why
aren't you having an affair with Mavis?" - to which I sputter some feeble response. But Josh's a
good kid.
[49]
Richard Grayson
Last night's fever went down as I took a bath - it must have been too much sun. I had a restless
night and felt icky this morning. In the Times, Laurence Luckenbill, who played Hank in "Boys
in the Band," wrote an interesting article how actors are irrelevant. I drove downtown and to
the Heights, taking pictures of the Slack Bar, Meyer Levin junior high and our old house.
When I arrived home, Uncle Marty and Aunt Arlyne were already here, at the pool. Joey has
picked up a few new words but still doesn't talk much. They're all going to visit Wendy at camp
on Thursday. Uncle Marty has grown a Fu Manchu mustache. We had a barbecue and I talked
with Aunt Arlyne, who may be going back to college.
After they left, I went to the park again to see the one show I missed of the four plays in
repertory. It was "The People vs. Ranchman" by Megan Terry, pretty good. Later, for English I
tried to understand an Adrienne Kennedy play, "A Rat's Mass." I don't know why I find it so
difficult to comprehend these things - I'm not exactly thick.
Mom and Dad are preparing for their trip to Las Vegas Wednesday. They're going with the
Cohens and others - unfortunately, the Bernsteins will be staying at the same hotel.
A humid, hazy day - it started storming tonight. Kjell and I went to school together. I wanted to
invite him and his girlfriend over this Sunday but forgot to ask him. In Speech we started the
speeches to convince - I think I'm going to do mine on the seniority system in Congress. In
English, Mr. Graves cleared up some of the points in "A Rat's Mass." He gave back last week's
essays, and I was surprised to get a B+.
I went into the office and talked to Mark for a while. Somehow I don't think he believes half the
things I tell him. I had lunch, and then went downtown to see Dr. Wouk. He's leaving
tomorrow for a lecture tour of Europe and will be back in six weeks. He said he got a different
impression of my parents from their visit than I gave him - Dad, especially. We discussed
Mansarde's visit, my plans for the rest of the summer and other junk. I'm going to miss Dr.
Wouk.
Grandpa Herbie is on vacation this week, so I passed by the store. At home, I looked through
my mail - I received the election laws of Colo. and Mass. Also the application from Joseph
Whitehill, the director of Mensa Friends. I filled it out and now hope they'll send me the name
of a prison inmate I can correspond with. It should prove interesting - maybe I can help
someone and make a friend.
[50]
Tonight I got out some library books on population and birth control. I watched some TV and
saw two people I admire, Dick Gregory and Pete Seeger. It's been a year since the moon
landing, and nothing terribly wonderful has happened since then.
A nice sort of lazy day. I had a nightmare early this morning and in my sleep I knocked over my
nighttable, waking the whole house. Dad took off work today to celebrate his 45th birthday. The
first fruits of my mailing away for stuff came today: a game called Who Can Beat Nixon?, which
is very cute. I also got a letter from Shelli's sister, who gave me the names of several good (and
bad) English teachers. They've moved into their apartment in Seattle, but she's terribly
disappointed that she didn't make law school.
I went to Shelli's house at 11AM. She's been wearing makeup lately and looks really nice and
feminine. We drove to the Brooklyn Museum, which is in financial trouble - they had to cut
back hours. We looked at an exhibition of Russian art of the Revolution and a show of
emotionally disturbed children's art. Then we bought some things at the Gallery Shop and
walked through the sculpture garden. We stopped back at her house and found that she'd
received a bunch of books. Mrs. N, watching Shelli's grandmother, said that Shelli's friend Brian
was over while we were out. Shelli later called him, and we'll see him on Friday.
Shelli and I had lunch at Georgetowne, then went home and played the Nixon game with
Jonny. After it was over, Shelli and I made love. We had to make it fast, so we made love
practically dressed - it was beautiful nonetheless. We went to Avis's apartment to say goodbye.
She showed us her traveler's cheques and passport and gave us her mailing addresses (I noticed
Elihu's bicycle in Avis's living room.) We had a nice hour of conversation, then I drove Shelli to
Dr. Russell.
While she was with him, I went over to the college. In my mailbox, I found a press release
announcing the school's new vice president, Sherman Van Solkema. I drove Shelli home and
came back to my house. Dad took the family out tonight so I had to handle calls from Grandma
Sylvia, Grandma Ethel and Aunt Sydelle, who just returned from the Catskills.
8 PM. I didn't get any writing today as I'd hoped to, but I was involved with people instead of
words for a change and that did me good. I can't hermetically seal myself off from the world; I
am somewhat gregarious and need people around me. Libby called me this afternoon and
asked if I could do her a big favor: go with her to a free clinic in Coney Island. I had planned to
write all afternoon, but I didn't hesitate for a second before saying yes.
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Richard Grayson
When I arrived at Libby's apartment, she was getting dressed and she was visibly nervous. She
told me that she had never been to a gynecologist before althoughugh Avis and others had tried
to get her to go, so she was very scared of the procedure. Her roommate Marisol, who was
home with a cold, attempted to reassure Libby, and I of course made my old puns about the
miscarriage trade and a gynecologist always being at one's cervix. At least Libby groaned and it
took her mind off her anxiety.
We drove to the clinic, which was in a project in Coney Island's slums. Libby had an
appointment at 3:30 PM, but the doctor didn't arrive until nearly
6 PM, as there was an emergency in Coney Island Hospital. In the time we had to wait, I held
Libby's hand (literally) and tried to ease her tension. The people there were very nice; when
Libby told them that it was her first time, a woman explained the whole procedure to her
beforehand. Libby was sort of pale after they took 4 vials of blood, but she felt better after a
while. We were practically the only white people in the clinic; there were a lot of Black and
Hispanic women and children there.
I went out for a while to call the YWCA and tell them that Libby would be late for work (she
teaches swimming and is a lifeguard) and to get some gas for my car. I felt a little strange
waiting in the clinic, expecting someone to ask me, "Hey, man, yo' done knock up yo' fox?" or
something. But I remembered the time I took Shelli to Planned Parenthood on Court Street; that
was nearly 4 years ago but I remember it so clearly. We were scared kids then. I even remember
I was wearing a nice grey body shirt and new jeans, jeans Shelli had bleached out for me. Shelli
was wearing her purple dashiki that I liked so much, and she got her period right before the
exam - we were so scared that she was pregnant. Writing that whole experience, for the first
time in many years, I remember those days with fondness and poignancy.
Libby finally came out, a bit pale, and she instinctively took my hand. It was worth any
inconvenience to me to feel like I was her protector. If that's male chauvinism, then I'm guilty.
She has a simple infection and a discharge. She told me it was the first time a long time that
she'd slept with someone besides Mason and she felt terrible about possibly giving it to Mason
when he came in from camp. The doctor gave her pills for herself and for Mason, and vaginal
suppositories, and he told her to douche when possible.
But the doctor also told her that she had an ovarian cyst and that she should take x-rays at
Coney Island Hospital - I don't know if that's very serious; it's possible that it might get smaller.
But Libby was shaking and so I took her to The Foursome, where we could relax and have some
dinner, and afterwards she felt much better. (I was surprised when Libby told me she hasn't
eaten meat in three years.) Then we took a twilight drive along the Belt and BQE to the YWCA
on Atlantic Avenue. Libby told me I was welcome to come in for a swim, but I decided I'd
spend an hour with Vito, which was a treat. He's still as funny as ever, and all the reasons why I
have always liked him still remain. It was great for me to feel needed today; I am so lucky.
[52]
7 PM. Perhaps I'm entering a fallow period with my writing; I was only able to creak out three
pages yesterday, and today, nothing. I seem to be singularly uncreative these days. Last evening
this guy named Felix called me. He said that he was one of 6 people accepted into the MFA
program in Fiction and wanted to know something about it. Hoops had given him my number.
So I went into a whole routine about the program and told him that I felt it was worthwhile, but
that I felt, as with most things, that you get out when you put into it. Josh puts in nothing and
gets nothing from it, while I've gotten a great deal out of the program. Along that line, I told this
guy to get another opinion, so I gave him Denis' number. Felix also was accepted into the City
College M.A. program, which is much bigger and boasts Joseph Heller and Donald Barthelme,
but he lives in Park Slope and it's such a hassle to get to Harlem.
As I said, yesterday I spent some time with Vito. He's taking an Audiology course this summer,
and working hard at it, but he isn't that happy doing graduate work. He's still not working, but
he manages to go to all the shows and movies around town. Vito's gay, but he's not gay in the
weird way that Allan and Jerry and Leon are gay. Vito dresses like an average Joe and he told
me that Allan "belongs to a very strange scene"; Vito is easy-going and can relate to
heterosexuals better. Like he spoke about his crush on Frank or how he likes to look at the cute
guys in Playgirl; if this doesn't sound ridiculous, Vito strikes me as really wholesome. We talked
about various people: Tony isn't friendly with him anymore and he hasn't seen Joe for some
time. He remarked how much friendlier to him Mike and Mikey had become, and he said he
saw Debbie, whom he said "now looks good that she's put on some weight and gotten rid of
that makeup." Altho Vito and I will never be the closest of friends, it's good to know that we can
always pick up the threads of our relationship after long stretches apart.
I also saw Ronna's sister yesterday - or rather, she spotted me. I gave her a friendly greeting but
I didn't ask about Ronna, and later I was glad I hadn't. I also spoke to Gary, who said teaching is
going fine and that his parents enjoyed their trip to the Maritime Provinces. He spent the
weekend at his sister's in New Jersey and got stuck in a lot of traffic due to the flooding that
resulted from the very heavy rains; the whole state has been declared a disaster area.
And last night, Mikey called. I had driven over to his house on Sunday after leaving the beach
in Neponsit, but Mikey's mother said that he was over at Larry's and I didn't feel like going over
there. Mikey explained to me just whose car was in his driveway on Sunday. It seems he met
this girl on the beach the previous weekend and took her number although she wouldn't take
his. He called her on Wednesday night and asked her out for Saturday. She told him she might
be going to the Hamptons and to call her back later. He did, and she was still unsure. The next
night he got no answer and on Friday he went to the Mets game with a neighbor and forgot
about it. While he was at Larry's on Sunday, the girl came over and parked in his driveway,
telling Mrs. V that she was a friend of Mikey's and he'd said she could always park there. When
he finally caught up to her, she complained that she ended up sitting home alone on Saturday
night. Mikey said that is the end of that relationship. Yesterday Mikey was uptown near
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Richard Grayson
Columbia and had to get to Lenox Avenue for a meeting about the Rikers Island program at
John Jay, so he walked through Morningside Park - and lived to tell about it.
I got very little sleep last night and had a bad sinus headache this morning, but I forced myself
to go to Manhattan for class. And I'm glad I went - from now on until the end of the term, we're
just doing straight translations.
10 PM. I arrived home just now; on the stairs I passed some of Marc's friends staggering out,
totally wrecked. I'm not sure why (probably it's just a phase), but I haven't had the slightest
desire to smoke grass in months. Oh, I'll get stoned at parties when everyone else is doing it and
I'd even do it with a friend, but somehow it all seems silly. Perhaps I'm becoming too straight -
pot is okay to relax with occasionally, but flying high is not the greatest feeling in the world.
Gary picked me up at 7 PM tonight and we went to Brookdale Hospital; he'd called me late last
night with the news that Sharon had given birth. As Gary will be leaving for London tomorrow,
he wanted to see her tonight and I said I'd accompany him. Sharon looked really well for a girl
who'd had a very difficult Caesarean childbirth the day before. With her red hair, freckles,
dressed in a pink nightgown, she looked positively beautiful. Kjell was beaming as a proud
father should - he's put on weight and is not the 'rail' he's always been since P.S. 203; I guess it's
Sharon's cooking. He brought her a beautiful silver heart-shaped pendant, and you could just
see how in love they are.
His mother and hers took Gary and me to see their granddaughter through the screen: Alison
Meredith, 7 pound s, 6 ounces. She's not pretty (I've never seen a pretty newborn baby), but it's
so remarkable to see the tiny features: the ears, the fingers, all perfect. The grandmothers
argued jokingly about who the baby looked more like, and all I could think of were inane
clichés about "the miracle of life." But it's such a responsibility: it's not a possession, it's a
separate human being. Still, I think Sharon and Kjell will be good, loving parents.
Gary dropped me off at my house and I wished him a very good vacation. He's finally getting
to go to Europe and I hope it turns out well for him, with all the bad breaks he's had lately.
This morning I sat outside listening to the Watergate hearings, the new TV sensation - but
surprisingly, it is fascinating as well as important. In class today, Prof. Cullen began Browning -
there's no class tomorrow, and in two weeks the course will have ended.
Ronna was afraid of offending Felicia and Susan, whom she had originally offered to see
"Streetcar" with us, and didn't tell them we'd already seen it. So where is Ms. Ronna tonight?
Seeing "Streetcar" and making believe she's doing it for the first time. What a comedy.
[54]
I awoke early this morning from an incredible dream, now mostly forgotten, about being in
prison. As soon as Maud came in, I took the car and drove off into the city. I parked on 8th
Street in the Village and took a walk around. The Village seems seedier and a less joyous place
than it was when I first discovered it three years ago. There were kids in the fountain in
Washington Square, but the people around seemed detached and hostile; perhaps they're
frightened. I spotted this one kid, a boy about 16, barechested with a beautiful muscular body
and long wavy brown hair; he looked incredibly sexy and he looked so sure of his sexuality. I
couldn't help staring at him with a mixture of envy and lust. I couldn't keep my eyes off him -
just like Death in Venice. It upset me a little - I must discuss it with Shelley Wouk.
In Marboro Books, I bought two Vonnegut novels, reduced to $1. Then I walked through
Azuma and the Postermat and hung around the Electric Circus, but it all seemed so forlorn
compared to 1969. Before going back to Brooklyn, I drove by Madison Square Garden - cops
were everywhere, ready for the Stones concert tonight.
I went to the college, and, lonely for company, offered to buy Paul lunch. He accepted. Paul is
into so many things, all of them half-assed. Paul - or "Pablo," as the Third Worlders call him -
asked me I wanted to be a delegate to the NSA's National Student Congress, held in
Washington next month. I said yes - I'd love to spend a week in the capital - but I doubt it will
come off. I have the feeling Paul has a crush on Skip - he keeps talking about him. In any case, I
think Paul is very immature. While were in the student government office, Dean McGee came in
and asked me if I, as the Election Commissioner, would file a complaint against those students
who voted twice. I politely told him I wouldn't, and he said, "Think about it." I certainly won't -
among the students on the list were Debbie, Mike, Barry, Shira and Ira. I saw Hal - his brother
Bob's at Harvard summer school and Hal is going up to visit him tomorrow. Gary and Barry
were over while I was out and invited me to join them at the beach and then a movie.
Friday, July 26, 1974
I just lowered the sound on the TV: the Judiciary Committee is debating various articles of
impeachment. Different ploys, amendments and arguments are being tossed about, and it
doesn't look like they'll come to a vote today.
Last night I fell asleep reading Fear of Flying. I like the way Erica Jong writes, but she raises an
interesting point: if no fiction can compare with life in complexity, no characters can compare
with real people, no plot - however confused - can compare with life's "plot"...then why bother
with fiction at all, except to protect the author's good name? I now intend to write "truthfully,"
out of my own experience only - although Peter Spielberg feels that's when authors tend to lie
the most.
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Richard Grayson
Anyway, a lot of stray thoughts and feeling have been surfacing lately. Last night, in a half-
asleep state, I had this vision of Jerry and Shelli as my parents, celebrating their 25th
anniversary. The scene gave me a jolt and I wondered for a moment if in a sense if I didn't make
them into my parents - the old Oedipus game (is that why I never slept with Shelli again after
learning that Jerry fucked her?) - and I could get angry at them in a way I never could with my
real parents. Also, I thought of Ivan's similarity to my father; they both have that dark big-nosed
Semitic handsomeness, extreme social poise, an interest in good clothes and quality products of
any kind. And in another dream, Ivan was married to Mom. Could some of my guilt and anger
towards Ivan be left over from, as they say, 'an unresolved Oedipal situation' - and maybe that
even made Ronna more attractive to me.
Speaking of Ronna, I went to dinner at her house last evening. She prepared veal parmigiana,
spaghetti and salad for dinner, and it was very good. I enjoyed it a lot, but to my
embarrassment, I had an attack of diarrhea almost immediately following dinner. It was soon
over, however (and I felt relieved to learn that her brother had the same exact symptoms after
eating).
We drove to Manhattan Beach when it was dark and we walked along the bay, crossing the foot
bridge on Ocean Avenue, looking at the people fishing and the boats and smelling the sea air.
We sat down on a bench on Oriental Blv'd and necked furiously. It was exciting to do it in
public, outdoors, for once - I think Ronna found my aggressiveness surprising but she
responded with passion. She has the best tasting lips I've ever known (not that I'm an expert).
We returned to her house, where we did an interview for her mother and parted at midnight.
It's going to be lonely without Ronna, but there'll be the novelty of writing letters to each other.
I visited Mikey today and we sat on the porch; it was cool and hazy. I asked him how his job
was going and he laughed the way people sometimes do when they're feeling something deeply
and said, "I hate it so much!" His course at Queensborough is ending, and Mikey seems to be
bored and tired from work. But he does have a girl he's thinking of asking out: a 25-year-old
teacher whose parents rent a bungalow on his block. He said first he has to think of someplace
good to go to with her. Mikey's mother showed me her new Vitamin B6/Kelp/Lecithin/Cider
Vinegar diet pills. Mikey's grandmother looks like death. Mikey told me that Marty and Rose
are having a party tomorrow night and perhaps I'll go since they told him to invite me. I
inquired about various people, and Mikey said Rob enjoyed Bolivia despite a hassle with the
secret police, who thought he was smuggling money out of the country; Rob's now working at a
Vermont camp. Charles is excited about moving next week, and Leon may return to New York
and possibly unravel the mystery of what he's been up to.
[56]
Another hot and humid day with heavy air pollution. I met Mom in the hall this morning. Their
vacation was overshadowed by a near-tragedy the first night in Las Vegas. Dr. H, one of their
friends, had a massive coronary in the casino. He just barely hung onto life, and they all spent a
lot of time in the hospital.
Kjell told me this morning that he was going to be sworn in to the Reserves today at Ft. Tilden. I
hope he has better luck than Gary has with the Nat'l Guard.
We had a discussion on advertising in Speech - kids were praising me for Friday's group. In
English, Mr. Graves discussed Blake's "Marriage of Heaven and Hell" and he gave back last
week's test - I got a B. It was so hot, I took off after class and came home.
I went for a hairstyling this afternoon. There was a long wait, so I went into the living room
where Joe Pepitone was giving an interview to a lady reporter. He left the Houston Astros last
week and there's been a big hubbub about it. I realized that he loves his image as a "bad guy."
He has a serious side too, and I liked him more than before but still think he's a little odd.
Pepitone says he won't live till 40. Lennie gave me a nice styling and it was relaxing.
There was another car accident on the corner: one car went up on the Cohens' lawn and ruined
Irma's bushes. We got a card from Debby from San Francisco, where she's having a good time.
It's good to have Mom and Dad back again, surprisingly. There's a new American peace plan
for the Middle East.
A mild, sunny day. I was awakened at 9 AM by a phone call from Shelli. She decided to go into
Manhattan today to buy an exercise book she's been wanting, so we didn't see each other today.
I spent a relaxed morning and went to the college. I was talking with Robert, Laura and Stanley
about the newly named Chancellor of CUNY, Robert Kibbee - no one knows much about him
except that he's Guy Kibbee's son. Elspeth told me more about Elihu's letter to Leon. Apparently
it was a long denunciation and Elihu went so far as to accuse Leon and Harvey of having a
perverse relationship. Leon showed the letter to Harvey, who said that Elihu must've gotten
drunk one night.
Art was really fantastic: all Gauguin and Seurat. Mr. Viola is really very good. I walked with
Rose to the Junction, and she said Marty's working as a camp counselor. Apparently all the
political jobs he and Keith expected fell through. I took a taxi to Dr. Fletcher's office. He said
that my health was generally excellent, my blood pressure and heartbeat strong. The whole
thing is probably sinusitis, he diagnosed, and he gave me a prescription for antihistamines.
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Richard Grayson
I spent the afternoon in the public library and doing some reading in Art. I sat out on the porch
with the Wagners and the other neighbors. I noticed Mrs. Pollack's nephew is staying with her,
and Edie said he would like to meet a girl. Maybe I should introduce him to Wendy; although
I've never talked with him, he seems nice and maybe he'd like Wendy. It would be safer for her
than cruising Kings Highway and better on her ego: one guy she met last week wanted her to
make it with his Great Dane.
Shelli called from home after her last app't for the summer with Dr. Russell. She's been on the
Stillman diet all week and has lost 10 pounds. Shelli put her sister in tears last night over the
phone, chewing her out for not writing. I think she's going to go out with Saul if he calls her.
But I'm not that upset. She and I are getting along fine now. I just wrote a letter to Leon.
The Judiciary Committee is now debating the second article of impeachment, abuse of power,
and will vote on it within the hour. The first article, on obstruction of justice, passed 27-11
Saturday night. Six Republicans joined all the Democrats and now impeachment by the full
House is all but certain.
Ronna should be in Gloucester by now - I wonder how her trip there went. Her grandmother
drove her to Susan's house in Manhattan soon after I left, and early this morning they took the
train to Massachusetts. I miss her a little already. Yesterday Ivan asked me if Ronna was
camping out. I shrugged my shoulders and Lisa smilingly said, "You'd better check up on her."
The hint being that Ronna might do something I might not approve of: this I need from Ronna's
ex-boyfriend's girlfriend? But I like Lisa a lot. Ronna said she was "a doll" (she and Ivan met
Lisa when Ivan was taking the bus to camp with her). I've had fantasies before of knowing Lisa,
and now I have - it puts her in a frame of reference that is reality and now I don't have to
wonder what she's like anymore.
But back to Ronna: Did I deliberately not pay attention to her plans in order to virtually deny
the fact of her trip altogether? We had such a trauma after her trip to Cape Cod last year; neither
of us were sure of the other's feelings. Ronna said, though, that the separation will test our
relationship to see if it's not out of habit. She brought up the example of Ivan and Lisa and their
long separations. (I just realized the deeper meaning of one of many dreams I had last night. I
dreamt that I was sitting in a restaurant petting furiously with Stacy. Mark was sitting opposite
us, watching impassively, and I was afraid he would tell Ronna about it. Now that I see Lisa
and Stacy and also Ivan and Mark have the same last names, it all makes sense. I suppose my
ego would be pleased to steal Lisa from Ivan.)
I wonder if things will be different with Ronna moving into a new house. I'm so used to Ronna's
[58]
present apartment, the car ride there, the two flights of steps, the iron gate. But this is a small
change, and I have to adjust. Ronna's mother will be paying $50 less for the apartment on the
other side of Flatlands Avenue than what her present landlord raised their rent to and have
more room. Ronna's a bit upset. Her mom and I went into the basement to map out plans, but
Ronna just stayed out back. I saw her sitting on the swing amid the high, uncut grass - looking
sad. I hugged her goodbye so many times that we laughed. "We both have a lot of separation
anxiety," I said. Mrs. Ehrlich will be gone after tomorrow and on Wednesday the family will be
away and I'll have the house to myself.
Gary called this evening saying he'd gotten a job as a teaching assistant at Columbia - he'll get a
tuition waiver and $1000. I told him I was happy for him, and in a way I am, but deep down
jealousy rages. It's not a very attractive emotion, but it's there and I'm not going to deny it. I'd
like a little recognition and some success for myself. I've all but given up hope on any of the
stories I sent out being accepted for publication, so I'd better get to work on some more stuff.
And my thesis, my thesis: I tell everyone "I'm writing my M.A. thesis" (doesn't that sound
important?) but in reality I haven't touched it in weeks. What a charming charlatan I am.
8 PM. I did not have much time to think about Ronna's call or sort out my complicated feelings.
Today was an exhausting day, spent helping another person. Cousin Robin called last night -
Michael had fractured his leg in two places at day camp and she asked if Dad could come over
in the morning and take Michael to the doctor. I volunteered to go along and it turned out I was
needed.
I woke up at 6 AM , getting very little sleep, and Dad and I drove out to Queens very early. We
arrived at Robin's apartment and found things in a bad way. Michael was whimpering in bed,
in what seemed to be terrible pain, his leg in a temporary splint. At day camp yesterday, he
tripped another boy, who fell on Michael's leg. Robin, who was at work (even though she's sure
she gave them her dentist-employer's phone number, as well as that of Dad's place), and so they
just let poor Michael sit there all day, with the nurse telling him to stop crying.
Last night Robin took him to Booth Memorial Hospital, but there wasn't an orthopedist on call
who could set it; they wanted him to stay overnight, but Robin didn't agree to that, so they put
it in a splint and let him go home. Neither Robin nor Michael got much sleep last night; he kept
crying out, "I want to go home," not knowing where he was. It was so pathetic to see him lying
in Robin's bed, unable to bear the pain, and it was frustrating to go through all the hassles of
finding a doctor. Robin called her pediatrician, and she recommended an orthopedist, who told
us to get Michael to his office by 11 AM. It was a long, tense wait, but getting him there was the
hard part, as he screamed terribly whenever there was the slightest movement of his leg.
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Richard Grayson
Dad and I managed to get him into a stroller a friend had lent Robin, and into Dad's car, but the
poor kid was in agony. We couldn't even get a pair of shorts on him, such was his pain. And he
winced at every bump the care went over on the drive to the doctor's office in Hollis. We carried
him into the clinic screaming, and thankfully the doctor took him right away. Dad held him as
the doctor applied a cast, and Michael howled in pain and fright. But it wasn't so bad; I didn't
know before today how doctors put on a cast. Then they took some x-rays, and by then Michael
had calmed down. While Dad and Robin were still in the office, I sat with him in the car (we'd
taken him there by wheelchair) and we talked and he seemed to be in less pain.
The doctor said that he'll have to be in the cast for 6 weeks and that he's too young to use
crutches, so he must stay still for some weeks with his leg elevated. Michael reminded me of
myself at that age, very scared but still cracking feeble jokes with the doctor, just what I used to
do. We stopped off to get some food, got Michael into the stroller and had lunch in the ap't.
Robin went into Michael's room to get a little sleep and Dad dozed off in the living room while I
lay on Robin's bed with Michael. He was a little cranky, but we watched TV for a while and he
soon became as frisky as he always is, fighting me, twisting my nose, biting my thumb, etc.
Robin had to buy a bedpan for him, as he couldn't go to the bathroom. I brought him some
drinks and donuts and tried to keep him amused. I thought as I lay next to that beautiful 6-year-
old boy that that's what love really is, when you have to take care of a sick child who needs you.
Dad and I were really needed today. Joel is in Washington, and of course none of Dad's nervous
family can ever be told anything until after things are okay. Aunt Sydelle called just as we were
getting Michael ready for the doctor and I had to disguise my voice and tell her she had the
wrong number. It's a very difficult thing for a mother to raise a child alone.
The day seemed 5 years long - we had gone through so much. I felt bad that we left at 4 PM, but
Dad and I had been there for 8 hours and we were falling apart. But poor Robin has to deal with
this for weeks.
So you can see I didn't have time to think of my problems.
It's 5 PM, and if anything, I'm feeling even more depressed than I did yesterday. Last night I
suffered with an extremely sore throat and had another virtually sleepless night. I'm certain,
however, that the bad cold is merely a symptom or a manifestation of the acute depression I'm
going through. I haven't felt so down since those days back in December and January after
Shelley Wouk decided to end her practice in the city or the time I broke up with Shelli. This
depression is not easy to get out of - the cold makes me feel sluggish, and I don't feel like
fighting it; I almost want to give in to the misery, which I suppose is the general idea. I am in
[60]
genuine psychic pain with physical manifestations. I suppose it's the emptiness of my life facing
me head-on.
All my friends, most of them anyway, are away. I got a card from Gary today and he's enjoying
England; Mikey, Scott and Avis aren't home; Vito will be leaving for Europe on Friday; and
Mavis's going to California. Of course Ronna's still around, which is a godsend. She told me last
night that she won't be working after this week, and maybe she and I can get away in August -
to Washington or Cape Cod or Florida.
I didn't go to school today, which was probably a mistake, and I have not done any work on the
term paper. Worse comes to worst, I'll hand in a piece of shit and take the final and hope I pass
the course. I don't think that's the real worry on my mind, though. It's more the void facing me
until school starts in September, although I'm not at all sure about that yet.
It's going to be especially difficult with Mrs. Ehrlich away - I've come to rely so much on her
presence these past few months. I suppose that once I harness my will, I'll be fighting again,
seeing people and doing things, sleeping well and feeling well. But until then, it's rough - and I
don't feel I can do anything or go on with the business of living my life.
Tuesday, August 1, 1972
So with this page I begin the fourth year of my diary. It's three years since I first decided to keep
a daily journal, and many changes have taken place. My life is now much more rewarding and
fulfilling than it was in the summer of 1969 - filled with new accomplishments, new people,
new outlooks. It's a good life, even though it has its rough spots. I had one tonight.
Grandma Ethel was crying hysterically this evening, hurt because Jonny wouldn't eat the dinner
she prepared and that he's "pushing her to go home." I guess she needs some sort of
appreciation for her efforts. I couldn't bear it to watch her cry - but it's partially her own fault,
although Jonny is a spoiled brat. But Mom and Dad have raised him the way they felt proper - I
disagree, but he's not my kid and it's not my place. Eventually, I'm sure, the chickens will come
home to roost and they'll have their hands full with Jonny.
In Classics this morning, we started The Odyssey. I loved reading the adventures of Odysseus -
it's all so romantic and noble, although a bit bloody near the end. I think Elspeth is going crazy:
she said she dreamt last night that she married Jerry. I, on the other hand, dreamed that
McGovern picked Liz Holtzman as his new running-mate. He'll probably opt for Larry O'Brien
or a Catholic senator - the National Committee must meet to ratify his choice.
I had lunch with Scott, Stephen and Vito, who wants to drop his Speech courses. It's strange,
but somehow nice, to be in a different crowd now than I was in the first summer session.
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Richard Grayson
Stanley dropped by LaGuardia this afternoon. He still spends most of his time seeing old
movies, reading the Voice, the Times and the New York Review of Books and dropping witticisms.
What a waste. Stanley says he may come back in the fall, although he's not certain as yet. He
reported that Jay and Arthur are in Washington State and have found jobs, and reminded me
that Leon will be leaving for Wisconsin soon - I must call him. I also met Hesh today. He's one
guy who'll never change - too bad, I say.
Monday, August 2, 1971
A sunny and cloudy day. When I got on campus this morning, I saw Timmy's unmistakable
figure. He told me, after we had exchanged greetings, that he had left Scott and their friend
Lewis in Los Angeles and arrived by jet at Kennedy at 1:30 AM.
He told me, Emily and Fr. Regan about their cross-country adventures. The car broke down
twice, they went hungry a lot, they were ripped into and they ripped off (with Timmy getting
away with a federal rap for stealing steak at Yellowstone). They met a lot of freaks and people
who hate hippies. It was interesting, but of course Timmy has a tendency to go on and on.
In Art, we saw sculpture by Rosso and the paintings and woodcuts of that weirdo, Edvard
Munch. After class, I sat in front of LaGuardia with Timmy, Leon, Slade and Elspeth - we
discussed baseball and stuff. Timmy drove me home and came in for a while, as he wanted
Stacy's mailing address, to send her a card from Disneyland. Timmy has applied to SUNY at
Purchase, but he doesn't think he can get in.
Shelli called - she had to stay home today because

the REA man was coming to take her sister's things
to Seattle. Jonny and I had to go to the dentist later in the afternoon. Dr. Hirsh filled a cavity of
mine and gave Jonny a cleaning. Shelli came over after dinner from Kings Plaza - she wasn't
surprised to learn that Timmy said Scott was fooling around with a lot of girls during the trip.
Shelli and I practiced tennis with Jonny, then went upstairs to bed. We had a bit of fun although
we didn't go all the way, as Shelli had her period. Shelli wants to go to Planned Parenthood
soon, and I do, too.
Gary called - he's given up, or will shortly, his taxi driving job but he may get another in a
liquor store. We got a card from Avis, who can't wait to get out of Norway. Grandma Ethel
called - they're visiting Great-Grandma Bessie in the Catskills. Dad is having a lot of back
trouble.
[62]
Sunday, August 3, 1969
I got up very late today - 10:30. It was too late to go to church. I went to Kings Highway to get
the Village Voice. It seems there was real big gay power demonstration in Sheridan Square.
When I returned, Uncle Marty, Aunt Arlyne and Joey had come. The baby can now walk a little.
Brad called me and asked me if I wanted to have lunch with him. We ate at the Fillmore Queen
(no remarks please!). We drove around for a while and played an interesting game: put "under
the sheets" after the title of any song on the radio. It really works.
I like Brad. Do I love him? I don't think so. Not yet anyway. We discussed politics (he's still a
Kennedy fan), music (he has a Simon and Garfunkel obsession), everything but sex. Why am I
so inhibited?
Aunt Arlyne had a birthday party here.
7 PM. The heat wave ended today - it's still humid, but it was cloudy and not as hot as the
weekend. I'm feeling pretty good, and a lot of the good feeling comes from yesterday. I'm glad
that I decided to see Ronna and I hope our friendship will continue. Just her physical presence
is comforting: that soft, chubby body is nice to have around. And at least I don't take her for
granted this way.
I slept well and woke up early this morning to take the train into Manhattan. As I walked to the
bus stop, I saw a cardinal resting on a branch. It's a magnificent red bird; I'd never seen one
before, except in photographs. I also saw a magnificent sunflower as the Mill Basin bus passed
Ocean Avenue.
We completed our translation of Candide in class today; Wednesday is our final, and on Friday
we'll go over the test. I'm going to miss French class - Miss Belfer made it a very pleasant
summer course.
On the train back to Brooklyn, a dog got on our car at DeKalb Avenue. He was a cute little mutt
and resisted all attempts to get him off the train. Everyone, especially the young people, was
having a lot of fun with the animal. Finally, a transit worker with a walkie-talkie took charge,
radioing for someone to meet him at the Prospect Park station with a rope. There were a lot of
hoots, and the man said, "You think somebody having to get 28 rabies shots is a joke?" Still, the
kids kept playing with the dog, and one Puerto Rican kid told another that the dog was his
brother and then some guy shouted, "There's a lot of dogs on this train!" Anyway, at Prospect
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Richard Grayson
Park, the poor animal was coaxed off the train without having to resort to a rope.
At home, I did my exercises and had lunch. I called Cousin Michael, who was at home with a
sitter while Robin was out; he's such a cute kid. I told him I'd come over for a visit one of these
days. On Wednesday, Joel's taking him to the orthopedist again, and perhaps they'll put a boot
on the cast so Michael can get around a little.
I went to the Brooklyn College library to do some work, but I ran into Elayne by the card
catalog and we ended up going to the Sugar Bowl for coffee and a lime rickey. The Greek guys
there asked Elayne if I was her brother.
She said that her job in the Art Dep't is in jeopardy because of the huge budget cuts, and odds
are that she'll be fired in September. The whole fiscal crisis is causing so much personal
suffering - I wonder if Josh will still have his job in the mail room when he returns. And Elayne
threw a small scare into me when she said that some master's programs might be eliminated;
I'm sure our small MFA program would be the first to go. I don't even want to think about that
happening; I don't know what I'd do.
Elayne said she broke up with this vegetarian who she was seeing; she started telling me that he
was a fantastic lover from the neck down but that he would never kiss her, and she couldn't
take not being kissed while having sex. I don't know - is there some reason people tell me these
intimate things, or is everybody into True Confessions these days? Elayne said, "It's all fodder
for your pen"; that may be, but why does she have to mention these details at all?
She said she spoke to Elihu last evening and that he's back from his whirlwind trip and looking
for students to tutor at LIU. Elihu did not see Leon in Madison - he went to Leon's house twice
and no one answered the door although Elihu thought he saw Leon behind a windowshade.
Jerry and Shelli still live in that house with their friends. It seems Shelli persuaded Jerry to dye
his hair orange and that it sticks up in the air three inches straight. And apparently Jerry's taken
to cruising the streets of Madison at night; I don't know if he's hustling, but it sounds very
weird. I feel sorry for Jerry and even more so for Shelli. When Elayne asked I was happy, I told
her, "Just give me chocolate milk, cookies and a TV set or a book, and I'm content."
Listening to the news tonight, one is certain that Richard Nixon's days as President are
numbered. Today, as he had to release very damaging tapes to the Congress and the courts, the
President virtually admitted that he had played a role in the Watergate coverup. Senators of his
party are asking him to resign, and many of the Republican congressmen who voted against
impeachment on the Judiciary Committee will vote for impeachment in the full House. So the
only question remains one of how Nixon will leave office: through a curt resignation statement
or a prolonged trial in the Senate ending in conviction. The momentum is unstoppable now;
very often I've heard people use the cliché, "You're living through history," but it's really true
[64]
now.
I had insomnia last night and didn't get to sleep until 5 AM. I suppose it's because I'm in the
middle of a change in my life now. I'm virtually waiting for September and the start of the MFA
program. I look at the want ads in the paper every day, but if I were serious about getting a job,
I would have one by now. And I've done almost no work on my thesis; I probably won't finish it
until the fall. I've got to get my life in some direction. I sometimes wonder if all my therapy has
changed me into a different person or just made me a more comfortable, more successful
neurotic.
I got a letter from Ronna today - she wrote about her adventures in Massachusetts, swimming,
hiking, sightseeing. She said that even though she misses me, she thinks the separation is good
for her, giving her time to reevaluate things: "...after looking at all the pitfalls and things that are
wrong with each of us separately and both of us together, I am still very happy with the
relationship." And she writes about risk-taking: "The only way to overcome a fear is to plunge
into it. It's not the physical risks but the emotional ones that are the hardest. Not commitments,
not just leaving yourself open to being hurt, but to be given and to give emotions."
I needed people today and went out to see them. I dropped by the Courier-Life office to say
hello to Mark, who was sitting at his desk with a picture of Consuelo and the baby on it. He was
about to check on a story about a gangland killing in a Sheepshead Bay synagogue, but it was
good to see Mark even if only for a little while. Three years ago was that awful dinner party at
his house which ended with Shelli and me having a terrible fight; I wonder if Shelli told Mark
and Consuelo all about that night and think I'm a terrible person. They haven't acted that way.
I drove out to Richmond College after lunch. I had missed that drive up Bay Street and the St.
George area, the college with its elevators and posters and crowds. I waited in the lobby for
Alice to drive her home. She was surprised and extremely grateful; otherwise she faced a two-
hour ride on the ferry, trains and bus. Alice finally finished typing Marty's thesis but is now
busy with her class paper, due on Wednesday. A week later, she's leaving for Europe. Alice's
going to stay with her brother in Stuttgart - I gave her Avis's address in Bremen. Andreas came
back from Geneva on Saturday and so Alice understood my missing Ronna, even after such a
short period of time. Alice said that everything's fine: Renee is complaining about how
depressed she is again. I dropped her off at BC, where her bike was and lent her Fear of Flying
and said I'll see her before she leaves. Ronna's sister came over to say hello to us; she was
working in the bookstore. She's angry they're not moving after all.
Thursday, August 6, 1970
Mansarde called last night - I'd been having Jonny tell her I wasn't home, but I spoke to her last
night. She called, she said, to apologize for her behavior and to thank me for my hospitality. I
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was cool to her - I don't know where we'll go from here - perhaps nowhere.
This morning I took the train to Dad's place. Grandpa Nat was glad to see me, and I did some
work. They're busy now, since Cousin Joel and Ben are on vacation. Then Dad and I drove out
to the Plainview warehouse. The retail outlet started business today and did smashing: $900.
Uncle Marty was there, so were Norman and Harvey. We drove to nearby Huntington, where
we had lunch at Cooky's, looked in on the Pants Set, and sold some goods to the man in Sid's
store.
Our next stop was Green Acres, where we met Cousin Merryl in the parking lot. Rosemary had
been crying when we came into the store - she's still terribly depressed and wants to go back
into therapy. Dad took an order in Sid's store there while I shopped for certain items (stationery,
film, Rolaids). It was tiring running around like that, but Dad seems used to it.
Tonight Marty and Arlyne picked up Mom and Dad - they had to go to a funeral chapel because
Sid's mother-in-law died. Alice called tonight - she and Howie broke up after 17 months. I
wasn't really surprised. They've been having problems for months. Alice tried pot recently and
it doesn't do a thing for her. We got postcards from Jay from Calif. and the Grosses from Venice.
I never got to sleep last night. I tried everything - hot bath, pills, TV, radio, reading. Nothing
worked. I even tried masturbation. Hence, I'm exhausted.
I went to Kings Highway to buy the Voice and I saw Kjell there. I must call him.
Brad called me and asked me out to an early dinner. I was exhausted but I didn't want to miss
the chance for company. We went to the Mill Basin Deli. Our waiter, St. Louis Blugerman
Sheakespen, was a real nut - a taxi-driver, producer, director, author, playwright, poet,
comedian and philosopher, he said. We had a lot of fun with him and he gave us his card.
Brad and I drove around and talked about sex. He says he's been with a different guy every
night for the past two weeks. He says he's not promiscuous and wants me to act out my
fantasies with him. He says that's the best way. I said I'd think on it and see him on his return.
Wednesday, August 8, 1973
6 PM. I've just turned off the TV. Vice-President Agnew, under possible indictment on kickback
charges, denied any guilt. And though Ronna and I watched the last of this summer's Ervin
Committee hearings yesterday, that scandal is still very much in the public eye. As Mikey said
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to me last night, Speaker Albert may become the next President - what a mess!
As I predicted, I was awake until 3 AM, my mind clanking out ideas. God knows why these
burst of creativity happen at such ridiculous hours, but who am I to argue with genius?
Seriously, I know I am intelligent and creative, and even more than that, I know I can succeed in
a variety of fields. I may go to law school next year or go on for a Ph.D. or possibly return to BC
to go into their new Creative Writing MFA program - maybe I can do two of these things at
once. I never have to worry about myself intellectually, only emotionally, and if I get things
under control in that area, I feel I'm destined for great things. But I guess there is a price people
pay: even poor Mike, running student government like a madman - Mikey said Mike's got
stomach troubles again, and I'm sure it's due to pressure.
Still, I wrote some letters today: one to a soap opera actor, asking for an interview for one of
those daytime TV fan magazines - I read about it in Writer's Digest - and another to Irna
Phillips, creator of many soaps, asking for a job as an assistant writer. I have nothing to lose.
Ronna work me up this morning with exciting news: last night her mother got engaged to
Harold. They'll be married in 6 months to a year, and Ronna said now she's got to file away all
her doubts now that it's definite. Mrs. C went into the hospital today, but Ronna said she's so
happy, she's floating on air.
Grandpa Herb and Grandma Ethel came over to go swimming in the pool today and I got
another card from Gary, who seems to be having a ball in England. I'm glad for him and know
he made the right decision - I bet it's really taken his mind off Hilda.
A hot, clear day. I woke up early and watched AM New York with guest host Robert Klein,
whom Shelli idolizes. I kept trying to call him and ask him to stay away from her as a joke. I got
a letter from Alice today. Altho she's probably back by now, I enjoyed the note - she wrote that
she was having a ball, climbing the Alps, playing in the snows of the Matterhorn and seeing
quaint out-of-the-way towns. I also got a letter from Avis, who enjoyed Copenhagen very much
although she's lost 10 pounds and it's the porno capital of the world.
The Pontiac may not be ready for some time and I'm upset. I talked with Slade before class. He's
initiated a policy of de-snobbification and even talked to Ronna this morning. In Art, we saw
slides of cubist paintings by Braque and Gris. Rose was very upset because Marty had his draft
physical today. He had notes from an allergist and a shrink - I hope he made out okay. After
class, I talked with Laura, Avi and B.J. Laura's not really a bad sort, but she's kind of bland.
Slade keeps saying how he wants to convince Laura and her boyfriend that he doesn't dislike
them. Marv was on his way to do something for House Plan Association. He, too, wants to form
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a new party. As the fair-haired boy of the last election, he's going to sit on Bob's Academic
Affairs Committee.
Shelli came along and we went home and had lunch. We were kvetchy in my room, so we
decided the best thing would be to go into the pool. It was beautiful in the water today - we
played newcomb and badminton and read and kissed and slept. We had snacks afterward and
then I had to take her home. Her jealousy of Fran is so funny.
Tonight I called Mikey. He and Mason are going to Boston for a few days. (Mikey's going to
pick up Mason at camp) but wants to see me about having a Mugwump meeting soon to iron
things out. I keep calling Gary, but no one has been home for the past three days.
Life seems even more like a soap opera than ever these days. I never could get in touch with
Debbie to make things definite about tonight. So, on the spur of the moment, Marc and I
decided to go to the movies. We went to the Georgetowne to see "The Graduate." I enjoyed it,
although it seems a bit dated now. It was probably just my imagination, but as we were going
out, in the dark, I thought I saw Jerry and a girl sitting down. I'm sure I'm wrong - but it did
look like him.
In class this morning we finished "Oedipus," really a masterpiece. I hung around LaGuardia for
awhile, but Scott and Vito are getting on my nerves a bit, probably because I've been staying
with them too much. I'm becoming certain that Barry's heading for trouble and I feel powerless
to do anything.
I had a quiet lunch with Shira. She's a sweet person, very sincere. Hesh, she says, is getting used
to seeing things like amputations and cardiac arrests - must be a messy business, though. Back
in LaGuardia, I talked with Laura, Dick and Stanley, then went downtown to see Shelley Wouk.
She and I had a good talk today, centering on my future.
We discussed whether I could be happy as an academician. Despite all my protestations, you

know, I'm really half a Forsyte. That sense of property and possession is in me. Not like it's in
Dad or Mom with their Cadillacs and jewelry, but it's there.
Gary called when I got home and I rushed over there. He only had come in for a few hours; he
had to go to Peekskill for KP duty, so they took time off and came into Brooklyn. Camp Drum
was the usual shit, but Gary'll be leaving for Europe next week with a Reserve buddy. I took
Gary to Kings Plaza, where the guys met for the trip to Peekskill, and I said I'd see him on
Sunday or Monday. Being in the Guard is so shitty for him, I'm glad Gary's going to get away.
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Speaking of getting away, I called Allan and the plans are set - he'll be leaving for Tampa at the
end of the month, to live with his parents and go to school at U. of South Florida. Allan seems
resigned to making the best of it, at least. I'll miss him, and I told him he can stay here when he
comes up for Christmas.
I finished City of Night. It's a beautiful book. I found the ending scene with Jeremy very
touching. Why can't dogs go to heaven?
I got the pictures back today - a few of them didn't come out. I don't know why photography
interests me - maybe it's that moment frozen in time forever.
I saw Goodbye Columbus and thought it was very good. The theater was pretty crowded. The
wedding scenes in the movie were so true to life. I think the message of the film is to decide for
yourself what is right and what is not. But what if you're like Brenda Patimkin or me, and aren't
sure?
I saw Caaron on the Mill Basin bus today. I wanted to talk to her, but I didn't have the nerve.
I'm trying to stay off the sleeping pills and just use the tranquilizers. I know now that I'm not
going backwards. Excelsior!
7 PM. I'm really tired and would like to go to bed early this evening, but I have company
coming in an hour. I invited Elihu over - we're both on such limited bankrolls that we couldn't
afford to do anything that costs money. I'm too weary to play genial host and exhaust myself
trying to amuse him, so I'll just be my usual discourteous self.
This was a hard day. I tried very hard to stay on the Weight Watchers program and I only
cheated at dinner, when I had french fried potatoes as a side dish (without ketchup, though).
But it's a strain changing my diet habits so drastically. I wonder if I'd rather have a round
tummy and be satisfied psychologically than be, to use Alice's phrase, "slim and svelte" and be a
nervous wreck.
Our ebullient lecturer Iris possesses an ulcer - she complained about it last night. She's funny
but so frenetic; I wonder if she's really happy even though she's attractive. I know the rate of
recidivism at Weight Watchers (and all diets) is very high; we saw examples last night of "two-
time losers," and I've seen in happen among friends and acquaintances. The organization also
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smacks of fanaticism (as do Alcoholics Anonymous, Gamblers Anonymous and Synanon),

which is something I've never been able to put up with.
Of course these are all probably rationalizations. I have to admit that I thought more about food
today than I have ever done in my whole life. I was starving all through the night - my hunger
was so bad that I awoke at 5:30 AM, was unable to get back to sleep, and so I had breakfast at 7
AM. All morning I thought of cupcakes, cookies and such. I did my exercises twice, I went out
and bought some "legal" food. I went to the college to have my latest section of the novel
xeroxed, then lay out by the pool even though there was little sun.
Yesterday, while Gary was driving me home from

St. John's, I spotted Stanley walking up Flatlands Avenue. Stanley stuck to the diet and he's
slimmed down, but it still hasn't changed his life; he still leads an existence in limbo, measuring
out his life with film screenings. Who am I to judge Stanley? But even so, being chubby has
become part of me. Perhaps I'm afraid to become slim and more sensual and maybe that's why
I'm not fat, either - I just stay on the outer edge
of attractiveness. There are times when I wish I was
in therapy again. Oh, who knows? Maybe inside every skinny person, there's a fat person
struggling
to come out.
Gisele came in to clean again today. Yesterday Gary and I pulled up as she was leaving, so she
got a lift home with him. But today at 6 PM I drove Gisele home to Bed-Stuy. She's so concerned
with my romantic life, always wanting to make sure I have a "wonderful" girlfriend and a
potential mate. When I ask Gisele about herself, she just smiles and shrugs and says she doesn't
want to try marriage again because she doesn't want the children to have a strange stepfather.
Libby phoned last night, trying to find if Teresa had a car that she wanted driven to California. I
told Libby that I'd just heard from Teresa last week and she didn't mention anything about it. I
suggested she talk to Costas or Melvin, who have spoken to Teresa more recently. Libby told
me she didn't want to bother Melvin now, with his brother so ill. I asked about it and heard the
bad news: Melvin's and Milton's brother Mendy collapsed on a biking tour. The diagnosis: acute
leukemia. Experimental drugs have put him in what doctors call a "semi-stable" state, and now
the odds are 50-50 that the kid will live another 5 years. What can one say or do when one hears
things like that? nothing, I guess. Mendy had just graduated high school and was going to start
college. Libby said that Mason was in and that he's planning to do some traveling after the
summer. She said to come to the Slope tonight, but I guess I won't be able to.
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A searingly hot day, as if the sun were trying to burn all the evil out of this world. This morning
I had an auto accident downtown - nothing serious - the other guy dented my rear fender. It
was my fault, as I wasn't looking. Mom did not get upset (Dad told her it's only money) and
neither did I.
I parked on Cadman Plaza and made my way past the Hare Krishna chanters and walked into
the State Supreme Court Bldg. I couldn't stay long, as the meter was only for 30 minutes. I saw
one quick case in the court of Justice Jones, a humorous black judge. It was a kidnapping case
and the first time I've seen a man in handcuffs. A lot of retired old men who have nothing else
to do attend these cases. I intend to go back. While I don't think I'll ever practice law, as of now I
plan on going to law school.
After lunch, I went to the Marine to see The Games, a surprisingly good movie about Olympic
marathon runners - something that looks very exciting.
I felt enormously happy this evening, for no apparent reason. That's one of the best parts of
being a manic-depressive. No one has "highs" like mine. Who needs marijuana? Today's mail
brought a note from Cousins Bonnie and Alice and also the Ohio election code.
I spent the night on the porch with the family, the Bernsteins and Steven. Grandpa Herb came
by to bring my slacks. Today was Mrs. Bernstein's birthday - she says Fern and Mark are in
town.
Midnight. I feel content, but there are questions that trouble me. The foremost seems to be: Am I
a child or a man, or am I condemned to live a life between those two stages? Last night I went
downstairs and saw a whole pineapple in the refrigerator. I decided to cut it open so I could eat
some slices and was about to begin when I heard Mom's footsteps coming downstairs. As old as
I am, my heart still skips a beat and I feel enormously guilty (the way I did with the car on
Monday).
I told her straight off, "I'm cutting open a pineapple." "I'll do it," she said and moved intently
toward me. I moved away, she grabbed for the knife and I threatened her with it (while I was
angry, I had no intention of hurting her, of course). She grabbed my arm and bit into it with her
capped teeth. I shook her away and sliced the pineapple as she muttered about wanting me out
of the house. Apparently she didn't see the contradiction in a 23-year-old being capable of living
alone but not being able to slice a pineapple. No, I guess she knows that if she takes away my
manhood in so many little ways (Today, when I took out the TV without asking her permission,
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she yelled, "Why did you disobey me?" Does she still think I'm 7 years old or will she forever be
a parent and not a person?), she's got me where she wants me - in her control. Yet I realize my
complicity in all of this: I am still living at home, after all, and I did allow her to bite my hand.
In truth, it was a not unpleasant feeling. So here I am, sitting in a childish Oedipusville...
But tonight with Ronna, I was a man relating to a woman who loves me on an adult level.
Ronna came over early this evening after an interview at her mother's office; she'll be working
there next week. We went outside by the pool as the sun set red and powder blue, and we
talked of books and linguistics and little things. Wendy called her today and spoke of Elton
John and his manager, whom she loves, and inquired after Scott. Ronna's Uncle Abe, the
brilliant doctor, has left his equally brilliant wife, Aunt Margie, for a young Asian med student
in one of his classes. He's left their apartment and moved in with the girl into a Soho loft. Abe's
the one at the seder who told Susan that Erica Jong "has gone commercial" - apparently he
knows her.
I just enjoyed looking at Ronna. She's gotten a more mature look, a prettier face, since I've
known her. I think that at 35 or so, she's going to be absolutely beautiful. We went to my room
and watched TV. I enjoyed Carly Simon singing "That's the Way I've Always Heard It Should
Be." All my friends from college are getting married now, soon to have children who'll hate
them because of what they are not, and settling down to years of living on the debris of love.
Everyone likes to think what they have is special and not like what anyone else has, but I'm
aware enough to realize that Ronna and are not breaking any new ground with our relationship
- but still, it's so good.
The laugh of the evening was when Fern knocked on the door and asked if I had a hole-puncher
(for her brother Evan, who was downstairs); I leered Groucho-style and said, "Do I have a hole
puncher?" We all laughed; I like my brother's girlfriend a lot. Then, left alone, Ronna and I
made slow, steady love. I had missed her body, the roundness of her breasts, the whiteness of
her belly, her underarm, navel and the hairs on the nape of her neck. It was a really fine sexual
release for both of us. I feel so free with Ronna, free to be myself and to laugh and joke and be
sad. The bed squeaked so, but we didn't much care. We talked and watched TV and read in bed
afterwards, and I took her home a little while ago. With her, I feel I can really accomplish
something in this world.
Altho Ronna probably hasn't even arrived in Cape Cod yet, I feel a kind of emptiness with her
away. I suppose I've taken her for granted, but I realized today how much I love her. I miss her
soft hair and cute smile and ironical brown eyes.
Last evening, when I went to pick Ronna up, her sister answered the door and it was obvious
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something was wrong. Ronna was sobbing audibly in her bedroom, and for a minute I thought
she was upset because I keep pressuring her about being punctual. But her mother explained
there had been a family fight and she'd left her favorite dinner (sausage) untouched - and I
gathered it was about Harold. He was there, and for the first time, I liked him enormously last
night; he's going to help me apply for a Fulbright (an idea that curiously came up earlier in the
day's "burst of creativity") and he slyly mentioned that London is a lovely place for a
honeymoon.
Ronna finally came out, apologized for being late, and coldly said goodbye to the others. She
wore a yellow danskin top and a scarf, and although she'd cleaned off her eyes, I could tell her
mascara had been running. In the car, I told her if she didn't want to go to the movies, we didn't
have to, but she said she would tell me about it before we got to Georgetowne. It was a minor
fracas, involving Harold's "immaturity" and how he said that she couldn't break up him and her
mother no matter what. Ronna said she can't live with them after they're married, so she'll
apply to grad schools out of town.
We sat through Blume in Love, which I thoroughly enjoyed. Afterwards I held Ronna around the
waist as we walked to my car as it was drizzling. She was hungry, so we went to the
McDonald's in Rockaway near the Cross Bay Bridge and had burgers and cokes. She decided
she'd straighten things out with her mother during the trip, and at her house, I hugged her
tightly and wished her a good time. At home, I finished off a cute novel Ronna had
recommended - it all took place on Staten Island (like my screenplay, if it ever does materialize).
Today I went to BC and found Mike and LeRoy and Stanley in the student government office.
Mike is so busy. He's putting out a mailing, had lined up a Beach Boys concert and is trying for
Albert Hammond too (Judy Rechman is his PR lady), trying to find a job for Mikey (although
Phyllis and Timmy will raise hell about that) and placating Ethyle Wolfe, whom Dean
Birkenhead apparently stabbed in the back when he cut School of Humanities funding in favor
of Social Sciences. Stanley was doing the film series and we gossiped a bit. The last person to
have news of Skip was Elihu, who saw him at Sid and Elspeth's on the Coast. I called Gary's
father and found Gary will be arriving Friday evening at Kennedy.
A cool, sunny day. Mom and Dad arrived last night after 10 PM and they seemed to have
enjoyed their vacation. Last night President Nixon announced a whole new economic policy to
take care of inflation and recession: a 90-day freeze on wages and prices, a 10% import tax, an
income tax cut, and a floating of the dollar, which will virtually devalue it.
This morning I heard Dad talking to Mom over the phone. He complained of chest pains and
said the car wouldn't be ready today - those Pontiac people keep stalling and stalling. At school,
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I showed my sketches to Elspeth, Leon, Robert and Al - they were not very impressed, and I'm a
bit discouraged. Avi brought some old Kingsmans and it was hilarious going through them and
seeing what our friends looked like two years ago.
In Art, Viola showed slides of paintings of Kandinsky which I thought were shitty. After class, I
ran into Ray, who told me Mark helped Sue move. Ray wants Elspeth's $60 share of the first
month's rent, so I'm supposed to tell her to call Sue.
I met with Avi about the first Spigot issue. I still haven't done my story on the library yet. Harry
came by and startled me when he said that the new Student Activities Director would be...Peter.
Harry said he's afraid the Student Assembly will be "reactionary" - and that's coming from a
conservative! I had lunch with Baruch, who is such a nebbish.
When I got home, I saw Dad's car outside. He was ill all day with severe chest pains. He's
stubborn and won't see a doctor - he never will. I hope it's not his heart. I was upset and
nervous all day because of it.
The Art paper is breathing down my neck. I've changed the topic to the influence of comic
books on Lichtenstein's painting, and I only just started it. Shelli spent the day with Avis,
getting stoned and baking cookies. There's a lot of pressure and things on my mind now, and
it's getting me down.
In contrast to yesterday, by early evening today I was feeling depressed. I still have to get
through 100 pages of Plato's Republic and it's such dry stuff I can't bear it. Perhaps it's because I
have no discipline; that's probably why I've been getting so fat lately. I've got to lose weight
desperately - I feel so fat that I can't go out anymore. But the more anxious I get about it, the
more I eat - it's a vicious cycle.
I got to sleep so late last night that I missed class today, and I'm really falling behind. I thought
a lot about Stacy last night. She asked me if I was seeing anyone seriously, and I told her I was
seeing lots of people comically. I know I could love Stacy, but it'll never work out - she has her
world and friends and I have mine, and neither of us would give up anything for the other. We
will never "get together," in her words, and maybe that's for the better. But I would like to sleep
with her. Oh, I don't know, it's all such a comedy.
This morning Elspeth was wondering how to bail out some of her junkie friends who were
arrested in L.A. for skinny-dipping. Sometimes I wonder if I'm not any better than old, whining,
immature Elspeth. I sat around with Vito for the rest of the morning, talking about
inconsequential stuff. At noon, we met Veronica and had lunch in McDonald's. Veronica's back
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from Europe and she'll be taking writing courses and being prose editor of Riverrun. I found
out that she and Brian are first cousins - small world. Teresa joined us. I like her despite her
rather flighty manner. She mentioned seeing "your old girlfriend and her husband" last night at
Kings Plaza. "A despicable couple," she said.
I noticed Skip and John at another table and went over to say hello. They're both looking for
work, and Skip said that Leon spoke to him last night, that he's found a place of his own, finally.
Wisconsin, Skip reported, is a big beautiful school and Leon seems happy there.
I came home to on this cool, cloudy afternoon to try and get some work done, but so far I
haven't succeeded. Scott wants me and Debbie to go with him and this girl to a Mets game on
Sunday - I don't know yet. Dad has been on jury duty all week (he couldn't get out of it) and
he's going out of his mind with boredom. I think the hotel is up for sale and the whole deal
should be done soon.
As expected, I didn't get much sleep last night, but surprisingly, I'm not tired. I thought a lot
about the play. I really feel like the character Donald, whose parents groomed him to be a
failure and who can't understand why he prefers boys to girls and books to both and has
anxiety attacks while driving on the Long Island Expressway.
I was so mad when I heard that Nixon appointed that idiot Clement Haynesworth to the
Supreme Court. I'm not saying he should have appointed a Jew, but a judicial activist, a
moderate if not a liberal. I'm disgusted with that imbecile in the White House and I called Sen.
Javits' office to complain.
Today I didn't do much - went shopping, watched TV, the usual garbage. Alice called. She and
Howie went up to Woodstock but came back early, on Saturday. She thought I was high on
something. We had a good, long friendly talk. I also had a nice talk with the Cohens and Mrs.
Bernstein.
9 PM. The rest of the family is in the basement, entertaining Cousin Scott and Bobbi, who've
come for a visit before they leave for Washington. Uncle Monty entered the hospital of Saturday
- he was running 105 fever and the doctors have diagnosed it as pneumonia. Luckily (if I dare
use that phrase), it's in the lung that collapsed; if it was in the other lung, it would be all over.
He must know what Hell is. Aunt Sydelle says he hasn't eaten a thing in days and just was
fading away even before the illness. I suppose the pneumonia was brought on by the
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chemotherapy weakening him. I'd visit him, but Aunt Sydelle told Dad he doesn't want to see
people. Cousin Alice is coming up from Florida to stay with Sydelle. I don't know how long
Monty has. It's a shame we're so cruel to the dying: we don't let them express their fears and
their anger.
Today was a beautiful day, the kind of bright, mild weather we sometimes get around the
middle of August following the dog days. I wrote and did research most of the day, so I was
content. I feel so free when I can write; it's the most marvelous feeling. Now I'm interested in
telling stories, which is one of the most important (and interesting) things to do in life.
On Friday Melvin and his brother Milton told me about a friend of LeRoy's, a brilliant guy, who
got a 98 on his high school Regents; there was an essay question that said "Write a composition
on your favorite place" and he started his essay, "My favorite place is the vagina..." and went on
from there.
That's a great story, and so is the one Miss Belfer told about when she was an exchange student
in France and she tutoyed (used the familiar) the director of the Institute and everyone sat
around shocked, waiting for the distinguished old man to explode. Instead, he just patted her
on the head and said, "Petite Americaine."
Alice understands about people being important. She showed me her story on Mr. Blumstein
that just
came out.
Last night I had a dream and this morning I wrote it up as a surreal story, for some reason using
the third person and a character named August Billings. The dream started with Mikey telling
me how he liked my body; he wasn't attracted to me sexually, of course - he just felt my body
was comfortable and pleasant. I told him, quite honestly, that I felt the same way about his
body, and then I proceeded to tell him a long story about Ronna, Susan, Felicia and Zsa Zsa
Gabor letting gasoline out of the pumps of the crooked service station owner they all worked
for. Then I was with Ronna: it was a Saturday night and we were walking up a street when
suddenly she entered a shoe store and took an escalator upstairs. Everyone recognized Ronna
for the film star that she was, but I couldn't catch up with her. It was like the Oscar Awards
upstairs, and I tried to find Ronna, but a million girls looked like her and kept calling to me and
a bunch of other guys. Then Ivan's mother, Mrs. T, said I could sit with her at her table in the
back; she said she owed it to me. Mrs. T was Ronna's agent, and someone asked her how it felt
to work for a big star like Ronna. I could only think about how I'd have to walk home alone and
how that scared me. And that, basically, was what the story was.
I also wrote a one-page story based on my "J'ai besoin du..." dream. It's a trick story, one of those
where a person wakes up from a dream only to find he's in someone else's dream, a bit of
Bunuel and Borges there. Mom did not stop harassing me all day, and she's making it
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exceedingly difficult for me to keep to the diet. Still, I've got a fighting chance (underline that
fighting). Poor woman, she's becoming permanently affixed with a scowl.
A lousy, gloomy, rainy day. I woke up with stomach cramps and expected to have diarrhea, but
I think I checked it with some medicine, at least for a while. There was a bright note - a letter
from Gary. He's very happy with his on-the-job training as a file clerk, working in a pleasant
air-conditioned office. But his "piece de resistance," as he termed it, was that he'll probably be
coming home from Ft. Polk next Saturday, thus saving me the hassle of registering for him.
I drove to Korvette's on Bay Parkway and bought two hardcover books. One was The Lord
Won't Mind by Gordon Merrick, a straight-forward novel of a lasting homosexual relationship. I
think its candor upset me. I went to the Rugby to see Bob & Carol & Ted & Alice, which I thought
was a funny story of American morality today.
After supper, I had bad cramps again and naturally everybody left the house so there was no
one to talk to. I'm very scared and I'm angry. Fear and anger seem to be quite characteristic of
the neurotic boy. I say "boy" because I'm not a man yet - I'm too busy being scared and angry.
Just last night I was thinking that my stomach was fine for the past three weeks, but I just can't
let things go right for very long.
Mel, the 86th Street manager, quit today. I got SMUT, the Young Mensa paper. I should write an
article for it. Now I feel better.
Saturday, August 21, 1971
I spoke to Elspeth for a long time last night. She was very sympathetic, and when we hung up, I
said, "I love you" - it just slipped out. I never thought of her as anything but a platonic friend -
and I wouldn't have given it a second thought. I called Shelli when she got home from her date
at 1 AM. She had a nice time, she said, but she thought of me all evening. We talked and I tried
to hurt her because my ego was bruised. I felt better after we said we loved each other, but I still
couldn't sleep at all.
I decided I'd go away to Rockaway for a few days to think through and sort out my life again.
But I first went to Shelli's house and we walked around the block. She said I was torturing her,
that after all, I had urged her to date other guys. We took a drive out to the airport, thinking of
seeing Elihu come home, but we decided we'd like to go to my house. And this afternoon was
heaven - we discovered each other again. Mom, with a knowing smile, made us lunch, and then
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Shelli and I went into bedroom.
We had an afternoon of love, sexual and otherwise. She didn't really like Saul - just as a friend.
He asked her out again Tuesday, and I told her to go, but she's undecided. We made love so
many times I lost count - I'm exhausted. It was so damn beautiful, just like it used to be. When
you come down to it, all you've got are trite clichés - like "we were meant for each other" and
stuff. I love her and she loves me and that's the way it's going to be (I hope).
Driving around, we spotted Laura and her boyfriend and went with them to Kings Plaza. We
had dinner at Bun 'n' Burger and walked around. In Macy's we visited Li and I bought
dungarees. Then we went to her house and spent a quiet evening with her family. I spoke to
Gary and Shelli spoke to Elspeth. Elspeth told Shelli what I'd said and wants to do "something
nice" for me tomorrow. Shelli thinks Elspeth has a crush on me, but I don't believe it.
I spent yesterday in a blue funk. Talking the night before, Mom said I was too "deep" and
looked into things too much, causing unhappiness. In the hospital Grandma Sylvia told Cousin
Robin the same thing. But I don't think I'm particularly "deep," whatever that means - I'm
maybe more intelligent than most people and maybe I perceive undertones others do not. For a
while on Tuesday night, stung by Dad's remarks ("Therapy hasn't helped you at all. You're lazy
and immature," etc.), I thought of going off somewhere and locking myself in a Holiday Inn
room (I have a credit card there) and not telling anyone where I was for days. That sounds so
nice - only I would know where I was. And I'd just think about my life and write and come to a
decision about whether to go on, and how to proceed, living. In the face of questioning your
whole existence, so much of the pettiness in life seems meaningless - things like mixed marriage
and political campaigns and fights over cleaning up. Am I a human being or merely a collection
of symptoms?
The basic story behind Robin and Sandy (that's the black guy) is this: For quite a while, Robin
didn't want her mother to phone or visit. So Aunt Sydelle figured something like this was up.
She kept calling Joel at the place to pump him for information, but he didn't feel it was right to
tell her his ex-wife's business. But then Michael said, "My mommy's going with a black man"
(actually he's half-white) and Tuesday night there was a big confrontation at Robin's house,
with screaming and pleading and threats and insults, and then Aunt Sydelle was frantic and
told Monty to drive her here.
Mom called up Robin and tried to, as she said, "get the whole story." Mom feels that Robin's
doing this merely to hurt Aunt Sydelle. That could be true, but isn't there the possibility of
genuine love? Dad says that Robin's track record makes that unlikely. Anyway, from here on in,
I'm an innocent bystander in this affair.
[78]
I felt better this morning after a night's sleep and a hundred pages of Philip Roth's latest novel,
My Life as a Man - he's such a superb craftsman, always brilliant. I went to BC today. I've gotten
my registration materials and I'm happily facing the reality of being in the MFA program. I
register two weeks from tonight and I can't wait.
I met Gary after encounters with the dumb but well-meaning Carol and the love-struck Li. We
had lunch in Kosher King and I told him the trauma of Tuesday night. He's happy with the job
at school but he still dislikes Columbia and he's getting closer with Kay. She was over at his
house last night. We ran into Josh, whom I introduced to Gary. They talked, and it was funny to
see two such diverse personalities interact.
Before I knew it, Ronna popped up. She had been

told to work early, as things were very quiet. The
four of us were talking about the difficulty of finding jobs when Stacy and Timmy approached
from opposite directions. They passed us without saying hello
althoughugh both of them knew each of us. They did
half-heartedly wave to each other.
Josh and I went up to the English Dep't to try to find Baumbach, but we had no luck. After
dropping Josh off, I went over to Ronna's. She was excited because her sister had gotten word
that she'd passed her road test. We made very warm love lying sideways on her bed. The angle
was so good, I really felt smooth and clean. We kept answering phone calls from her mother's
boyfriends until finally Mrs. C came home and made us cheeseburgers for dinner. Ronna said at
work she's been looking at that clock a lot lately, wanting time to move faster. It's probably
because she doesn't like what she's doing.
10 PM. Ronna's in the shower and I'm lying on top of our double bed in our hotel room in
Washington, D.C. I'm really thrilled: today was a long day but very rewarding. I woke up early,
did my last-minute chores and then went to Ronna's house to pick her up. I was nervous about
driving down the whole way, but I never had a bad panicky anxiety attack. We stopped after
about two hours of driving - it was about noon - at a Howard Johnson's on the Jersey side of the
Delaware Memorial Bridge. Ronna was so good to be with on the drive down: she amused me
and kept my mind occupied.
We drove through Delaware and Maryland - I got a bit tired after we passed Baltimore, so we
stopped again and I had a coke and Ronna finished reading the letters she got from Felicia and
Susan. We were in Washington by 3 PM, but it took us a long time to find the Gralyn Hotel,
where we had reservations (as Mr. and Mrs. Grayson) - Washington traffic is confusing, but we
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finally got to it.
The hotel's near DuPont Circle (I'd read about it in Washington on $10 a Day), on an old-
fashioned street. It's a small, cheap place but it's quite pleasant; it was once the Persian Embassy
and you can still imagine the luxuriousness of its past. The young man who owns it or whatever
(there's an old lady at the desk) took our bags to our room, which is simple. We even got a
private bath at no extra cost. We rested for awhile. I think Ronna's a little worried because we've
never shared a bed before, but I told her, "I didn't come to D.C. just to get laid."
We went out for dinner at the Hot Shoppes Cafeteria on Connecticut Avenue, where I had
Thanksgiving dinner with my family two years ago. Then we drove over to Arlington and saw
the Iwo Jima statue. From there we went to the Jefferson Memorial. It's always been my favorite
spot in the city, and Ronna is a Thomas Jefferson freak (they share the same birthday). That
statue of him, the simple beauty of the monument, the fantastic view of the city all get to me.
The US Naval Band was to give a concert and people sat on the steps. Ronna and I stayed there
from sundown to darkness, staring out over Tidal Basin. It was so wonderful - we'd talked
about going to Washington 6 months ago and we finally got here. Then we went to see the
Lincoln Memorial - that statue is very awesome. I found my way back to the hotel with no
difficulty. Cat Stevens was singing "It's a Wild World" on the radio as we passed Embassy Row.
The night was not so terrible after all. I had a dream that Tony, the guy down the block, was
having an asthma attack on Avenue T. Naturally I saved the day. I spoke to Grandma Sylvia
this morning, and everything seems fine.
Uncle Marty and Aunt Arlyne and the kids came over, along with Grandma Ethel and Grandpa
Herb. Wendy looks very good but fat.
I got a call from Brad this afternoon. He called me a half-hour after he'd arrived home. He
volunteered for first aid during hurricane Camille in Mississippi. He's leaving for Boston
Tuesday for a friend's beachhouse and wants me to make some "wild, wacky plans" for next
week. I think I've fallen in love with him, at least as much as I can fall in love with anybody.
I also called Gene, who is back from camp - he had a good time there. Maybe we'll get together
sometime towards the middle of the week. Gary called too.
From Baldwin's Another Country: "The trouble with a secret life is that it's very frequently a
secret from the person who lives it and not at all for the people he encounters."
[80]
Friday, August 25, 1972
I didn't get to sleep until very early in the morning. I was thinking about things - Allan's
moving to Florida is bound to change things at school. Leon is gone, and so are Charles and
Elayne, and Gary will leave shortly. And then, so will I - no more LaGuardia lobby to hang
around in. Well, that’s life.
I like Skip, but I don't think he likes me very much although he's nice to me. But it was okay just
to sit in his funny, dirty ap't with those cats, playing scrabble with him and Allan, who had
been to the Kinks concert with Fat Ronnie, who’s a good friend of Ray Davies. Allan said he'd
bumped into Elspeth there and couldn't get over how well she'd looked: "pretty," Allan said.
I awoke much too late to catch my class - I got on campus at noon and met Vito and Nina, who
had just come from OTB to bet on some horse race. Vito and I drove over to Veronica's house in
Sunset Park, as he had need of one of her stories to use in a speech to entertain. Driving over,
Vito told me that this morning he was in his grandmother's house and a good-looking young
man came to deliver slipcovers. They talked and the slipcover man kissed Vito.
Veronica's parents were so nice: her father shook my hand and then said to his wife,
"Handsome boy, that Richie." (I later learned he does that with everyone.) We got rid of
Veronica's twin sister and her boyfriend Junior, who were just getting out of bed - together,
apparently - and then Veronica and Vito and I sat around the kitchen talking. Her stories are
kind of Donald Barthelme-ish, weird but very cute. Veronica's a very clever person, one of those
people who have absolutely no interest in sex or material possessions.
We left, and after I dropped Vito off on Coney Island Avenue, I came home to find, incredibly,
that the pool had collapsed. What a fucking mess.
I got a letter from Vogue Magazine - Elihu's handwriting - and one from Avis. She wrote, "I love
you very much, I miss you very much...I'm looking forward to our long talks over Coke and
French fries at Campus Corner." She asks if I could pick her and Libby up at Port Authority on
Monday. Of course I'll do it. Avis said that even if I want to get involved with Stacy, she'll still
be my friend. What a good friend Avis is. Those words - "I love you very much" - meant more to
me than any words I've received in a letter in years. I love you too, Avis.
A bright-hot Women's Liberation Day. I went to City Hall and there were over 1,000 people for
a rally before the march. I posed as a press photographer and took photos of Betty Friedan, Ellie
Guggenheimer and Bella Abzug. Miss Friedan, a leader in Women's Lib, talked to dozens of
reporters. The press had a field day.
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Their demands are reasonable - day-care centers, ending job discrimination, free abortions - but
some of the far-out girls turn me off. The "male chauvinists" in the crowd seemed to be more
amused than outraged. I like girls to be feminine, but perhaps because of my own hangups I
view them first as people, only second as women.
Dad took the day off, and he and Mom went to Kings Plaza, which is going great guns and
should be ready to open soon. Gisele came in to do the housework for today. The Bernsteins
came over this afternoon and asked me to get a jacket their son left at the Feingolds' house. Mrs.
F said she was against today's "nonsense" and so were Mom and Mrs. B.
Uncle Marty went with his friend Pogo Joe Caldwell to a basketball clinic upstate, and Dad's
quite annoyed with him for taking so many days off. He's not even attending to his own Slack
Bar business, and Grandpa Herb has to work every day since Marty's on vacation. Ben came
over tonight while the family was out to bring a $2000 check to Dad.
Gary's mother called and said I could come with them to the airport Saturday night. George
Cincotta's running for boro president - he's a sad little man. We called Las Vegas - Dr. H is
having complications and won't be able to leave the hospital as soon as planned.
5 PM on an absolutely magnificent day: warm temperatures, lots of sunshine and low

humidities (so that my stuffed-up head of yesterday has finally cleared up). Reading Maslow's
book is exciting for me, because I find that I have a lot in common with his self-actualizing
subjects. I understand what he means by "peak experiences" because I have had them: last year
at the BC graduation and Phi Beta Kappa installation and my birthday in June, and then again
in November on the day I drove to Hempstead Lake Park (the day inspired my story "The Smile
in the Closet"); early Xmas morning, after Hoops' dismal get-together; and last June, after
Libby's party.
But I've felt it - the almost unbearable feelings of unity, wholeness and goodness - to a lesser
degree on other occasions: after dates with Ronna; after teaching a good lesson at LIU; and after
writing something I consider to be worthwhile. Never, six years ago, did I ever think there
could be moments like those; and those moments, as brief and fleeting as they are, make life
worth living. I have a completely different attitude toward life when I feel like that: there is zest
and joy and delight and very little fear or anxiety. Life just seems to be getting richer and richer.
I spoke to Ronna last night, and she told me about the wedding on Sunday and how nice it was;
I'm sure she made a beautiful bridesmaid. She said she felt somewhat let down afterwards,
which is understandable. Ronna was also saying goodbye, for she and her family were leaving
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for a week on Cape Cod today. She was intending to take a bus back next Saturday because she
had promised Susan weeks ago that she'd go with her to see "Daisy Miller" and the film would
be coming to the Carnegie Hall Cinema this weekend (for one day only); of course Susan was
holding Ronna to her promise.
Ronna was kind of upset about it, and her mother thought she was being stupid to come back. I
couldn't help putting my two cents in and I told Ronna, "Of course, you know I'd advise
selfishness..." No one but Ronna would interrupt a lovely vacation to see a movie (a bad one, no
less) with Susan. I think my words had some effect on her - I told her to imagine how she would
feel on that bus trip back - for she said was going to call Susan and try to get out of it.
I like being Ronna's friend, and I told her that when she gets back to the city, we should get
together one day. I felt so good after our conversation.
Dad called Aunt Sydelle last evening (he's been putting it off because he dreaded it so) and
there was bad news: the doctors aren't sure Uncle Monty will get out of the hospital this time.
They've been trying to treat the pneumonia, but he's been running a high fever for 10 days and
he's just deteriorating. Monty knows the nature of his illness, but still he harbors hope for a
recovery - that's human nature. But his nephew the doctor told Sydelle that nothing can be done
except to make him as comfortable as possible. At least he's not in much pain.
I ran into Mark and his family this afternoon: all three and a half of them, for Consuelo looked
slightly bigger and she informed me that Miguel will have a brother or sister next January.
Mark has been laid off for 7 months and hasn't been able to find a job, so he figured he might as
well return to Brooklyn College and get his B.A. finally; he'll be taking a couple of evening
courses in the fall.
It's so strange how things work out in time. Mark told Miguel, "This is Richie, but not the Richie
you're used to." He meant Richie C, of course. There was some news: Shelli's parents have
moved; and Don is in San Francisco, where he passed the California bar exam; and Mark and
Consuelo have become friendly with Ken and his wife. Consuelo is hoping to get a job as a
Bilingual teacher soon, and they both look well. It was good to see them and I hope to keep in
touch with them.
I saw Melvin and Mavis on the quadrangle grass, and also Harry and his wife and Elayne were
around, and so were Deans McGee and Jones. So summer is over and another school year at BC
- my sixth - is beginning.
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Richard Grayson
The hurricane swiftly and furiously passed through the city during the night. I slept through it
all, but this morning there were uprooted trees and the pool was overflowing. Yet the sky was a
remarkably clear powder blue. Perhaps the storm washed away the smog and pollution. I had a
long night's sleep, but I felt very tired this morning.
Shelli called me and we decided I'd pick her up at noon. Wendy called Shelli last night and told
her about her date with a guy she'd picked up at Wetson's. It seems Phyllis told Carol that Shelli
hated her - big deal. This morning I did some reading and then went to Shelli's house. She
looked more beautiful than usual as she waited for me outside.
We drove into Prospect Park and I bought her a balloon at the zoo. We went on this surrey-
trolley kind of ride around the park and it really made me carsick. Shelli was dizzy too. We
drove to my house, where I found a letter from Stockholm, from Jerry.
He seems blissfully happy, living in Sweden with the family of Borje - "the finest friend I have
ever had." He booked passage on a boat leaving tomorrow for Britain. Borje is now seeking to
avoid Allan "after a disastrous incident in Munich," which Jerry doesn't elaborate on. He also
told me to "stop throwing away money on that half-wit shrink."
I called Elihu and asked him if I should tell Jerry's parents about his whereabouts: maybe he
doesn't want to know about Mrs. H's condition and maybe she's improving. Elihu was unsure.
He looked up in a book when Jerry's boat would be arriving. I'll call Elspeth next.
Shelli and I had a luncheon on the grass - I had gotten stuff from the deli - and then we went
upstairs and had a delicious time. She was in pain when I first entered her vagina, so perhaps
she's getting her period. I hope so. I couldn't take another month like last one. But we're going
to Planned Parenthood this week.
We bought birthday cards for Slade and a huge polyethylene snake for him. Tonight I did my
Art work and spoke to Gary, who was at the Armory on Guard duty all day.
Tonight I've got my journalistic cap on. At times it's good for me to stop my self-analysis and
probing and instead concentrate on being an observer of the human condition. When I was
little, I always wanted to be, not the leading characters in movies or TV shows, but the
supporting characters, those to whom nothing happened, the ones who merely commented on
the protagonists' situations - the whole "I Am a Camera" bit.
[84]
Last night I picked up Ronna after the thunderstorm abated. She looked pretty and fresh. Her
sister was going out with last year's boyfriend Harris, or Hank - she told Ronna that he's
changed and he kisses better now. Ronna also told me a secret: that Felicia's brother (he of the
streaking and the tattoo) propositioned her sister, who was impressed when he told her he's
become a hedonist. Ronna says that her sister’s really happy having lost weight, and Ronna
wants to drop some pounds too.
I drove Ronna to this house to pick up something for her mother; then we went on to the
Heights, to walk along Montague Street. We straightened a lot out: Ronna did say that I make it
difficult for her to tell me when she's angry, which is what I figured. And she's jealous of my
financial position and my lack of responsibility in that area, something I can readily understand.
We came back to my house to watch the news and chat. I mentioned seeing Howie from the
window of the 42nd Street bus last week, and Ronna said that he's become very nervous. He
and his girlfriend are moving in together, although Felicia says that the girl would like to leave
Howie but is afraid he'd kill himself if she did - all of which may be wishful thinking on
Felicia’s part. Susan's novel is complete and I'd like to read it. I hear I'm satirized in it - shades
of Lawrence and Huxley!
Ronna and I found the announcement of the birth of Dad's partner Lennie's sister's child; the
sister's married to a Monticello trotters rider, and the announcement was so stupid, saying
"New Foal: Jennifer Mara; Mare: Karen; Stallion: Jorge." But that whole family is crazy.
After taking Ronna home, I lay awake thinking. I had a crazy thought about Jerry's marrying
Shelli and then being gay: maybe he went out with Shelli as a way of getting sexually close to
me, maybe he liked me and was too repressed at the time to go to me directly - not that I was
ever attracted to him, as he's not my type. Anyway, could that be a reason for his hatred of me?
No, it was an off-the-wall idea.
This afternoon I was lying on the beach at Rockaway right by the water, reading Doris Lessing.
Lee passed with two friends - he came over and shook hands (I almost made a faux pas and
shook 'regular' instead of 'cool-soul-hip'; it's such a problem these days). Lee was working at a
camp this summer and goes back to Hofstra Law soon. He asked if I see the Kingsman crowd,
and I said, "Mostly just Ronna" - he said he sees Hal and Laura and heard from Lewis and Li. I
almost didn't recognize Lee, as it's been years since I've seen him without a beard or mustache.
After Lee left, just a few minutes later, Peter came by in the opposite direction. This time I shook
hands right, and he sat down. He got back this morning from the Canadian Rockies and said it
was beautiful. He's been studying dance this summer with June Lewis - I nodded, having
vaguely heard of the name - and he's managing the AYH (American Youth Hostel) store, a job
he'll probably give up. Peter said his brother's still away in the White Mountains, and that he,
Peter, is thinking of subletting the Bethune Street Village ap't of some lady dancer. He had to
rush off to take his ailing dog to the vet.
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Richard Grayson
I didn't get to sleep until late last night, thinking about people. I decided why Leon takes people
to his bosom and then suddenly drops them; it's happened with Harvey, the Klayman brothers,
Corey and now Skip. He can't let people get too close to him, and when they do, he uses some
excuse not to speak with them. Very sad. And while I don't see how Skip could do such a thing
as literally prostitute himself, it's not really doing anyone any harm, except maybe Skip himself.
Why should I judge others? Yet I find myself doing it and I detest myself for it.
I spoke to Ronna early this morning, very briefly, as she was rushing to get her brother to his
psychiatrist on time. She told me she doesn't think she'll be seeing Carl anymore and then had
to go before she could explain fully. I decided to meet her at Billy's doctor's office (she had said
she wanted to see me later) and so I stood outside the building on Plaza Street and surprised
them when they came out.
We went back to Ronna's house and she made us lunch; then she and Billy changed into their
bathing suits and came to our pool. Billy really loved the water; the kid went on the raft and
played ball with me and Ronna and Jonny. It was another near-100-degree day and it was
impossible to sit outside without swimming.
While Mom was giving Billy something to eat, Ronna told me about me about last night. She
made Carl dinner, and then, in Billy's bedroom, told him about me. He said that he was seeing a
girl, too (although Ronna didn't quite believe him) and said he wanted to take her to the movies
anyway. Just before they got to Kings Plaza, Ronna felt guilty and Carl got angry - "just the way
Ivan did," she said. (Apparently I get angry in a somewhat different way.) Finally they do go in
to the theater. At the end of the evening, he told her, "Thanks anyway," so she doesn't think
she'll be hearing from him anymore. I feel more sorry for Carl than relieved for myself. I even
got the idea of fixing him up with Avis when she gets back (soon, I hope - I miss her), but that's
rather absurd.
Ronna and I took her brother back to their house, along with the kissing Guarami fish that Marc
gave Billy (Marc wanted to get rid of it and all Billy's fish had died). Ronna's sister came home,
so Ronna and I were free to have dinner at the Charcoal Chef in Canarsie. It was a pleasant
meal, and when I took her home, I came up for awhile. Harold wasn't feeling well and went
home by bus; he wouldn't let Ronna's mother or me drive him home. Mrs. C seemed mystified
by his behavior. I kissed Ronna goodnight - we've become very domestic since our trip to
Washington.
[86]
It was good to enter the world once again. Last night Avis called to ask if she and Ike could
come over. I felt okay, so I said sure. And after that, I got a call from Alice, who said she'd come
over, too. They arrived at the same time: Alice on her trusty bike; Ike determinedly hobbling up
the stairs; and Avis looking as beautiful as ever. We sat in the living room and talked; Avis and
Ike told about their summer at camp.
Ike is a very amiable, open person and I can't help liking him. Alice is taking over as manager of
Vanderveer for awhile. She said Renee's annulment hearing is today. Renee had asked her to
testify to the fact that David had promised to buy her a house and then reneged, but Alice
wouldn't do it. Everyone got on very well - a successful evening, I think.
This morning, as I returned to the campus, I found it swarming with freshmen, in for
orientation. I was even mistaken for one - imagine, a man of my position! Classics was short
today - tomorrow is our final and I've been studying hard. I ran into Debbie with some of her
hitter friends, and she said she'd call. Vito told me he'd spotted the slipcover man on campus -
but when Vito approached the guy, he said he wasn't the same person. Vito is sure it was.
In SUBO, Club fair was in progress. I helped Peggy man the Classics Club table, and I walked
around to see people. Melvin said he and Timmy had a good time, but they nearly got busted in
Tel Aviv for drugs. Pat, the new ACA president, was coordinating things; Skip, John and the
other Gay People were serving fruit salad; Sid was getting people for Young Democrats - he
caught my cold. Harry, Hesh, Ira, and George were there for APO; Bernie for Spigot; and Ronna
and Maddy at the Kingsman table.
I went to LaGuardia and chatted with the deans, then had to go to the bookstore, where I met
Mikey, who'd just cycled in from Rockaway. He said that he, Josh, John and Skip had a nice
farewell dinner with Allan in Chinatown. Also, he'd heard from Leon, who's okay and playing
stickball in Madison. After wishing Hal a good year at Rochester, I came home to study.
Monday, September 1, 1969
Today was Labor Day - the first day of September - the psychological end of summer. I awoke
groggily after a drug-induced sleep which was wracked with dreams. It was hot and
smotheringly humid today. I went to the Junction, got on the Seventh Avenue express to
Atlantic Avenue and came back home on the D train. The new exact fare system on the buses is
a drag, but I suppose it will reduce holdups of drivers.
Aunt Sydelle, Uncle Monty, Scott and the twins came over at about 2 PM. We really had a lot of
fun at the pool, playing a sort of war, with the boys on one side and Bonnie and Alice and me
on the other. Kid stuff, but fun. I can now tell the twins apart - Bonnie's taller. We had
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delicatessen for lunch. I really surprised myself by having a good time.
I'm now trying to relax on the eve of my third road test with a steaming glass of Keemun tea
with rosefruit added. I hope the rest of the month and the rest of the fall is this good.
[88]
Autumn in Brooklyn
September – November 1978
8 PM. I feel rather sad about the summer ending. It seems impossible that three months has
passed since my birthday. I’ve always thought of the new year as beginning now rather than in
January, and I still feel that way (even though this year’s Rosh Hashona is a month away). It’s
chilly out now and today was sunny but just a bit too cool for swimming.
I spent the afternoon with Josh – we drove around, played pinball at Buddy’s, chatted in the
backyard. He’s just as sour on life as he always was; maybe he’s even worse. He and Simon
went to the Eighth Street Bookshop to get an ABC to Literary Magazines by R.C. Morse, which I
told him about. He said he saw Alice there, rummaging through magazines looking for a story
by me. Laura mentioned staying with Peter Spielberg on the Cape, and Josh and Simon made
the mistake of putting Peter down in front of her; she cooled considerably after hearing their
comments.
Josh and his friend Fat Ronnie want to start a literary magazine called Moron; the name
expresses their general philosophy. Josh’s unemployment, now $125, has only 6 more weeks to
run, and he’d rather do anything than go back to driving an oil truck this winter. Josh would
like to get into advertising, but even when he offers his services for free, he’s turned down.
And the fact that he’s had no sex for six months is depressing him. All the old Jewish people in
his building bug him; they think he and Simon are lovers.
Simon is very confused about his future and may stay another month at Josh’s before he figures
out his next move – probably back to Manhattan. Josh is very broke and needs to come up with
something soon. He’s still got his “life sucks” attitude and that can’t help.
I won’t say that the condition of Josh, Simon, Ralph, Michael Kramer, etc., pleases me, but at
least in some ways I am more ‘together’ than any of them. I’m terrified about going to Albany
and it’s going to take much of the next few months to adjust to the idea of going there, but I
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really do think it will be a good move for me. True, I’m making it in desperation because I
cannot keep living at home and teaching part-time at LIU, but it looks as though nothing’s
going to “rescue” me from moving.
I don’t think I’m going to be writing all that much this fall, but once I get to Albany, I think I’ll
have time, distance and even loneliness working for me. Nothing spectacular is going to
happen between now and January. I’ll be very concerned about Dad’s surgery and Grandma
Ethel’s condition too, but there’s not much I can do about those thing. I expect Ronna and I will
still be seeing each other, though less often; I guess we both want it that way. And deep down I
don’t really think much will come of meeting Bill-Dale although I hope that something – just a
good friendship, maybe – does.
There’s a briskness in the air that seems to say “get on with it”; there’s not much else I can do
anyway. Tomorrow I’ll get a haircut and hand in my grades in the Novel course at LIU and for
the next couple of weeks I don’t really know what I’ll be doing. I do think that right now living
is more important to me than writing and that my major efforts will be here in this diary.
I don’t expect any ‘big’ acceptances or stories coming out and in a way I need that less and less.
Maybe this loss of desperation will be good for me. School is in the air, and one part of me
wishes I was beginning my graduate work in Albany now instead of in January.
This morning I worked on a letter and a letter of credit and bill of lading for Dad, who’s
ordering 3000 pairs of new jeans; I just hope they get here from Hong Kong in time for
Christmas. Marc’s car hasn’t been found yet, and I’m beginning to doubt that it ever will be.
Tuesday, September 6, 1978
9 PM. Years ago, when I was an undergraduate, my diary was mostly a collection of the doings
of other people. Once I was so involved with my Brooklyn College friends, but now there are
only a handful who mean anything to me. A few weeks ago Ronna told me that Ivan had
gotten married, but I hadn’t thought that was important enough to record until now.
Yesterday Josh spotted Stacy walking out of a restaurant with some guy and I didn’t even look
up to catch a glimpse of her. Today Elihu told me that Leon has moved to San Francisco and
that Jerry has moved back to New York City, but these things don’t really matter to me
anymore. I used to be obsessed with Ivan, Stacy, Jerry and Leon, but now I’m only mildly
interested in their lives. I feel just about as interested as someone I know only vaguely, like Les
Kravitz, who’s running for the Assembly in this district.
But I can see I’m protesting too much, and besides, I do like to tie up loose ends (that’s the
novelist in me). So let’s gossip: Mikey told me that Mike is leaving Fordham for the CUNY
Graduate Center because of personality conflicts and that Bob Lefkowitz owns a P.R. firm in
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New Jersey. Elihu mentioned that Richard Pontone is also running for the state legislature; it’s
amazing how many BC people are running for office. Rhoda Jacobs, whom Elihu is working
for, will probably make it to the Assembly this year.
Elihu said he was in a bar (gay, of course) when someone he vaguely recognized came over to
him: it was Jerry. He left Madison because he needed a change; he left with some money and
hopes to get some kind of no-show job, the kind he’s always had starting with his job for Mayor
Lindsay. Jerry’s living just down the block from Elihu on Henry Street. He said that Leon was
unhappy in Wisconsin and left flat broke for San Francisco, where he seems unable to get a job.
And Shelli’s doing just fine with her TV work; she plans to stay in Madison indefinitely. So
that’s the story with people from my past. I am curious about them, after all – but I do not want
them to be a part of my future.
This morning I went to LIU to hand in my grades. Terry Malley said he saw the article on me
on Page Six in the Post. Margaret told me she’d let me know about courses by the end of next
week. This afternoon I got a call from a Prof. Oscar Miller at Kingsborough; the chairman had
given him my resumé (I’m sure he wouldn’t have if had I not used Annette Fisher’s name). I
have an interview with Miller tomorrow although there are probably no courses available to
teach. If there are, and if they let me teach them, I’ll be very pleasantly surprised. I’m a fatalist
now, remember?
I got a much-needed haircut this afternoon (the sun has bleached my hair so nicely that the
woman who shampooed it asked, “Is that your natural color? Oh, you’re so lucky!”) and then
exercised, lay in the sun and swam (I’ve begun to enjoy being in the pool so much these last few
days). I got a nice postcard from Ian Young up in Toronto – St. Martin’s is still considering the
gay story anthology. This evening I called Michael Kramer, who’s been ill with a colitis-like
ailment (he’s going to a specialist next week although it may just be nerves) and I also spoke to
Carolyn Bennett, who’s busy trying to meet her weekly deadlines at Courier-Life.
Wednesday, September 6, 1978
5 PM. At the moment I’m annoyed with Dad for trying to make me feel guilty about not
working for him tomorrow when the jeans come in. But I’m staying out late tonight and I had
planned to for a week or more, and I don’t intend to get up early and break my back tomorrow.
I’m under no obligation to Dad. I may have to start work as early as next Tuesday and I don’t
want to give up my vacation. If he wants a helper, why can’t he ask Jonny? As you can tell, I
am feeling guilty but I refuse to let that guilt overwhelm me.
I had an interview at Kingsborough today – it certainly is a beautiful school: the architecture of

the campus is striking and it’s nice being on the ocean. Prof. Miller, the director of freshman
English, questioned me about my background, philosophy of teaching and my LIU experience; I
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disagreed with him about several things but the only “right” answers I was interested in giving
were the ones I felt.
Their remedial courses are being restructured this term and their new English 01 course is
probably beyond me, as I’ve never taught reading. I can teach their English 11, a 4-hour course
equivalent to English 10 at LIU – a remedial writing class -- and I could also teach their standard
freshman composition course, which they number 12.
If any course are available, Miller said, he’d call me between tomorrow and Monday. Classes
start on Tuesday. The only problem is that their classes meet 4 times a week and that might
interfere with my courses at LIU. Of course Kingsborough is a CUNY school and they pay
much better than LIU does; if I got 2 courses there, I might not want to take 2 courses at LIU, as
it would leave me with little time to write (or live).
The best thing to do for now is to play it by ear and see what develops. Kingsborough might
not even call me, and in a way I am a bit frightened about being in a new teaching environment.
LIU is so warm and comfortable and familiar to me by now that there’s no tension in it. But if I
am to go to Albany in the spring, I’d better get used to new places; besides, community college
experience couldn’t hurt.
I had trouble getting to sleep last night; I thought I felt very fatalistic, but really I don’t, and I’m
still not sure I’m capable of going through life with a passive attitude. And I’m not certain I
want to.
I got another letter from Bill-Dale today; he’s not bothered by my being 27, but says he can’t
come in to New York and asks if I can visit him at Rutgers, especially on weekends when his
roommate is away. I suppose I could manage to get my battered Comet down to New
Brunswick and back, but already I’m beginning to have pinpricks of doubts about Bill-Dale.
He sent me an article he’d written, an attack on the plastic America of the 1970s; he writes well,
but he’s concerned with things that I stopped being concerned with years ago. I haven’t been
an idealist for a long time now, and I lived through the years 1968-1972 and don’t think of them
as the kind of idyllic period Bill-Dale assumes they were.
It’s probably a function of our ages. I was in college during the turmoil years, the protest/hippie
years, and I went through rallies, demonstrations, office takeovers. Bill-Dale arrived at Rutgers
in 1974 in the midst of the post-Watergate recession, when all the students went back into
conservatism, fraternities and making money, so he missed the days of what we might call the
counterculture.
Bill-Dale is almost rigid in his idealism while I am a pragmatist, willing to settle for half a loaf of
whole wheat bread, and I am not offended by shopping malls, McDonald’s and discos – or
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people who smoke pot. So I’m not sure we’re on the same wavelength, but I would still like to
meet him.
Thursday, September 7, 1978
5 PM. Last night I had one of the worst cases of insomnia I’ve ever had. I lay in bed sleepless
until well after 6 AM, when I had a dream of rage against my mother. Then I awoke at 9 AM,
when Pearl Hochstadt called, inviting me to a preview of a paper on grading she’ll be giving.
Today was one of those surreal days.
Why couldn’t I sleep? My mind was whirring with so many different thoughts: Ronna and how
we haven’t been as close as I’d hoped; Bill-Dale and his dogmatic idealism and what might
come of that; despite myself, guilt over not working for Dad, worry over Dad’s surgery and
Grandma Ethel’s illness; the un-September-like hot weather; the details of the House
Assassination Committee testimony, on TV all day – Mrs. Connally saying she heard Jackie
moan, “They’ve killed my husband. . . I’m holding his brain in my hand”; of the possibility of
teaching at Kingsborough and the fear that that arises within me; the wonder at how I can
possibly move to Albany if I can’t cope with little changes; Andreas telling Alice and April that
I’ve gone the farthest of any of them in my career; my inability or unwillingness to write any
fiction in the past three weeks; the outbreak of Legionnaire’s disease in the Garment Center;
Jerry being back in town; money worries; a story beginning with the sentence, “Only failures
need to succeed”; and so much more.
I feel very unsettled; I am having difficulty adjusting to the changes and the forthcoming
changes in my life. Formerly I had always tried to make sense of my confusion through my
writing, but I don’t seem able to do that any longer. I haven’t written a first-rate story since late
July, when they took my rented IBM typewriter away.
Am I doing the right thing in going to Albany? What if I hate it up there? What if everyone
hates me? What if I can’t write up there? What if I can’t survive on my own? Dr. Lippmann
invited me to visit him, but I don’t want to appear as confused as I was when I was his patient a
decade ago. I don’t know what it is I do need – probably just time – and it’s hard for me to
learn patience.
I met Alice last night and we had dinner at Shakespeare’s and brought each other up on current
goings-on. Alice and Philip have been fighting, but she proposed to him, asking him to marry
her in February 1980, but Philip said no, he doesn’t want to marry here and he wanted to live
with her only for financial reasons.
Philip’s comedy, Hotel Marilyn, is going into rehearsal soon; if it makes off-Broadway, Philip
might be able to get out of his financial bind, which was compounded when his apartment was
robbed recently. Alice feels that her career is at a standstill; although she met her goal of
making $3,000 freelancing this year, she’s beginning to feel, as April says, that they’re doing
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“hack work.” Andreas lectured them and told them to emulate me and do more “important”
writing. I don’t think either of them can afford it.
After dinner Alice and I walked among what she called the “hoi polloi” along Fifth Avenue –
she confuses the word with its opposite. (I have similar problems with “nonplussed” and
“enervated.”) We played Scrabble and a word game and of course Alice won. She asked me if
she’s changed since moving to Manhattan. I said no. Alice told of meeting Hal for lunch (that
fool still hasn’t finished his dissertation) and of her desire to stir up trouble and call Scott again.
She also embarrassed me by reading Disjointed Fictions aloud.
Friday, September 8, 1978
5 PM. Again I had terrible insomnia last night, not getting to sleep until 5:30 AM. With three of
these difficult nights in a row, there’s no question that I’m in a state of turmoil. It all concerns
moving to Albany, of course. I torture myself with the question: Am I doing the right thing? I
am quite terrified of being 300 miles away from all my friends, family and familiar
surroundings. My doubts come in two varieties: psychological and practical.
Practically speaking, I don’t know if a Doctor of Arts degree will do me any good at this point
in my career. Is it worth spending the money? Psychologically, of course, I have doubts about
my ability to function away from everyone and everything I’ve known. I fear a breakdown, a
total inability to function, and I wonder if I’m wise to just throw myself into a phobic situation
without leading up to it – by getting an apartment in the city, for example. Secretly I’ve been
hoping that something would happen – a miracle – to “save” me from going to Albany.
Last night I got the idea that maybe I should apply to Rutgers, which is much closer, and where
I might feel more comfortable. But then again, I’m not sure I want to go to graduate school at
all. Oh, I’m so confused it’s no wonder I can’t sleep. I feel myself becoming ill and I’m almost
certain to come down with a cold.
Outside it’s turned rainy and very cool – it may go down to 50° tonight. See, I don’t want to be
thought of as a coward – which is pretty much what Mom assumed when I attempted to speak
to her this morning. I’ve told all my friends I’m going to Albany, and I suppose I don’t want to
look foolish – although I’m sure most of them couldn’t care less, or, like Alice (who said to me,
“Albany is not the only way to leave home”), actively discourage me from going up there.
I just don’t know what to do. It’s only 4 months away. I know I have to trust my feelings, but
at this point I can’t sort out my feelings to the stage where I know what’s what. There’s nobody
to talk to, either – I wish I had a counselor or therapist.
Nobody called from Kingsborough so I guess that’s out – and in a way, teaching there would
have provided me with the extra income to increase my options. I feel a bit suicidal, a I can see
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no happy solution – but on the hand, this is going to be a growing-up transition as painful as
earlier ones. I haven’t felt this lost since Shelli left me seven years ago; I went through a terrible
time then and I expect another terrible time coming up. Is this pain necessary and useful or is
there an easier way to gain independence?
Last night Alison called and asked if I could help her look for an apartment while Ronna’s away
in Pennsylvania. Now, Alison has left her own past to start a new life in a strange city, so why
can’t I? Am I, unlike Ronna or Alison or Avis or others, some kind of delicate emotional
cripple?
If tonight is another sleepless night, I think I will go insane. And this is supposed to be my
“vacation”! I did write a little last evening, but I feel too pressured to be creative. I wish I could
work this all out by myself, but maybe I need professional help.
Meanwhile, I feel exhausted and lost and feverish. I see myself getting ill because of lack of
sleep and because it would almost be a relief. I’m going to try to get out of the house now,
though, and see if I can lift my spirits. This is the third dark and depressing Friday in a row. I
feel too depressed to deal with any of my responsibilities and obligations.
Saturday, September 9, 1978
11 PM. I feel considerably more cheerful now than I have been feeling. Yesterday, after writing
my diary entry, I went out to dinner and a movie, the very good Buddy Holly Story. I identified
with Buddy, who was an innovative artist going his own way. And I slept well last night,
breaking the insomnia cycle at last – so even if I don’t fall asleep right away tonight, I won’t feel
so desperate.
See, I think I really do want to move to Albany. Today, when I read about the program in the
AWP Newsletter, it excited me. It’s just that I’m terribly frightened. But I want to face that fear
and move past it – think how proud and happy I’ll be then.
This morning the perfect-bound copies of Disjointed Fictions arrived, and they look so much
nicer than the saddle-stitched ones. Despite the flaws in the book’s type, layout and design, I’m
proud of the material inside.
Today’s mail also brought a book by Richard Kostelanetz on the politics of grants – he’s an
egomaniac but a very engaging writer, and most of the time he’s right. The dilemma for a
young writer like myself seems to be walking a narrow tightrope, trying to please the
establishment (CAPS and NEA grant committees) while maintaining artistic integrity. It ain’t
easy.
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I long for respectability. My book’s bio notes include my “establishment” credits: Bread Loaf
Scholar, LIU teacher, Fiction Collective, Texas Quarterly, Shenandoah, Epoch. And the material in
Disjointed Fictions isn’t likely to please the powers that be.
But what do I care, right? I haven’t been writing lately and I don’t even care that much. I refuse
to keep repeating my earlier successes and must move on to newer subjects and forms. Sending
out ten submissions today made me realize the paucity of first-rate material I have on hand.
And yes, really, I’d rather not write than turn out second-rate stuff. I told Louis Strick that I’m
still an apprentice, and I have to believe that; I have confidence in my work, but I have a long
way to go.
I visited my grandparents today; also visiting them was their remarkable neighbor Jean Grey,
who read my book and said, “You are as crazy as a bedbug, but you’re intelligent, I can see
that.” Jean is 80, the widow of a dentist. She drives her own car, reads voraciously, goes to
museums and keeps up with current events.
We had an interesting conversation; most people would probably think old people have
nothing to say, but they’re wrong. A woman like Jean is as young in her mind as many 25-year-
olds. She gave me a good line about nepotism: “His father took a liking to him and made him a
partner.”
And she told about this young girl who loves to do somersaults. I saw her on my way out: a
scraggly-blond barefoot brat, she did a somersault on request for me. Jean had asked her how
she, Jean, could learn to do somersaults and the girl said, “It’s easy. Just get young.”
Grandma wondered why she hadn’t seen me lately; I felt bad that I’ve neglected her, especially
now. The lotion is clearing up some of her red, but it’s also spreading to new places. I don’t
think Grandma Ethel has any idea of how serious a condition her lymphoma is – or maybe she
refuses to acknowledge it.
We had coffee and talked. Grandpa Herb repeated the same old stories I’ve heard a zillion
times before – like him having to walk me on the boardwalk at 5 AM because my crying
annoyed everyone in the bungalow court. His brother Jack is in the hospital and seems to be
dying: “He looks like Abe did at the end.”
Sunday, September 10, 1978
I just got off the phone with Mason, who’s back in Rockaway after landing a teaching job at the
junior high school near Grandma Ethel’s house – the same junior high he and Mikey and
everyone in Belle Harbor went to. It’s nice that Mason finally has, as he called it, “a real job,”
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and he’ll be doing well financially now. And maybe we can see more of each other. (I did not
mention my moving to Albany.)
We gossiped a lot. Mason doesn’t know that Libby’s sleeping with Grant and he was jealous
that Brian McIntosh wrote, after visiting Portland, that he’d “like to take Libby back to South
Dakota with me.” Mikey thinks Mason should be over Libby by now, and perhaps he’s right,
but I’m not going to be the one to tell him that she’s living with a guy.
David White and Angie visited Mason upstate and he was surprised when they slept in the
same bed. But David told him that he just happened to be around when Angie and Libby’s
brother Chuck broke up and that their relationship is mostly a friendship: he knows Angie’s got
to grow. Mason speculated that Angie brings out the paternal instinct in all of us; I know I feel
that way about her.
Mason mentioned running into Stacy, who finally went to her dreamland, California – and, as
expected, she returned terribly disappointed. Stacy had always set up unreasonable
expectations of some kind of paradise out there. Mason says she sees her disenchantment as a
kind of metaphor for her whole life – though perhaps that was just jet lag talking.
I told Mason about Jerry’s return and Leon’s move to San Francisco; he’s been trying to reach
Leon in Madison for months. Dave Cohen is still working as a carpenter and Peter, who moved
up to management in that Heights real estate firm, is thinking about buying a house in
Rockaway. I also spoke to Mikey, who made that Criminal Justice Clinic he’s been wanting to
get into.
Last night I went over to Ronna’s house to help Alison with her apartment-hunting. She likes
working at Oxford University Press (imagine a company that’s 500 years old), and I gave her
the suggestion that she’ll probably be better off living in Manhattan; she doesn’t like the long
commute to Canarsie and has been taking Dramamine before going on the subway every day.
Alison knows nothing about neighborhoods, so I told her that basically, she has the choice
between Murray Hill (within walking distance of work), Chelsea and the Upper West Side. We
had tea and watched The Paper Chase (the TV show). I told her she shouldn’t leave the door
unlocked, as she had it when I walked in. (Barbara was on a date; Billy was at his
grandparents’; Mrs. C was in San Francisco on business; and Ronna, of course, is still in
Pennsylvania).
This afternoon I drove into Manhattan, and at the Baronet saw Woody Allen’s Interiors. Starkly
pessimistic, very Bergmanesque, the film sometimes falls victim to its own seriousness and
seems rather pretentious. (Some of those lines the actors deliver about their emotional angst
evoked titters in the audience.)
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By making the only vibrant character a vulgar widow, Allen seems to be saying that it’s better
not to be an intellectual or a sensitive person. God, though I admire his attempting a serious art
film about creative, neurotic, doomed people – I just think he went overboard in eliminating all
traces of humor.
I have a sensibility similar to Woody Allen’s, and if I have any role model, it’s he. I think that
I’d love to – that I have to – eventually write a novel akin to Allen’s films, or those of Mazursky.
But to do that, I need to experience more of life. I cannot write about the present until I have
transcended it and become, in some way, a different person.
5 PM. I haven’t been called by anyone at Kingsborough, so it looks as though I’ll have to hope
that LIU comes up with two courses for me.
I got a letter from the chair of the English Department at SUNY Albany; apparently I
misunderstood him and there will be no fellowship money available for the spring. So unless
some other scholarship comes through, I would have to take out a student loan, which is
something I am afraid of doing. It would be so much money and very difficult to pay back.
Mom says I should just declare bankruptcy like so many others, but I’m not sure that makes me
feel very comfortable. I might not be able to get credit or loans if I did that.
So, as of now, I’m up in the air about going to Albany. My parents and friends will probably
see my wavering as a failure of nerve, and perhaps it is. Oh I don’t know. . . These are difficult
times or me, and a good night’s sleep, like last night’s, is a blessing. I feel I’m in danger of
becoming unglued.
I got this really snotty rejection letter from an editor who claimed that my type hurt his eyes –
the same type I used on Disjointed Fictions. I feel like a failure sometimes.
So, to balance the scale, here’s a letter I got from Wesley Strick today: “Just a note to say that my
father lent me your material. I’m now sifting through the stories, laughing knowingly (albeit
nervously) and (discreetly) dropping your name to my closest friends. The moment I’ve
finished, I’ll get in touch. If you can manage that longest of journeys into Manhattan (vide
Podhoretz, Making It), I look forward to meeting with you.”
Even if nothing comes of it (and I fully expect nothing will), I am cheered by that note and
would be interested in meeting Wesley, whom I am sure is more polished than I could ever be.
Last night I found myself writing poetry; the material didn’t seem to come out in fiction. I
dreamed of Shelli living in Oregon and coming to visit me with Arthur Bergman, a classmate I
hardly knew and whom I haven’t thought of in years. The past seems to be closing in on me.
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On Saturday at Rockaway, I thought of the Rosh Hashona weekend I spent there ten years ago
while we were painting the house. I still have photos of myself on the beach and the terrace
taken on that occasion. I remember a terrible anxiety attack I had at night trying to walk across
the street to visit Grandma Sylvia. I had a scarf on, one of those things that was popular then,
and I abandoned it in the gutter.
Ten years ago I woke up on a Monday morning and decided – out of fear – that I couldn’t begin
college as scheduled. I’ve never felt so haunted by the past. Maybe I shouldn’t dwell on it, but
I need to get in touch with my 1968 seventeen-year-old self. (I have a tissue in my mouth as I
write this – what a revolting habit.)
This morning I thought of my sociology prof, Katayama, telling us, “To be free means to be an
intellectual. And to be an intellectual means to pay the price of loneliness.” He urged me to
become a sociologist, said I had a social scientist’s mind.
I have a perverse mind. I wrote a bad review of Disjointed Fictions under an assumed name
(Vivian Sarrett) and submitted it to various magazines.
It’s been two weeks since I’ve seen Ronna, and I don’t know if it matters. I miss her, but I can’t
keep insisting she call me, the way Susan does with her.
9 PM. The last day has brought so many changes. Oscar Miller from Kingsborough called at
7:30 last night, while I was at Carolyn Bennett’s to bring her my book and some information on
the Fiction Collective she needed for an article. Mom called me at the Bennetts’, and I phoned
Oscar, who gave me a course – English 11B13G, a remedial class that meets from 3 PM – 4 PM
every day except Friday.
I got to Kingsborough early today, at 1 PM, wearing a sport jacket despite the warmth. Oscar
(he calls me Richard, so I can call him Oscar) told me about the class and gave me a lowdown
on what I am to do with them.
Essentially the class is made up of those who passed the CUNY reading test but failed the
CUNY writing test. I went to Evelyn, the departmental secretary, and got a roll book, copies of
the texts and a whole bunch of forms to fill out. I need my transcripts and three letters of
recommendation, but I can get those.
I was having trouble finding my way around the campus, but I finally got to Personnel and
filled out a W-4 form. Then I met with my class, in one of the old temporary buildings. They
had just come from their mandatory lab section.
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The class is all very young and mostly white; they were pretty confused for their first day of
class, and I was more than a little confused myself. But the class went well except for the fact
that so many of them are pissed that they had to be in Remedial in the first place.
Back at the English Department, which had just had a meeting, I waited for over an hour,
watching the chaos, until I had persevered so long that Oscar relented and gave me another
course – a 23, the second sequence of the remedial track, that meets every day but Thursday
from 12:40-1:40 PM. I’ll see them tomorrow.
Exhausted after being bombarded by so many new experiences, I came home to supper and a
hot bath. Kingsborough pays $22 an hour, so I’ll be making about $150-$176 a week, depending
on holidays. That’s almost twice as much as I made at LIU.
Now comes the dilemma: Should I take a course at LIU this fall? I wouldn’t take two, but if I
could get a class between 9-10 AM or 10-11 AM, I might do it. It will mean more work than I’m
used to, but I’m afraid to let my connection with LIU to slip. Kingsborough might not hire me
next term and then where will I be? (Not in Albany – I guess this decides that.)
Oh well, I will have time to think about it. Maybe I should work harder – but then I’m afraid I
won’t have time for my writing. The first three days of the week I’ll be at KCC (I’ll use that
abbreviation from here on in) from about noon until 4 PM, and I need time to write, exercise,
dawdle, and be lazy.
This seems very unreal; a week ago it seemed impossible. I’ve been so comfortable at LIU and
it’s difficult for me to adjust to KCC – but it’s probably good for me psychologically. Everyone
in the department seems fairly nice, but there are so many faces, I can’t keep their names
straight. I still have to get my ID card and parking sticker. Whew!
As I said, I was at Carolyn’s last night; she is so incredibly busy that I’m in awe of her
organization. It’s nice to have a neighbor I can discuss the small-press scene with.
Grandma Ethel and Grandpa Herb came by after going to the hospital. The doctor told
Grandma Ethel that she’s improved slightly but it will take a lot of time.
I got sent a xerox copy of my Joanne Vicente article in The People’s Almanac 2, out in October.
“R.G.” is given credit and my name appears on the contributors’ page.
7 PM. These are very stressful times for me. I was wide-awake last night, trying to decide what
to do about LIU. I finally decided that I’m not going to take any courses there. Monetarily, the
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benefits would be about $35 extra a week, and at KCC I’m till earning $1,100 more than I would
be at LIU.
I remember how unhappy I was when I was teaching, coordinating the BC publishing
conference, working for the Fiction Collective and trying to find time to write. Both courses I’m
teaching are unfamiliar to me, and I have to prepare 8 one-hour class lessons a week – plus
mark a lot of papers.
In a way I dread leaving LIU the same way I couldn’t tear myself away from Brooklyn College
when I started the M.A. program at Richmond. I’ve made many friends at LIU; I’ll miss the
office coffeeklatsch and Margaret and my little cubbyhole and the elevators and lunch at
Junior’s and everything.
But I must move on. Kingsborough is a different kind of place – almost all the students are very
young, fresh out of high school, nearly ten years younger than I. I have to walk a great deal
across a real campus to get to my classes; it’s pleasanter than an elevator but less convenient.
The drive to school is shorter at KCC, and I paid $5 for my parking permit today. I also got my
ID and my mailbox; my office will be C305, right near the English Department. None of the
professors talk to me, but none of them did at LIU at first – it took me several terms to get to
know them.
Fall is really here. It’s dark now and it’s quite chilly. I feel very much like the kid who started
Brooklyn College nine years ago. I can understand how hard it is for my students to adjust. I
have made only one friend, another adjunct, Anna Bono.
My English 23 students seemed very hostile and very bored. I tried, but I could reach only a
few of them. I’m going to have to help them with reading comprehension and I’ve never done
that before. Anyway, it seems I have enough to do without taking on another course at LIU.
Now that Taplinger is interested in doing a book, I need time to write and revise my stories. I
may be able to move out soon – I’ve got to decide what I want to do with my life. With my
schedule the way it is, I don’t have to get up early at all (and tomorrow I don’t have to be in
school till 3 PM and on Friday I get to leave early, at 1:40 PM).
I am having fun with my English 11 students; we seem to like each other. I gave them an essay
to do today: “Who Are You? What Are You Doing Here?” I will have to take some to
somebody in charge, as about ten of the students don’t think they belong in a remedial course
and they certainly write better than those at LIU.
I can’t blame them for being upset about taking a 5-hour course for only 2 credits. But it’s bad
that I have to deal with their resentment. Anyway, I am interested in my classes and I welcome
the challenge of teaching them: it’s a lot like teaching high school.
[101]
Richard Grayson
Michael Kramer phoned last night, and I promised I’d given in his resume at LIU. He’s still
feeling ill and has lost 10 pounds – and Michael’s so skinny to begin with.
The Helen Review accepted “Complacencies of the Peignoir,” my first acceptance of any value in
months. Even though it’s a one-page “story,” I’m glad they took it. Right now I face difficulty
in writing my name.
7 PM. Against my better judgment, I took a course at LIU: English 12, the C hour – 10 AM on
Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays. I’ll have only an hour and a half to get to my 12:40 PM
class at Kingsborough. God knows when I’ll get a chance to write or to socialize or to live.
Hard work does scare me.
During my 11 class today, I felt myself slipping out of my body, that old anxiety-attack feeling.
I let it flow over me, the way Weekes and others say you’re supposed to do, and it passed fairly
quickly.
I took the class at LIU because I wanted to. I know that. Margaret awoke me out of a dream
this morning and I told her I couldn’t teach a class from
10 AM to 12 PM. But then I raced over to LIU, giving Margaret a list of the hours I could be
available; tonight Dr. Tucker called me. I have to rush over for a meeting after my class at
Kingsborough, but I’ll manage.
If I can get through the next two weeks, which will be very hectic (especially with Dad going in
for surgery), I can get through the term – because the holidays come up and then midterms and
the term at Kingsborough ends before Christmas.
Mondays and Wednesdays will be the worst, with 3 classes from 10 AM to 4 PM. Thursdays
will be easy with one class from 3-4 PM. Tuesdays I can sleep late, and on Friday I’ll be finished
early. But this is my first full-time job and I’m scared.
The fact that I’ll be making $3,100 over the next 4 months doesn’t excite me because the money
isn’t real to me yet. Never having had any money of my own, I can’t imagine what that kind of
salary will mean. I suppose I can manage, and I shouldn’t anticipate trouble.
I haven’t been writing much anyway lately and maybe I’ve had too much time rather than too
little. But I’ve never worked 5 days a week before, and so much has been thrown at me all at
once.
I have sore legs from walking across the campus and a sore throat from teaching, and while I
turned my back, summer disappeared – you couldn’t go out without a jacket today.
[102]
Maybe what scares me is that I’m now actually becoming an adult, fully able to take care of
himself. It’s overwhelming. I called Alice and she was thrilled that I’m not going to Albany. I
spoke to Teresa, who was depressed that her lover, Ray, split for New Mexico after a big
argument – in just six weeks they had become very close.
Bill-Dale replied to my letter with all the intolerant idealism he possesses. He was very turned
off by my “cynicism about the ‘60s” and my pragmatism. His philosophy is very mixed-up, but
then, he is 21: “Yes, we do come from two different generations. Yes, you have lost the idealism
of youth. I have no desire to see that much of you, but I would still like to see you to interview
for the book [his project on bisexuality, obviously some sort of self-justification] . . . The one
thing which energizes me is meeting driven, idealistic people. Meeting idealists turned
pragmatists (it’s 1978 and we’re older now, Jerry Rubin’s Growing Up premise) or ‘70s apathetic,
I can tolerate but I don’t go out of the way for. . . Love & strength, Bill-Dale.”
Twerp. No, I can’t write him off like that. He’s just young and I was like him once. Though he
hates smugness, he is smug – the way we were so self-righteous about everything eight or ten
years ago. I think I’ll use his three letters as a story. “Portrait of the Idealist as a Young Man”
so something, perhaps? I’d include my own letters, but that might make it less interesting. Bill-
Dale is looking for a carbon copy of himself, and he’ll never find it. (I know.)
Yesterday Brad had another ad in the Voice: “Love is blind and cannot find me.” I wrote him
back: “Love may be blind, but I’ve got contact lenses.”
5 PM. I was very upset last evening and finally phoned Martin Tucker and told him I couldn’t
take the course. He was pissed and said he understood. God knows why I did it that way. My
intentions were good, he said as he marched off to the netherworld.
I seem to have trouble, as Mrs. Ehrlich pointed out, moving from one stage of life to the next. I
always end up breaking ties in a stupid way (vide Baumbach and the Fiction Collective, my
therapists, whatever). But now I’m at Kingsborough and I’m happy. I can get an apartment
and somehow I’ll get the rent paid.
I don’t have to drive myself crazy. I can sleep late and have time for writing and enjoying life.
Albany is out. Maybe I’ve fucked things up again – God knows, my parents believe that and
they disapprove of my decision – but this is what I’m comfortable with.
The extra $675 just wasn’t worth it to me. To feel relaxed, as I do now, for the first time all
week, is worth a great deal more. I’ll still be making over $2100 for the term, more money than
I’ve ever earned, and I have a real job.
[103]
Richard Grayson
I am becoming adjusted to Kingsborough – today I found my office a lovely room overlooking

the first floor where the students congregate, with my own phone extension and a filing cabinet
and room to move around in.
My 23 class went very well today. I have their trust now, and I’m really looking forward to the
term. So if I’ve fucked things up, I’m ending up feeling pretty happy. I don’t feel oppressed
now and I’m as comfortable in my classrooms as I ever was – maybe even more so. (I think it
has something to do with a more fluid environment; things are looser than at LIU.)
And I’ll be able to bring in money. Yesterday a check for $25 arrived from The Mississippi Mud,
part of their CCLM grant.
Today is a cool, dark, drizzly day, a perfect day to end the week, a day you can get lost in. Oh,
maybe last night had something to do with Bill-Dale’s letter; I woke up I the middle of the night
feeling angry at him. Who is he to judge me? He’s 21 and I was 21 in 1972 and probably just as
smart and snot-nosed as he is. God, can young people be so pompous and self-righteous and
intolerant!
When I was 21, I knew everything. Of course I’d never worked a day in my life. I know I
haven’t had a hard time of it, but since then I did work for $2 an hour shelving books in the
library and being a messenger and a department store clerk (all while I had a masters degree)
and after I had two masters degrees I worked in a nursing home.
Of course I’ve had an easy life, but I’ve seen more of life than Bill-Dale Bonhoffer has. He
makes the Sixties his god; well, I prefer to live in the present, whether that means the Seventies
or the Eighties or the Nineties (what do they call the first decade of the new century anyway?
The Single Numbers?).
Anyway, I’ve discovered that 21-year-olds are less mature than I am. Do I feel smug? No. Bill-
Dale is the one with all the answers – love, magic, V-signs. No wonder Kent State and the
Chicago convention police riot happened: even though the young people (we) were right, we
were insufferable about being right.
So I’m a bit too cynical, a bit too superior (my worst stories are those in which I feel superior to
my characters). Give me time: I’m sure that the older I get, the more unsure of myself I will be.
8 PM. I am feeling comfortable with myself. I like the way I look, and even if I’m a fuck-up, I do
seem to be doing all right. Elaine Taibi called yesterday to say that she was looking through a
stack of Flatbush Lifes when she found the article about me. She liked “Hitler” and found it very
[104]
moving. She and Maddy Berg were trying to think up a way to get me into the Alumni Bulletin
without my knowing it; they’re under the mistaken assumption that I’m modest. Well, publicly
I am – very. I can’t take accomplishment well – like all narcissists, I really don’t like myself all
that much and want all my praise to come from myself.
I went out to dinner at the Floridian, and when I returned, Brad called. “I said I’d call you after
Labor Day,” he told me. “I just didn’t say which Labor Day.” Brad reminded me that we’ve
known each other over 9 years “although we’ve probably had 27 minutes of conversation in all
that time.”
He put the ad in the Voice because Danny has gone away to Dartmouth, and though their
relationship had lasted for two and a half years (an incredibly long time, to my way of
thinking), it was time to move on.
Brad can’t stand the thought of being alone; he’s really a very conservative homebody. In fact,
he’s going to move out of Manhattan when his lease expires next year (he doesn’t really take
advantage of the Manhattan nightlife, and 14th Street I becoming very seedy).
He’s still Brad, still playing the big brother, concerned about growing old, very practical but
melodramatic. Anyway, we said we’d get together one of these days – which probably means
1980.
I picked Alice up at 7:30 PM, just when she and her mother were about to have one of their
usual sessions. Alice is leaving for Europe in a couple of weeks and her mother’s following her
in early October; Kat will be provided for by a trio of good-natured friends who will alternate
feeding days.
Alice, on the drive downtown, told me that she’s having fights with Philip and even began
responding to Voice ads again. We were a bit afraid to get out by the church on Willoughby
Ave., but finally we did and went upstairs as Charlene Victor, the very down-to-earth culture
czar of Brooklyn, was extolling the virtues of the Downtown Cultural Center and Janice and her
co-coordinator.
We saw a scene from a playwriting workshop, some simulated acting lessons, heard a jazz
group, and downstairs we looked at the paintings and sculpture. Dolores Rosamine was there,
looking as strong and vibrant as ever – and Harry Steinberg the pornographer and hack writer –
and Richard Rutner, Janice’s painter friend who administers the Visual Arts program out in
Hempstead.
I spoke to all of them and to some calligraphers (one woman told me she’s known Louis Strick
for years and “he does things that lose money, just for the love of it”). Janice showed us her
resumé, which lists me and Alice as references!
[105]
Richard Grayson
The spirit of that place is something to see – there’s a great deal of energy there. I wish I was
poor enough to apply for a CETA job so I could teach writing in a place like that.
I took Alice back into Manhattan and we stopped at the Eighth Street Bookshop – where I found
Disjointed Fictions right in the front of their window! I was exultant. I felt, as I drove home to
Brooklyn, that I had conquered New York. I’m in love with this city, its energy and diversity
and I don’t want to leave. Like the TV commercials say, I love New York.
I got home just in time to see the final rounds of the Ali-Spinks rematch and to see Ali crowned
heavyweight champ for the third time. I think he’s the greatest man in America today – at 36, to
keep fighting. In the spring I was sickened by his defeat, but last night his victory gave me new
hope. I just hope he gives up boxing for good now.
This afternoon Josh and I went to a very crowded poetry reading and heard John Ashbery and
Michael Lally. We couldn’t get seats and we couldn’t even see them, so we left early.
8 PM. It’s been a terrific weekend and it’s too bad it has to end. But I don’t have to get up early
in the morning and that’s a blessing.
I spent most of the day with Ronna. I didn’t realize how much I missed her until I saw her. She
looked terrific, thinner than I’ve ever known her to be. I walked in while she was drying her
hair.
Alison, who was at Mass, finally decided to take an apartment in Canarsie, a few blocks from
Ronna’s house. Ronna’s sister loves her job at the health clinic in the Bronx and is seeing a guy
she works with who lives in Rockaway.
Ronna and I drove out to Long Island on the Interboro, Grand Central and Northern State; as
we drove, we talked about we’ve been doing. And Ronna told me about her friend Pat in
University Park, and Phil the smelly British weightlifter and how her grandmother stopped
talking to all her relatives over invitations to various affairs.
We walked around the mall in Roosevelt Field and had lunch in Lum’s (Ollieburgers),
discussing life in academia. Her job at Metro is basically a bimmie position, but it’s a holding
action; things should go better when Susan returns from Europe. (Susan, incidentally, does not
think that badly of me, and John Richards actually likes me a lot).
Marvin keeps trying to set Ronna up with his friends but that’s mostly sublimation; also, he’ll
feel more secure with Susan if Ronna’s paired off with a guy.
[106]
Back at my house, we made love – it was very sweet. I’m crazy about Ronna that way; I like
making her feel good. She wonders sometimes if it’s wise of us to continue to have a physical
relationship, but there’s no reason not to: it doesn’t stop either of us from looking elsewhere.
And I only feel possessive when we’re alone in bed; otherwise I’ve managed not to be jealous.
Today she was telling me about the guy in Middletown who was married and how she used to
ride with him on his motorcycle to Hershey.
I love Ronna as though she were my sister. I suppose it’s naïve to say that and undoubtedly it
will all backfire one day but for now our relationship is working well. I am gay, after all – or
that’s the excuse I give for not allowing myself to get hurt with her.
I say “I love you” to Ronna but she doesn’t reciprocate; still, she makes it clear how she feels
about me. One thing she can’t stand is my pomposity and self-importance about my work, but
today she said she’s beginning to think that all things I say about myself are true.
Yesterday’s reading was a bust, but it did inspire me to write some prose poems last night. I
think I’ve found a form that suits what I’ve been trying to say of late. I have a renewed
confidence in my work.
Yesterday The Westbere Review took “In The Sixties,” one of my better pieces, and that plus the
Helen Review acceptance, seeing The People’s Almanac 2 piece, and getting a check from The
Mississippi Mud all make me feel that I still have it.
Actually, things are going so well, I’m almost terrified. What payments will Fate make in return
for all this? Next week is Dad’s surgery and I’m trying not to think too much about it. I
supposes he’s doing the same thing. Avis sent a postcard from the Côte de Azur, where she,
Helmut and Heinz are sunning themselves, eating delicious French meals and getting the
summer that missed Bremen this year.
The past week has turned out to be one of the nicest of the year: only good things seemed to
happen. I feel lucky and I know this can’t last so I’m going to enjoy it while I can.
I’ve got to call George now – he sent me a letter about my helping him teach creative writing to
Harrisburg high school kids one weekend in November.
7 PM. I’m very glad I decided not to teach at LIU. I would have been a total wreck if I had to
run around so much. I only spend about 4 hours at Kingsborough, true, but they are smack in
the middle of the day and I relish the spare time I have on either side of classes.
[107]
Richard Grayson
My 23 class is very dense and they can’t seem to adjust to having such a young teacher. One
woman in particular, a nursing student, gave me a rough time. At LIU my whiteness made me
stand out and so my age didn’t seem very much of a factor. At Kingsborough I look
undistinguishable from most of the students.
I heard one guy say that he could teach the class; it looks a lot easier than it is, of course. But
anyway, this is their problem, not mine. After teaching for almost 4 years, I’ve got no hang-ups
about being in front of the classroom. I’m getting paid well enough so that I can stand my
students’ obnoxiousness – and they can get a surprise when their final grade comes.
I planned out most of my week’s lessons, but there’s still more preparation to be done. Things
will get easier after these two weeks when we have four holidays in the next two weeks. By
then I should be used to them and they should be used to me.
Stephen Sponk told me that Elihu’s teaching a course at LIU and has an assistantship at CUNY
– good for him. I still don’t really have any friends at KCC yet, but maybe I don’t need any.
(Oh, come off it, Grayson: one can always use friends.)
I called George last night, a woman answered, and I think I’d interrupted something. I told
George I’d come into Harrisburg on Thursday, November 9 and help him teach creative writing
to “the cream of the crop” of Pennsylvania creative writing students at a conference at the Host
Inn (it’s sponsored by the State Press Association).
I’ll only have to cancel one class, and it should be fun; besides, it will look good on my resumé.
(Speaking of resumés, I got a letter from Neil Schaeffer thanking me for my “fine” one and
saying he was sorry that there were no jobs at BC.)
George told me he’ll be coming in three weeks for the Book Fair, to be held this year at the
Martin Luther King High School across from Lincoln Center. I told him he could stay here or
possibly at one of my Manhattan friends’ apartments.
Last night President Carter announced that the Camp David summit had ended with an
agreement on basic principles between Egypt and Israel. A final peace treaty is months away, if
it ever comes (and there are rumblings that it might not), but it was thrilling to see President
Sadat and Prime Minister Begin hugging each other and pledging friendship. And certainly
this can only help Carter with his popularity problems.
Today was a humid, drizzly day, very uncomfortable. I worked on sending out submissions
after I got home from school; there doesn’t seem to be enough time to work on my stories and
poetry.
Suddenly I feel I have nothing more to write, and that scares and frustrates me. Other days I
could write dozens of pages, maybe even a novel. Is it just that nothing’s happening or am I
numbed to things? Or, even worse, am I repressing something?
[108]
Let’s play a game. (Why not? I have a dozen lines left.) If I were an animal today, I’d be a
whooping crane. If I were a color, I’d be sky blue. If I were a planet, I’d be Mercury. If I were a
novel, I’d be Cold Comfort Farm. If I were a food, I’d be strawberry jello (as in J.D. Salinger’s
quote, “where there’s smoke, there’s usually strawberry jello”). If I were a piece of furniture, I’d
be a rocking chair. If I were a state, I’d be Kansas. If I were a President, I’d be Benjamin
Harrison. If I were a drink, I’d be Kool-Aid. If I were a poet, I’d be Mayakovsky. If I were a
baseball team, I’d be the Oakland Athletics.
And what does all this say about my present state of mind? I’d rather not know. (I must be
depressing.) Maybe I’ll analyze this in a week or a year and a half from now.
5 PM. I think what I was feeling last night was dissatisfaction. My 23 class is so immature I can
hardly get through a lesson with them. They interrupt, giggle, make silly noises – I’ve never
had such a bad class. I understand now that the “C.C.” after Kingsborough stands for Country
Club rather than Community College for most students. It’s a glorified extension of high
school.
The 11 students have just come in and so they don’t understand the system yet; I can deal with
them more effectively. Of course I’m not going to let the students get to me; I’m getting paid
$22 an hour regardless of whether they learn anything or not. But they are so stupid! They
can’t make simple cognitive leaps of understand, and like most stupid people, they think they
know everything. I will fail some of them with satisfaction when the term ends.
Last night and during my office hour today I thought a great deal about college teaching; I’m
not sure I want to make a career out of it. Even when I finally get to teach fiction writing, I’m
sure I’ll have to spend most of my efforts correcting grammatical mistakes. Literacy has
declined to such shocking levels that I believe it’s the number-one problem for America’s
future.
I get no satisfaction from the enormous sense of superiority I feel vis-à-vis most people: Who is
going to be around to read anything I write? Even a very bright young man like Bill-Dale
makes mistakes (his apostrophes on plurals, for example) that my fourth grade teacher would
have reprimanded me for.
And I’ve begun to spot errors like “the team lost it’s [sic] first game” in magazines like Time and
Newsweek – and even on our Kingsborough schedule form we are told where to find the
“Admission’s” office. God. Our heroes today are dumb and inarticulate – Travolta, the Fonz –
whereas ‘50s idols like Brando and James Dean were bright and inarticulate.
[109]
Richard Grayson
Anyway, what does this all mean for me? Well, maybe I should get out of college teaching and
get into something more intellectual. I might enjoy an office job like Alison’s in a citadel of
literacy like Oxford University Press. Office work means a 9-to-5 day, but at least you’re not
“on” all the time as you are when you teach.
I’m going to look around for a job, and in December, when the term ends, I’m going to attempt
to get a job outside academia. I enjoyed working in the Fiction Collective office and maybe I
could get something that challenging again.
This morning I stood on line at the bank behind a guy who just sold his business (three record
stores) for $250,000 – and he wasn’t much older than me. Now he intends to “retire” for a
couple of years and concentrate on a travel agency, which he runs for the sheer pleasure of it.
The more money I earn, the more important money becomes to me. Richard Sasano’s writing
PR for Resorts International seems no less noble than trying to teach sentence structure to idiots.
Why should I keep banging my head against the wall?
Academia is as stifling as advertising; at least Kingsborough and LIU are. After four years,
maybe it’s time to call it quits. I can always go back when I’m more established as a writer and
get the brightest classes.
It’s dark and chilly out. Our paychecks will come on October 20 and that will make me feel a
little better – but not all that much.
8 PM. Surprisingly, I feel very sexy tonight. I looked at myself in the mirror and I saw a
handsome face – round and a bit chubby but good-looking. I started using a roll-on deodorant
rather than a spray, and somehow that feels more sensuous. I’ve got new short sleeved shirts
and since the summer I’ve been wearing colored bikini briefs instead of the dull white ones. My
beard has gotten thicker and darker and I’m even getting some more hair on my chest.
One thing I suppose I haven’t written about Kingsborough is that it’s given me a chance to look
at some gorgeous guys about 17-19. I must pass fifty guys a day that I’m attracted to. That
doesn’t bother or frustrate me at all; it does make me feel very alive.
Yesterday was a bad day and so I had complaints; today was a good day and I feel great about
teaching. I asserted myself with the 23 class today and we had a pretty good discussion on the
reading, an essay on capital punishment.
Ms. Cordero, the Puerto Rican woman, still bursts out laughing every time she sees me, but
she’s not an idiot. (There are more than a few in the class – people who must be actual morons.)
[110]
She told the class about her cousin, who drowned his little boy in the Narrows a few weeks ago.
He went out with the child and returned without him. When his family became frantic, he said
he’d take them to him; he stopped by the Verrazano Bridge and pointed into the bay. “He’s at
the bottom now,” he told them.
And he had previously killed three of his other children! What kind of monsters live in this
world? The class was of course horrified by this story, but Ms. Cordero takes it calmly. Her
cousin has spent time in Kings County Hospital but is out often, and this time the judge
dismissed charges against him. I would like to learn more about this incident; I just can’t
imagine such a thing happening.
My 11 class was good because I had a brainstorm. We went over an essay in the third person
and I decided to split the class into pairs and let them interview each other and then write a
paragraph about each other. It worked, and they were pretty enthusiastic; one of them even
interviewed me. I’ll read them out loud tomorrow and go over their errors. I enjoyed teaching
today, and my week is three-quarters over – just one class tomorrow and Friday.
Alice sent me a Polaroid snapshot of Disjointed Fictions in the window of the Eighth Street
Bookshop. I called Alice to thank her and she said Andreas had taken it on the weekend, when
they found Laura sitting out front on her break, smoking a joint. Laura even rearranged the
window so they could get a good shot; she has the book on display upstairs too. God, I have
such nice friends.
I called Mason, and he’s having a devil of a time with his junior high students. They’re as wild
as anything, won’t let him teach, and they won’t give him a break. Mason has such a hard time
asserting himself and he’s still got all of his ‘60s ideas of progressive, “open” education.
Well, if he’s to survive – and he’s already thought about quitting – Mason’s got to act tough and
not give the little monsters an inch. I told Mason we should both emulate John Houseman as
dictatorial law Prof. Kingsfield on The Paper Chase (now a TV show).
This evening I went to visit Grandpa Herb and Grandma Ethel, whose cousin Rose Levine
(Dave Tarras’s daughter) died today, at 53. Poor Uncle Dave and Aunt Shifra.
Grandma showed me the lengthy questionnaire that nutrition doctor gave her. It covers
everything – not only about herself but her parents and siblings. (She was told that her mother
died at 29 of “malnutrition” and doesn’t know much more than that.)
Grandma Ethel had to write down everything she ate all week. She had Arlyne help her with
the questionnaire. I noticed that Grandma’s periods began at 14 and ended at 45 and she didn’t
check the box about whether her sex life was satisfactory. Grandma Ethel did check
“depressed,” “jumpy” and “worried” but not “irritable,” which sounds about right.
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7 PM. Just a couple of hours before the official beginning of autumn, yet summer is still with
us. It was hot and sunny and humid today; there’s really no need for it now, though.
Dad and Mom went to see his surgeon today. Dad enters Brookdale on Sunday, with the
operation scheduled for Monday morning. I think Mom wanted me to take off from work, but
Marc will be with her, and there’s not anything I can do at the hospital. Working will help keep
me occupied during the long (5-hour) and intricate surgery.
Dad’s pretty frightened, as he should be. I’ve tried to keep from upsetting him any further.
Like him, I just wish it was all over and we knew the tumor was benign.
I went to Kingsborough at 2:45 this afternoon, just pulling up to the T-4 building in time for my
3 PM class. I had a delightful time as I read the students’ essays about one another – and I
turned it into a clinic of writing problems. I get along well with the 11 class; I just wish I had
the same rapport with the other class.
I haven’t been writing much this week, but I’ve been submitting a great deal; I used up almost
$15 worth of stamps. I’ve been trying to submit a bit more shrewdly, using skill in matching the
story to the publication.
Sue Stephens of Tailings, who had previously accepted my “Conjectures” and “The Fiction
Writer and His Friends” sent me a Xeroxed letter asking for submissions for a “mini-chapbook”
of 12-16 pages. I sent along a lot of material for her to consider.
I’d really like to concentrate on books now. Richard Meade of the Story Press of Chicago sent a
delightful letter, saying he’d love to do a collection, but it’s dependent upon a number of things,
including grants on a return on the investment for their original books (including one by V.S.
Pritchett).
I wrote back, encouraging him to keep me in mind a year from now; it can’t hurt to have a back-
up system in case Taplinger falls through. (I’m getting annoyed that I haven’t heard from either
of the Stricks in nearly two weeks.)
SUNY-Albany’s financial aid director wrote me that there’s no work/study money for the
spring, and even their NDSL loans are filled up. So – I’m not going to Albany and that settles it.
I just can’t afford it. Well, that’s one reason.
David Gross wrote me from Bath, Maine. I feel I never got back to him the weekend he was
here for his brother’s wedding. He went to Bread Loaf again and was in Gilmore again. There
was a party with girls at the house every night:
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“We had one wild poet who was going to hold a ‘Worst Poetry’ conference, but he left after the
first week. I chose Gardner again as my Reader. He told me that I had ironed out all the
mechanical problems that I had in ’77, but all the excitement of the novel had been drained. He
said it was ‘dull.’ Maybe that reflects my life up here in Maine. I’m still working in my father’s
factory, so a lot of my energy goes to recuperating from 9 hours of walking on the ole feet.”
David says the food and weather were better this year at Bread Loaf, though The Crumb wasn’t
as funny. And much of the instruction was repetitious, so David won’t return again. He’s
decided to shelve his novel (“I did learn one cold fact – actually it was rubbed in my face: No
matter who you work with, your name doesn’t mean anything until you are published.”) He
sent me a pretty good story and I wrote him back with suggestions.
3 PM. Mom took the keys to Marc’s rented car last night and Marc had to go out. I lent him my
car and I took the bus to Brooklyn College. It wasn’t so bad. I’m the only one in this family
who doesn’t think he’s too good for public transportation. And the feeling that I can get there
from here is a good one; it keeps me from getting scared.
Last night (it was dark by 7:30) was warm, and the campus looked so empty. (Later I
discovered that enrollment is down to 19,000 as compared to 35,000 when I was an
undergraduate.)
The Alumni Board of Directors meetings are a bore and we always get off on tangents that go
nowhere, but it’s good to see old and familiar faces. And the tea and cakes are always first-rate.
Elaine Taibi was pleased that I gave her a few stories to read. She asked if she could get my
book at the Eighth Street, and I was pleased to say yes. She asked Ira Harkavy if he’d read
“Hitler” in Flatbush Life and Ira, always the politician (he thinks I’m an eccentric), said he did.
Maddy Bergman and Peter Rosen came up from the Executive Board meeting and we said
hello. Maddy is finding the second year of law school just as much work as the first. She told
me the deadline for Class Notes is October 15 – something else for me to do. Oh well,
somebody’s got to do it; it’s my third year on the job and I suppose I enjoy being the recorder of
other people’s lives.
Jerry Borenstein told me he was surprised that the Anniversarygrams netted $3800 so far, which
is better than he expected. He urged me to write to Irwin Shaw, who’s a lovely man, he says –
as well as a heavy drinker.
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Richard Grayson
Peter Rosen is married to Joanne Decker, they live in Flushing (where “politics is dull”) and he
still works as counsel to the Major League Baseball Players Association.
Mike Isaacs came in late because he teaches a class in Advanced Personality at Queens College
on Tuesdays and Thursdays; he’s pleased he got the job on his own. He left the program at
Fordham after a dispute with the new chairman, who’s very conservative; Mike would now like
to get into the CUNY Graduate Center.
Eddie Wasserman, looking every inch the young lawyer in his three-piece gray flannel suit, is
working for a downtown law firm. Wells Barron, who got heavy again, is going for his M.A. in
Poli Sci at BC and has just come off several losing political campaigns, including Bloom’s for
governor. We talked about local politics and the losses of Balter and Kravitz and the victories of
Rhoda Jacobs and Marty Markowitz.
At the meeting we approved the budget, some new constitutional amendments, got into a
ridiculously protracted debate (as usual) and heard the report on CUNY – it may be absorbed
into SUNY, but by now nobody really cares as long as BC continues to be a good school.
The meeting broke up at 10 PM and I got a lift with Wells, who also drove Eddie home; we
chatted about this one and that one, who’s where and who married whom. Eddie mentioned
running into Alex Smith, so I assume that he knows that Lorna died. (Was it five years ago that
he and Lorna double-dated with Ronna and me?)
I had some news that Ronna had given me earlier: Sid and Carole are getting married in June.
Carole is finishing her fiction dissertation at IU and Sid’s enrolled in an Urbanology program at
Antioch.
I told my parents that I had to take the bus home. That was terrible, but I wanted to play the
martyr.
Today I taught singular and plural in English 23 and did a good job. I got six rejections today
and I tried to write but didn’t get very far. It’s a dark, cool, humid day. Tonight I’m going out
but I wish I was staying in.
6 PM. Autumn came in cool – it’s hard to get around without wearing a jacket. I’ve just been
sitting at the counter of the Arch, chewing on a cheeseburger and playing with a tossed salad
and apprising myself of my shortcomings as a human being, writer and son – mostly the latter.
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Dad is checking into Brookdale at 1 PM tomorrow and his surgery is scheduled for sometime on
Monday. As much as we believe everything will turn out all right, it’s foolish not to recall that
things don’t always work out for the best.
My father’s life for the past six or seven years has been a continuous and unrelenting series of
disappointments and it pains me to think that I have become one of them. I know Dad would
say, “That’s ridiculous; none of my children are a disappointment to me.” But since I’ve never
been a father and I’ve never been my father, I find that difficult to believe.
I’ve been so disappointed in him and didn’t I let him know it. I can be very harsh in my
judgments, telling Dad that he’s behaving counterproductively or negatively and that’s why
things always go wrong for him. Of course I am a great psychologist, having come to the stage
of well-adjustment through 8 years of therapy (which he paid for – $10,000 worth, a sum that
could open up a door or two for him now – but he never begrudges me for it).
I never did accept him for himself; I always tried to make him The Perfect Father. These things
don’t make me feel very good about myself. Oh, I know, I know: at times like this everyone is
feeling vaguely guilty for the moment, but that doesn’t change how I feel, does it?
I haven’t said “I love you” to him since I-don’t-know-when. I take his generosity as a matter of
course. I look at him from time to time with disapproval and bemusement. Not a model son.
And the worst of is he’s two rooms away lying on the floor watching a college football game
and as much a I may want to walk in there and hug him, I can’t. Sad. Maybe I can and maybe I
will – later.
I just wish life could turn around for him and not start picking up speed downhill as it did with
Uncle Morty and Uncle Abe. My father has had termites of suffering for years and I don’t know
if I can bear to see things get worse for him. (This is the closest I’ve come to unselfishness in a
long while.)
Saturday evening. Autumn. The 23rd of September. It’s been over two months since I’ve
written anything first-rate and I know it. Let’s face it: the Courier-Life article; the publication of
the chapbook; the jobs at LIU and Kingsborough; the feelers from Taplinger – none of this has
done my writing any good.
I’ve been merely repeating tired themes and overused formulae. That’s why I spent hours and
money today sending out over 30 submissions – I’m desperate. The more outwardly I show
success, the greater my feelings of failure.
This page may be the most real writing I’ve done in weeks. Every word aches as it comes out of
the pen and spills neatly on this page. I know nothing about myself or other people or any of
this, so why don’t I shut up?
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Or else: Last night Mason and I drove to Manhattan in the rain. We picked up Mikey and then
Mason’s (and Shelli’s) friend Debbie, who’s unhappily working at Paragon because she can’t get
a job designing for a theater.
We ate at Emilio’s on Sixth Avenue (at my suggestion) and then we couldn’t figure out what to
do. There were no parking spaces uptown and I acted like an extroverted maniac, yelling at
people, making the others laugh. Eventually we sat in the West 80th Street apartment Debbie
shares with Nancy Corigliano, Marie’s sister, doing very little but sitting and listening to
Jackson Browne.
4 PM. A few hours ago we drove over to Brookdale Hospital in my car; I let Dad drive because
he felt it would steady his nerves. We were lucky enough to get a nearby parking space, and
we checked into Admissions. There we waited for a long time before Dad’s name was called.
I went in with him to be interviewed about his medical insurance, he signed some consent
forms, and paid $5 for a phone. They had his address wrong, leaving out the zero in ‘1607,’ so
the forms had to be done over. Then he went for a blood test, a urinanalysis and an EKG.
Aunt Sydelle surprised us in the lobby; a friend had driven her from Cedarhurst. We all went
up to Dad’s room, on a new floor, and I left them there. Mom wants to stay there all the time,
and there’s no reasoning with her; I think Dad is comforted by the way she hovers.
He didn’t seem nervous, though I know how frightened he must be. I hugged and kissed him
goodbye and said, “I love you.” I still don’t know what time surgery is scheduled for. Being in
the hospital made me very tense; my arms and legs began to ache and I felt a tension headache
beginning. I’m very nervous, but that’s natural.
I plan to teach tomorrow, as there’s nothing I can do at the hospital. Mom and Marc will be
there, and so will Grandma Ethel and Grandpa Herb. I think Jonny’s afraid of even visiting a
hospital; he’s got all these neurotic fears and hypochondria that I once had. Last night he didn’t
want Donna in his room because she mentioned that she’d vomited the day before. Thank God
(God?) I don’t have that mishigass anymore.
There’s really nothing to be done now except wait. I don’t pray because even if there was a
God, He couldn’t make a benign tumor malignant or vice versa. We can hope, that’s all, Dad
having a malignancy would be against the odds, but he’s had a lot of bad breaks.
But I can’t think about that now; I won’t; I don’t have to wonder about that possibility now.
Besides, even if it’s benign, there could be complications – an infection or whatever. This is the
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most serious operation a member of the immediate family has had, and I hope we have the
strength to get through it.
Aunt Sydelle said she’d tell Grandma Sylvia that Dad was out of town on business, but Mom
told her not to say anything; maybe Dad can call her Tuesday night. We’re all going to be
under a great deal of stress this week.
Surprisingly, I’ve been writing a little – and it’s not all that bad, either. I slept soundly when I
did sleep, though I kept waking up every few hours. I phoned Ronna, who was helping Alison
clean up her new apartment. I can’t write another word now.
9 PM. We just came back from the hospital. I went with Marc and Donna at 6:30. Jonny was
lifting weights and said he “couldn’t be ready” in time. I know he wanted to see Dad, but his
terror prevented him, and now is not the time to make an issue of it.
We found Dad in his pajamas and bathrobe, and Mom by his side. The five of us sat in the
dayroom. Dad looked pale, but then so did I. It was a moment of drama, but I can’t relate it as I
would in a story because it’s not a story. Dad said, “You should be able to get a story out of
this.” Maybe someday.
We made the kind of absurd small talk and ridiculous jokes that you make to keep from
screaming. Donna, with her naiveté, really helped. The anesthesiologist came and talked to
Dad; he’s scheduled for surgery a 8 AM.
Dad said he’s been in hospital rooms all his life and it’s a shock to him when he looks down and
sees the bathrobe and the wrist bracelet. I can’t imagine what he’s going through. It was very
poignant to leave him there. Tomorrow we’ll know if it’s malignant or benign: two words and
one means a future and the other means. . .
5 PM. Benign. But I can’t seem to say “benign” without “thank God.” “Thank God” is what I
said when I first heard it.
Mom and Marc and I were waiting at the hospital for hours this morning. Dad phoned Mom at
7 AM and said they’d already given him an injection and he was waiting to be wheeled into
surgery.
Mom and Marc went to the hospital at 9 AM and I drove there about an hour later. Waiting
was agony. Dr. Saltzman had told Mom that the surgery takes from 2½ to 5 hours, so when
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there was no word at 10:30, 11 AM, 11:30, we began to get very frightened that maybe
something had gone wrong.
Mom was so upset but she maintained outward calm. I couldn’t sit still and had to walk
around the block several times. I called Evelyn at Kingsborough and told her to cancel my 12:40
class; she was very nice and said not to worry. I just hope I don’t have to endure more waiting
like that again.
When we left afternoon, they still hadn’t brought dad into the recovery room. He’ll be there till
tonight, and I ordered a private nurse for the midnight-8 PM shift.
I went to Kingsborough for my 3 PM class. It went terribly, but it was a miracle I had the
presence of mind to teach it. They didn’t mark me as absent for the day, so that’s all right. My
office was changed to C-109.
Just when I called Jonny to tell him Dad’s surgery was over, he reported getting a letter from
the Police Department telling us that Marc’s car had been found in a lot of wrecks right on E.
56th Street and Foster Avenue – the very place Marc told me was a haven for stolen cars when
we passed it last night.
I’ve just spoken to Alice and Gary and Aunt Arlyne on the phone; Evie came in earlier; and of
course Jonny called Aunt Sydelle and Grandpa Herb as soon as I gave him the word. Marc and
Mom are at the hospital now, but we’ve had no news from them, and I’m not sure they’re able
to see Dad. I hope to go at
7 PM. Now we’ve just got to pray that no complications arise, either with the draining fluid or
the facial nerve.
*
8 PM. I’ve just come back from Brookdale. I went there only to discover that Richie Lewis had
been there and taken Mom home. Dad is going to be in Recovery until 10:30 tonight. Mom
wants to go back then and see Dad in his room, but I’m too exhausted to go; Marc will drive
her.
I’m aware that Marc has borne the brunt of this so far, but he hasn’t seemed to mind. He works
with Dad every day and so is naturally closer with him. (Last night he told me that Dad had
been impossible at work all week.)
Marc and Mom finally got to see Dad in Recovery after they had dinner; they were a little
queasy at the sight of so many people just out of surgery, and they had to wear gowns.
Dad was very uncomfortable with a great deal of pain in his ear. (Downstairs, in the cafeteria,
Mom had a similar pain in her ear. ESP?) He’s bandaged all around his head and there are
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drainage tubes and IV tubes. He was coherent and talked about how he wanted to walk
around.
Anyway, the important thing is that there was no malignancy and that they removed the tumor.
I’m emotionally exhausted and I imagine Mom would be too, but for her desire to see Dad
which, even if it’s at midnight, seems to overcome whatever weariness she feels.
Jerry Klinkowitz wrote that he’s quitting Seems and can’t let anyone else bear the responsibility
for publishing “Innovations”; he said Baumbach “hit the ceiling” when he read a copy of it. I
suppose it’s for the best – it won’t be in print but Jon knows how I feel about him.
9PM. Tonight I went to see Dad at the hospital. His entire head is bandaged like a football
helmet and he’s carrying around a bag into which fluid and blood are draining. He’s quite
uncomfortable, with pains around his ear and cheek where they did the surgery. It’s also hard
for him to eat because he can’t open his mouth wide enough to chew properly, and his throat is
sore from the pipe that was there.
But for a man who had major surgery yesterday, he looks terrific. He’s tired but he can sleep,
and there’s codeine for the pain. I went with Mom, and Irving and Doris Cohen were there, and
so was Richie Lewis and his wife.
Dad had phoned at 8 PM last evening after they brought him back to his room; Mom and Marc
went over and stayed until 11 PM. He was very restless because he couldn’t get out of bed, but
he was and is in remarkably good shape.
I think that this experience will actually benefit Dad. As he said to me and the Cohens in the
day room, “When a guy hands you a piece of paper and says this is what he’s got to do to save
your life, and you realize it isn’t a dream, you see the rest of it is all
shit. . .”
(Of course Doris remarked that when Ike Hoffeld thought he was dying in the casino in Vegas,
he swore he’d never buy another Cadillac and his wife said she’d never wear her jewelry again.
“But,” Irving said, “Ike did buy a Continental afterwards and Ruth wore her jewelry – until she
died of cancer.”)
This afternoon Mom, Marc and Jonny were up there to see Dad, and so were Aunt Sydelle and
her friend and Grandpa Herb and Grandma Ethel (whose doctor said her rash on her back has
entirely cleared up, so the chemo is working).
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Richard Grayson
Dad even called up Grandma Sylvia in Florida and told her about the surgery; she called him
tonight and seemed reassured. The Littwaks also phoned from Miami tonight, and Lennie
Schwartz from The Male Shop sent a plant.
Dad is so well-liked, his friends don’t stop calling. I really have to admire the way he’s held up
through this. I’ve never thought of Dad as a strong person, but he is and I have increased
respect for him.
He’s bound to feel uncomfortable but as long as the tumor was benign and it’s out, we can
breathe easily. Maybe Dad’s luck has begun to change and maybe he’ll take a more relaxed
view of things and be more positive – and then things will go his way more often.
Perhaps the surgery was a turning point in Dad’s life. He finally stopped behaving as though
things didn’t exist; he faced up to this tumor instead of being an ostrich. I should take a leaf
from Dad’s book now.
Anyway, the family has been strong throughout this, and we’ve gotten a bit closer, I think. No
matter what I may think or say, there’s nothing better than a family – a good one, anyway.
Last night I spoke to Ronna and I could hear her mother screaming; Mrs. C had found out (from
Ronna’s sister) that Ronna had visited her father and was accusing her of being “a traitor to the
cause.” And it’s not as if Ronna gets anything out of seeing Mr. C; he’s usually very distant
with her.
Ronna says it doesn’t matter all that much anymore, but it must. She faces rejection from her
father, and then rejection from her mother for undergoing the first rejection.
I stayed on a long time with Ronna even though I knew Wesley Strick from Taplinger was
going to call. “This is more important,” I told Ronna, and it was. She said I helped her.
Wesley and I arranged a meeting at his apartment on the Upper East Side for next Monday
evening – we’ll see what happens. I’m fatalistic about my future now. I don’t even care that
they’re beginning to observe the adjuncts at Kingsborough; if I don’t get rehired, I don’t.
A woman who’s an editor of Aspect, Susan Lloyd McGarry, wrote that she’d like to do an essay
on my work.
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11 PM. I feel I can begin to relax a little. Tomorrow at 3 PM the woman from Counseling will
speak to my students, so I have only one class on Friday to teach and then a four-day weekend.
This past week has been a great strain on me, but at least I can sleep late tomorrow.
I took Mom to see Dad tonight. Marc and Donna also came, and Lou and Evie and Jerry and Jo
also dropped by. Dad is very uncomfortable and hasn’t slept since Monday, but he’s getting
along. Mom watched as they changed his bandage for another one this afternoon; they also
took out the drain.
Dad seems almost a different person with his head wrapped in bandages and wearing pajamas,
robe and slippers. He doesn’t seem as excitable as he used to be; he appears more patient (is
that where the term doctor’s patient comes from?) and accepting. He complains but he endures.
There’s a great strength within him, and I don’t think he even knew he had it until he was
tested like this. When I was very young, like all boys, I thought my father was invincible. More
recently I’ve only looked at his weaknesses. Now I see a more balanced picture of him.
His beard gets scratchier every time I kiss him (and I kiss him hello and goodbye, even at the
elevator with a crowd around).
Last night I dreamed of Dad and Grandpa Nat and other Jewish men in the Garment Center
celebrating a holiday called Vexing Day, when they make clothes just for the sheer pleasure of
it. All my life, the men in my family – Grandpa Nat, Dad, Marc, Uncle Marty, Grandpa Herb,
Uncle Harry – have always been in the clothing business, and I’ve never thought about it much.
Monday, during that agonizing wait for some word to come out of surgery, Mom and I were
looking through the Metro (one of the strike papers) and we saw an ad for a store advertising
that it had famous brand jeans, including Jim Dandy. I wonder if Dad gets the same feeling
when he sees someone wearing his pants as a writer does when s/he seems someone reading
his/her book.
Dad’s facial nerves are apparently undamaged, but he’s depressed because he won’t be able to
lift heavy things or play tennis or run for 6-8 weeks (they don’t want the scar to swell up). Dad
will probably be home this weekend, so we can begin the Jewish New Year together.
I haven’t written much about school this week. Maybe it’s because it’s basically a way I’m
making money. My students are nice kids, but they’re young and ignorant and don’t know
what they’re doing in college – most of them, anyway. I get hoarse and try to teach and when
each hour ends I can only think that I’ve earned another $22.
This morning I went to the Alumni Association office and picked up the Class Notes – God
knows when I’m going to get a chance to do them, and the deadline is October 15. The next two
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weeks will be easy with only two 2-class days. But I’ve got the Class Notes and the meeting
with Wesley Strick and next weekend is shot with George coming in for the Book Fair.
Back Bay View came out with my “Escape from the Planet of the Humans” – not impressive
because it’s already in Disjointed Fictions. Tom Whalen sent me Lowlands Review (a special issue,
a great book of fictions by Crad Kilodney) and I got Shenandoah, Rockbottom and Sun & Moon in
the mail. My “Clumsy Story” is advertised as appearing in their next issue. (It was accepted
about 3 years ago.) I love getting little magazines, especially good ones. I also got The People’s
Almanac 2 with my “Joanne Vincente” article – the book is a feast for a trivia freak like me.
9 PM. Little relaxing was done today. This is the busiest I’ve been in years. I don’t think I’ve
had a free hour in the past 5 days. Even though I didn’t teach today and just went in to hear my
students’ counselor talk with them, I couldn’t relax.
Last night Bernhard Frank of Buckle called, wanting to know what happened to the piece on
Susan Fromberg Schaeffer that I promised him. Spurred into action, I decided to stop stalling; it
took half a dozen rewrites, but I finally came up with something that satisfied me.
What I like about Susan is her energy and independence and healthy self-confidence; she can be
difficult and I can see why others call her arrogant, but I’m attracted to those qualities.
Josh called today, and in a funny way he got a job through me. Denis Woychuk went to LIU on
the Friday when Dr. Tucker was stuck for someone to replace me; Denis got the job. So his
tutoring position at NYCCC was open, as well as others, and Josh and Simon both went down
for interviews and got the jobs.
Josh starts tomorrow; he’ll be making $150 for 30 hour a week, which isn’t great, but it’s better
than driving an oil truck. I feel a little funny about Denis taking my place at LIU; I can’t
imagine Margaret liking him as much as she liked me. But LIU is in my past now. Last spring I
vowed that I would not come back in the fall, and surprisingly, I managed to keep that vow.
The mail brought Small Press Review and the AWPress (the new name for the newsletter of AWP
– they listed Disjointed Fictions first in their “Books by Members”). Anyway, that gave me new
places to submit to, and that took time. And money. God, with the 48-cent book rate, I’ve been
spending over $20 a week on postage.
Anyway (that’s the second “anyway” in two sentences: what’s going on here, anyway?), there
were a lot of chores to take care of today: drugstore, post office, gas station, copy center.
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I spoke to Alice, who must be taking off for Reykjavik now. She’s anxious to see her brother
and to spend time alone in Paris, and getting away from work will be a relief.
Bob Wexler and Judy Frankel invited her to their wedding in Rhode Island, and she’s decided
to go. Bob bought a copy of Disjointed Fictions at the Eighth Street last week, so at least some
copies are selling. I’m happy that he thinks enough of me to buy my work – it’s pretty
expensive for what’s offered.
Bob’s teaching history at Brooklyn, at Poly Tech, and in Manhattan at Baruch – what a grind
that must be. Busy as I am, I can’t imagine how I would have survived if I had a course at LIU.
My Kingsborough students are so obnoxious. Today, after class, Tyrone Hayward came up to
me and asked, “Did you ever consider becoming a jockey?” I just gave him an icy stare. Look, I
may not be a great and world-renowned writer but do I have put up with punks like that?
My students are all from the Disco Generation; they’re so into themselves that they have no
sense of society or history. None of them know what the Vietnam War was about, and to them,
Robert Kennedy and Martin Luther King are vague historical figures.
Maybe Bill-Dade was more correct than I figured. God knows what these people will grow into
– stylish consumers, probably. Welcome back to the Silent Generation of the 1950’s. Jesus, it
makes me glad I was born when I was – when it was all right to be different.
Dad looked good when Mom, Jonny and I went to see him tonight. He’ll probably be coming
home on Saturday. He walks the hospital corridors getting involved with the doctors and
nurses and patients and says that hospital life – if you’re not sick, as he is not – can be relaxing.
He’s rather uncomfortable in his bandages because he can’t shave.
4 PM. For the last two hours I’ve allowed myself the luxury of lying in bed and catching up on
the soap operas I now can watch only on Fridays. It’s been pleasant to feel bored after such a
hectic week. One class today; no mail to speak of; no errands to run.
I’m going to be observed a week from Thursday; Prof. Rosalind Depas called me this morning
to let me know. I’ll do the best I can. It’s most likely a formality anyway.
I woke up today to stunning news: Jonny calling up from the kitchen to say that the Pope had
died. I turned on the TV and it was true: John Paul I, after only a month in office, had died in
his sleep. I feel worse than I did when Paul VI died, because John Paul was a more likable,
hamishe man, if popes can have that Yiddish trait, and he never got to show what he could have
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done. I went back to sleep and had weird dreams about going to Mass. Pope Paul’s death gave
me nightmares, too.
I really don’t know where my life is going, yet I feel I’m at the beginning of something new. I’ll
never feel about Kingsborough the way I felt about LIU – just as I never felt at home a student at
Richmond as I did at Brooklyn College. Yet being at a new college is good for me more than
just financially. If I can make it at Kingsborough – and so far I haven’t proved myself to my
satisfaction – I’ll have learned that I can successfully adjusted to a new environment.
I haven’t given much thought to moving out yet; my first paycheck is three weeks away. The
term ends before Christmas and I won’t be hired for the winter module, so if I teach in the
spring, it won’t start till the middle of March. If LIU offers me a course before that, I’ll take it,
though they may be pissed off at me by now.
I’m not even sure I want to remain in academia if academia means teaching remedial writing
and reading. It’s so wearying; I might be better off doing something which has nothing to do
with literature and writing but which doesn’t drain me so.
I’m 27 now and I’m becoming established as a short story writer; little by little, my strategy
seems to have paid off. What I would like now is a job teaching creative writing, or fiction
writing. (See, spare time makes me reflective – maybe that’s bad.)
But if this week and this month of September have proved anything, it’s that I’m not heading
toward a rerun of my 1968 breakdown. No way – in fact, I haven’t even given that a thought in
weeks.
And now I’ve passed over the hump, the worst part of the tenth anniversary, and I am certain I
am going to make it. John Paul I’s death reminds me that life can be short and end
unexpectedly. Bu at least he died a pope; I bet it was all worth it.
Of course Dad’s operation tells me that we can recover, that it’s not quite that easy to die. I do
have hope now. I also feel more patient – especially more patient with myself.
I just spoke with Dad and he said the doctor took off the bandage today and if there’s not any
swelling, he can come home tomorrow. He’s still in pain, of course. I’m not going to the
hospital tonight. I don’t think it’s necessary and neither does Dad.
Ronna phoned last night. I suggested that she, Alison and I go to see Interiors at Kings Plaza. (I
didn’t tell her I’d seen it before because in the summer we made up to see it together.) At first I
thought going out tonight would be too much for me, but I think it can only do me good.
It was 45° this morning when I awoke and summer seems a memory already. Aunt Sydelle’s
going to Florida to stay with Grandma Sylvia tomorrow. Arlyne and Marty took Grandma
Ethel to the nutrition doctor.
[124]
Midnight. I’m just coming off a writing high, having spent the last 4 hours finishing the final
version of “Q & A,” a 13-page story that is the best work I’ve done in a long time. About 24
hours ago I began it.
I felt like writing, but I didn’t know how to get into it and then I remembered how the question-
and-answer format worked so well for me in the pat. The writing flowed easily and I had a
fairly good piece, but this evening I realized I could improve it if I wrote a second set of answers
to the questions and set the answers side by side on a split page. It worked out very nicely and
I feel relieved to know my creativity is not dead.
Dad’s home now; Mom picked him up early this morning. He insisted on driving home (Mom
said he’s just like Grandpa Nat) but was tired afterwards and spent most of the day sleeping.
When he eats, he’s in a great deal of pain, as the chewing hurts the scar (which is very deep, but
the doctors said eventually it will fill out).
I spent most of the early part of the day lying in bed; I couldn’t awaken till 11 AM and then kept
lying down. All the strain of the week had finally got to me. Sometimes you feel worse when a
trauma is over; during the week my resources were drained, but the adrenalin and energy kept
flowing. Now that the crisis is over, I feel a little overwhelmed, but certainly I feel much better
than I did last Saturday.
I went to the village at 4 PM, stopped at the Eighth Street Bookshop, found my book in the
window and four copies upstairs in the alphabetical fiction section. Laura (who wasn’t there)
took the book off display – the only copy sold was to Bob Wexler. I got some magazines and
sniffed around; just getting into Manhattan for the first time in two weeks made me feel better.
Last evening was very pleasant. Mason came over here at 7 PM and I gave him my book and
some ideas for lesson plans. Now he’s calmed down a bit but he’s still exhausted from dealing
with those brats. I don’t think I could hack teaching junior high; I’m having enough trouble
with rowdy college students.
We drove over to Ronna’s – I dislike the way Mason drives, so cautiously and meekly, but that’s
his style (mine is rush, cut in, and make that light) – and picked up Ronna and Alison. Alison
and Mason met for the first time; they had being English majors in common. They’re not a
couple, nor did Ronna and I intend them to be, but I was surprised in Kings Plaza when Alison
sat next to Mason rather than Ronna in the theater.
Interiors seemed better the second time; I recognize its many flaws, but it does raise serious
issues, especially about creativity. Joey, the middle sister played by Marybeth Hurt, longs to be
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as creative as her interior decorator mother and her sisters, a poet and an actress. Joey has all
their angst and sensitivity but no talent at all.
Sometimes I wonder just what I would do with all my problems if I weren’t able to work them
out in my writing. What does Ronna do with her frustrations? (She says she identified with
Joey.) What do thousands of college-educated people who are unemployed and
underemployed do?
After the movie the four of us went to the Floridian (rather than to a bar, a Mason had
suggested; upstate he got into the habit of drinking a fifth of Jack Daniels every few nights),
where we sat in a both next to Evie and Lou.
It was relaxing to get out; even if I couldn’t be alone with Ronna, it’s good to be her friend.
Earlier in the day I spoke to Elihu, who’s got an assistantship in the History Department and is
teaching a 9 AM class – in his field, Early American History, for a change. He said his brother’s
not too crazy about Kingsborough and I can understand why.
Sunday, October 1, 1978
9 PM. October already – and the new Hebrew year 5739. The beginning of the Jewish New
Year and the last three months of 1978. The other night Mason said, “Thank God for Rosh
Hashona this year.” Our family’s observance of the holiday has changed to the point where,
now, no one goes to synagogue, no one gets dressed up, and everyone but Jonny does
everything (drives, watches TV, etc.)
I visited Grandma Ethel and Grandpa Herb this afternoon. Grandma Ethel told me her new
diet is confusing to her: 7-grain whole wheat breads, bran, steamed vegetables, no sugar or salt,
lots of nuts and fruit. I explained that it’s basically a healthy and sensible diet low in fats,
cholesterol, food additives and artificial ingredients designed to rid her body of toxins. “I may
get healthy,” she said, “but shopping in the health food store I’ll go broke.”
Psychology Today had an article on the nutrition revolution which has swept America. Certainly
our refrigerator looks different than it did ten years ago. But then none of us exercised ten years
ago, either. (This morning Dad walked a mile as Mom and Marc jogged.)
Speaking of ten years ago – I sat on their terrace with my grandparents and remembered that it
was ten years ago, during my breakdown, that I stayed with them over the holiday while my
room was being painted. I have photographs of all of us on that day: on one, I am skinny kid in
sunglasses looking out towards the ocean.
Obviously I still look young – no one at Kingsborough believes I’m a teacher – but I can see
lines around my mouth and eyes. (Too much sun, perhaps?)
[126]
Before I finally put my preoccupation with 1968 aside, I must say this: What troubles me about
the experience of my breakdown is that after all these years, I cannot say definitely why I
stopped functioning and I’m not quite sure how I “recovered” – started to function again.
Oh, I understand that various factors contributed to the breakdown: my mother’s perfectionism
and her own agoraphobia, my sexual confusion, fear of leaving childhood, even the political
climate of 1968.
But to pinpoint the genesis of my illness, I cannot do. If I could travel back ten years in one of
those time-barrier-crashing bubbles I used to see in comic books, I would love to interview the
17-year-old me and find out what I was feeling. I must have been feeling something besides
fear, anxiety, humiliation and nausea.
Oh well – I spent most of this weekend reading, devouring everything in sight: all my little
magazines, the newspapers (the three dailies are still on strike and their substitutes are poor),
The New Yorker, TV Guide, The People’s Almanac 2, essays from the texts I’m using, anything I
could lay my hands on.
One of my students wrote in his self-profile that he “hates reading.” How could that be
possible? If something should happen and I couldn’t write another word, at least I could read.
I don’t want to sound like a banal public service announcement, but reading makes life bearable
in a way nothing else but other people can.
I wish I had unlimited resources and unlimited time so I could devour all the books I crave. TV
is a pal and always there when you’re lonely and bored, but books are trusted friends, people
you save for important moments.
Maybe the National Endowment for the Arts should offer $10,000 fellowships to creative readers
as well as to creative writers. Or they should subsidize those who buy books the way they do
small presses that publish them.
Monday, October 2, 1978
5 PM. In a little while I’ll be going to Manhattan to see Wesley Strick. I’ll be missing our Rosh
Hashona dinner with turkey and sweet potatoes, but last week I told Wesley that I’d come
tonight.
I’m a bit ashamed that I did, that having a book published seems to mean more to me than
dinner with my family. I’m not certain it does, and if I had more time to think about it, I might
have asked Wesley to postpone our meeting.
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I’m sure Rosh Hashona means nothing to him; he was probably brought up very assimilated.
Now I suppose a non-observer like me sounds like a hypocrite saying that, but Rosh Hashona
does mean something to me.
It is a time for reflection and renewal and asking forgiveness for my inadequacies and mistakes
(I won’t say sins). For me, this is the new year. And we have much to be grateful for. Last
week Dad was in surgery and today he’s walking around the neighborhood, enjoying the
Yankees-Red Sox playoff game on TV.
My family and friends are all right, I’m all right, there’s going to be peace talks between Egypt
and Israel, the sun is shining, I’m on vacation – so what could be bad, no?
This morning I went to the Junction to xerox “Q & A” and some other things I’d written. At the
corner of Flatbush and Nostrand, a young black woman said hello to me. I didn’t recognize her
and she said, “You’re my English teacher.” So I am.
The mail brought the first AWP Job Placement List with openings in colleges for next year.
Now I feel more confident applying for jobs; after all I am, like the ads say, “a fiction writer with
substantial publications.”
I spent an hour writing cover letters and getting my resumés, bibliographies and writing
samples together. I have to redo my resumé to add more publications, my teaching The Novel
at LIU this summer, my job at Kingsborough, and perhaps the coming experience teaching
creative writing in Harrisburg.
So I applied for jobs at Rutgers-New Brunswick, Rutgers-Camden, the University of Houston,

the University of New Orleans, Virginia Polytechnic Institute, the University of Cincinnati and
the University of Arizona in Tucson.
What would happen if I got a job at one of those places? We’ll see. But I do intend to apply for
jobs everywhere, just as I submit everywhere. Eventually something will happen.
Sasha Newborn sent me a card asking why I haven’t had a book published yet and inviting me
to submit a long manuscript this winter. That’s one reason that Taplinger is not something that
will make or break me; eventually someone – Mudborn Press, Story Press, whoever – will
publish a book-length collection.
I don’t want my book to be an ill-conceived project or a premature one. I’m in a position where
I don’t have to beg from anyone. Honestly, I’m not all that desperate for Taplinger to do the
book.
[128]
I suppose Mr. Strick and Wesley might think it strange that I’m not anxious. But this way I’m in
control. It’s not that I’m unsure of my talent –though I am; in some way, it’s that I’m confident
that eventually I’ll be at least a minor-league talent.
Josh phoned last night. He and Simon start work at NYCCC on Wednesday. Josh said that they
saw Laura at the movies on Eighth Street on Saturday.
I spoke to Ronna yesterday and she was attempting to get in touch with Sid and Carole. Today
they’re going to her grandmother’s for dinner and tomorrow she and Susan intend to visit John
at Rutgers.
I still haven’t worked on the Class Notes; there doesn’t seem time. What I need is a complete
week off to catch up on all my reading, writing and other work. Things are happening for me, I
feel it, but I’m still scared.
Of course I wouldn’t be me if I weren’t scared. Or maybe I’m scared because I think things are
beginning to happen.
Tuesday, October 3, 1978
7 PM. Twenty-four hours ago I arrived at Wesley Strick’s apartment. I had the beginnings of an
anxiety attack on my way up to East 88th Street. When I got there, I found I had left his address
in my other pants; also, my bladder was about to burst. I found his address after some
difficulties by calling Information from a phone booth.
Wes Strick was what I expected, yet I was still impressed: lithe, very cool and stylish, dark and
handsome in a casual, barely-formed way.
Although he’s 24, I felt like an old man next to him, especially in my schlumpy $2.99 shirt, black
pants and scuffed horrible shoes. He was wearing a denim shirt over a Circus T-shirt, white
painter’s pants and clogs.
But of course, if I were a sophisticated Manhattanite, I probably would not have been there.
What makes my work interesting to Wes and his father and possibly to his others is that I’m an
original, not stylish, and maybe a bit of a crank.
We sat for awhile getting to know each other – I told him I was nervous and the paranoid in me
thought, absurdly, as I walked up the four flights to his place, “What if this is a trap?”
At first I thought Wes might be gay, but he just talks and moves in that East Side way. He’s
seeing a girl (he calls her a girl because he considers himself a boy) and seems very heterosexual.
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He took me out to dinner (on Taplinger money) at a bar called Willie’s, and on the way we
stopped at one of those new Citibank stores and he used his card and punched buttons and
money came out (a new rule in etiquette: one gentleman does not look at another’s Citibank
code number).
Fool that I am, I had Perrier water as Wes had a drink and chain-smoked. I told him how
embarrassed I was to be talking about my work, and so for a while we talked of other things.
I told him about my life, the few things he couldn’t piece together by reading all my stories,
and he told me about his 100 acid trips in high school (now he doesn’t even smoke grass), going
to college at Vassar and Berkeley, his sister Ivy and her novel, the two he wrote (one is very long
and is about Mozart), his work at Rolling Stone, how he feels about being the boss’s son at
Taplinger.
Finally he showed me the plan he has for the book: to bunch similar stories together, so that the
repetition resonates off each other – stories about writing, women, famous people, “I” and the
family. And he wanted to use “Raison d’Etre” as back jacket copy and “Notes on the Type” as,
well, notes on the type. I sort of liked the idea.
When our waiter brought us the check, I looked him and asked if his name was John Ferro. He
said yes, and I told him who I was and that we had gone to P.S. 203 together. It was nice seeing
John; he hardly changed, said he was finishing up college.
Walking up Lexington, we came across a couple, and the woman hugged Wes. It was his
mother and her longtime boyfriend, a famous Broadway set designer whose name was
mentioned in this week’s New York. Wes’s mother had been away in the Hamptons all summer
and it was the first time he’d seen her in months.
Back at his apartment, we went through the stories he’d chosen. He left out one or two of my
favorites and put in a couple I think are weak, and we discussed changes he wanted made –
almost all of which were examples of shrewd editing. This took about an hour, and it was fun; I
wish I had Wes as an editor before.
It was 11:30 PM when we finished, and I said, “What happens next?” He said I should go over
the stories and make changes and get back to him in a couple of weeks. I don’t know if his
father has given him a free hand or a green light on my book, but Wes did tell me that they
think I could be “a cult figure.” Ha!
Wednesday, October 4, 1978
9 PM. Reality time, boys and girls. What a miserable day. I got caught in the rain, got two
traffic tickets, had a miserable time with my classes and generally felt lousy.
[130]
Last night I had nightmares about teaching at Kingsborough. I really hate my immature and
obnoxious classes and I have as much difficulty controlling them a Mason does with his eighth-
graders.
I arrived at school in a foul mood because some cop had to fill a quota and gave me (and God
knows how many others) a ticket for making a left turn from a center lane – onto Shore
Boulevard, where everyone does it. And since I couldn’t find my insurance card, I now have to
present that at the Motor Vehicles Department or another ticket will stand. Damn! Well, I’m
going to plead not guilty and attempt to fight it. One of the little annoyances of life – shit.
My students are so babyish. Rosa Cordero, while walking with her friend, mentioned that she’s
pregnant. How come? her friend asked. “Oh, I think it was a mistake!” she giggled. These are
people I’m supposed be teaching college-level subjects!
LIU was much better. If I put something on the board this term saying “Due Friday,” they ask,
“Is that for Friday?” And when I sarcastically say, “No, it’s due Thursday,” they believe me!
They’re devoid of ideas and common sense.
What a far cry from being on the East Side with Wes the other night. I now realize one of the
reasons I enjoyed it was just to be with someone literate, intelligent and witty.
Yesterday I did the Class Notes – most of them, anyway, but today Marie Stein called and I’m
sure she’s got more for me to do. This weekend is the Book Fair, and I’ll have no time to mark
papers or prepare for being observed on Tuesday. I met Prof. Depas and told her the class is
rough. I just feel so put upon. I can only feel grateful I had the presence of mind not to teach at
LIU too.
There’s no time for me to write. I would like to be revising my stories as Wes suggested, but I
don’t have time. I need help – in the form of a grant, an independent income, or whatever.
Now I see there’s no mystery why my productivity slackened in early August; since then I’ve
spent too much time on teaching to be creative.
The period from June to July I was writing good things all the time, because I had the time. I
know I could be really productive if I had more time to read and write and think. I am so
frustrated. Monday night now seems like a visit to a world I never knew existed; of course, I’ve
been aware of it all along, but recently I’ve spent so much time in banal, mindless company that
I appreciate the Manhattan scene now.
I can’t make fun of Alice and her crowd anymore; in a real way, I want to be a part of it. And
damn it, yes, I am as attracted to the glitter of the literary would as much as Podhoretz said he
was in Making It. I want an apartment of my own, like Wesley’s or Alice’s; I want a job where I
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can get respect and for which I’m well-compensated; I want to be with people I can talk
intelligently to. I feel as though I’m drowning in idiocy.
The superficiality of Studio 54 may be absurd, but it’s better than the idiots hanging around on
street corners. I’m starving intellectually, getting nourishment only through books and
magazines. That’s one reason more graduate school might not be a bad idea.
Oh, I don’t know. Sometimes – like on Monday night, when driving over the Manhattan
Bridge, I thought of the phrase “a dream come true” – I think I’m going to make it, and other
times I see myself going nowhere.
I’ve had absolutely no sexual desire for the past ten days. As the weather turns chilly and the
days end early, I feel myself becoming a sterile container.
Thursday, October 5, 1978
1 PM. I need to write now because I don’t have a therapist anymore. I feel very lost, very out of
control. In an hour I have to go to Kingsborough. God, I hate facing my students. My car had
to be taken in today. It’s been missing and may need a tune-up; also, I may have an exhaust
leak.
I went to the Alumni Association and picked up the rest of the Class Notes; I don’t think I want
to do them anymore. I’ll have to take the rented car to school, though I’m not supposed to be
driving it, and if I get stopped or into an accident, I’m in big trouble. Hell, I’m in big trouble
anyway. I want to cry.
Last night’s dreams were nice: I was capable of going everywhere. It was a blissful night. I fell
asleep during Network. I haven’t had an orgasm in about a week – I think that’s a record. I have
a tissue hanging out of my mouth now. My hair is too long. I have pimples. I feel fat. Crying:
that’s what I want to do. But I can’t.
Oh, I hate being like this. I don’t want to go to Kingsborough, I don’t want George to come in
for the Book Fair this weekend, I don’t want to mark the 50 papers in my briefcase. I feel very
much alone.
On Monday night when I got home from Wes’s apartment, I called up Ronna and she was
crying. She’d just gotten off the phone with Susan, who’s planning her honeymoon with
Marvin. All Alison talks about is marrying her boyfriend, and Ronna felt alone. I wish I could
help her, but even if I wanted to marry her, she wouldn’t agree to it. Or maybe she feels
desperate enough to say yes.
[132]
I asked her if she was dating anyone; she isn’t. She doesn’t have enough time to see me or other
friends. I suggested that maybe she was crying about not getting married because that’s
something she can’t control and thus easy to get upset about; perhaps what really was
bothering her frustration about her career – something she can do something about.
In the end, Ronna thought I was right. We talked until 1 AM, and she said I helped her a lot. “I
love you,” I told her, and I heard her say, “I love you, too.” If only love were enough!
Maybe it’s just the weather – I don’t know. I feel helpless, put-upon, pressed for time. My life
seems at the mercy of 100 different things, none of which I can control. Unless – unless I am
being like Ronna and using that as an excuse. (A good therapist might raise that point.) But, to
tell you the truth, I don’t want to explore myself now. I’d rather just feel rotten.
8 PM. Well, the car is fixed but now I’ve got a toothache caused by a filling that fell out. This
isn’t my day.
My class went as well as can be expected – Ivy Siegel seems to think the class is a dialogue
between herself and me. The class’s comments are usually fatuous, irrelevant or boring.
They’re such babies. I’ve just completed reading about 15 of their essays and I can’t take any
more. Some of them look as though they were written by sixth-graders.
I feel very angry at the whole situation. I don’t think I want to teach at Kingsborough in the
spring. I’m not sure I want to teach at LIU, either. Maybe I should try something else.
After all, I’ve had four years’ experience by next spring; that should be enough to put me in a
position to get a job teaching creative writing somewhere. I need a change. I’m not sure what it
is I want to do, but teaching remedial writing isn’t it. There’s no joy in it anymore; it seems like
a hopeless task.
Friday, October 6, 1978
7 PM. It’s a lovely evening, mild and breezy. Last night was an incredible one; I slept for 12
hours, but I kept getting up. There was a furious thunderstorm going on, and at one point the
thunder was so protracted I was sure I was hearing the Concorde take off or land.
I had a variety of magical dreams. I was sure I would remember them, but they’re gone now. I
spoke to Ronna last evening. She was feeling better; she’s decided to make up her resumes and
start sending them out.
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This weekend Alison is moving into her own apartment; she has a way of manipulating Ronna,
playing “poor little me,” and making herself very dependent. In some ways I think Alison is a
dead-ass. I like Susan better; now that Susan’s with Marvin, she doesn’t bug Ronna so much
about not seeing her enough.
I’ve been complaining a great deal the past few days, I know, but I’m not desperately unhappy.
What I am is dissatisfied. I can certainly tolerate teaching at Kingsborough another couple of
months. The weeks will go by fast.
Toda, for example, wasn’t that bad. Not that good, either, but I don’t expect good things
anymore. One of my office-mates tells me that she has a regular freshman class that’s a dream,
so maybe I’ve just lucked into a couple of rotten classes.
Perhaps part of it is I don’t feel at home at Kingsborough. I have no friends there, as I did at
LIU – but of course I didn’t get friends at LIU till after a few terms of teaching there.
Nothing much happened today: I taught, I got three rejections, I went to the library (where I
had a pleasant, literate conversation with a young librarian who just moved here from Syracuse
and wanted to know where she could find a literary bookstore). I exercised, I watched TV (soap
operas and the Yankee playoffs against Kansas City), I did not mark any papers.
And now I have a three-day weekend ahead of me. The Book Fair starts tomorrow and so does
the Assembling exhibit at the Pratt Gallery. I tried to call George last night but couldn’t get him
in. I’ve had no word from him as to where he’s staying, whether here or at his friend’s house in
Manhattan, and I don’t know if he’s driving in or coming by train. I might hear from him in a
couple of hours.
I look forward to the Book Fair, of course, but there are some people I want to avoid: Jon
Baumbach, Michael Largo of New Earth Books, a couple of others. And it’s embarrassing to
introduce yourself to people who’ve rejected your work. Every year the Book Fair turns into a
bigger event, and this year, at Martin Luther King Jr. High School will probably get a lot of
media attention. (The Post is back while the Times and Daily News are still on strike.)
Dad had his stitches removed today. The scars are not that unsightly, but it will take time for
Dad’s face to fill out – also, it’s going to be a year before enough nerve ends grow so that the
side of his face won’t be numb anymore. But Dad’s been working since Wednesday, and aside
from twinges of pain, he seems fine.
Why is it that we can’t remain grateful but always want more? Two weeks ago I would have
given anything as long as my father’s tumor was benign. Now, with the surgery successful, I
am annoyed when I get a traffic ticket, enraged when my students act up, and depressed
because of some little setback – or even the weather.
[134]
Candida Donadio, in a New Times article on the mysterious Thomas Pynchon, whose agent she
is, said that no one can write a novel till they’re 35 – that “today we have seen too much and
been trampled too much and can’t recollect the passions of youth until the tranquility of early
middle age.” Isaac Bashevis Singer won the Nobel Prize – a surprisingly good choice.
Saturday, October 7, 1978
10 PM. The Book Fair was today and I’m all book-faired out. Too many people, too many
books, too much money I’ve spent. George called me from Manhattan, where he spent last
night at his friend Stuart’s place. Stuart used to work with him at the Patriot-News and now
writes for Soap Opera Digest.
I told George I’d meet him at Martin Luther King High, and I drove into the city right after
breakfast, getting there just as most people were just setting up. This is the biggest Book Fair
yet, but it’s an out-of-the-way place and didn’t seem to draw much of a crowd. I was helping
Martin Tucker set up the Confrontation booth; he doesn’t seem annoyed with me at all. All of a
sudden George grabbed me from behind; God, it was good to see him. He’s working hard,
hoping to get into the editorial department (when I told him I’d typed up a Class Notes item on
the paper’s editor, Saul Kohler, BC ’48, George told me to write Saul a note about him).
Susan Lawton, George’s printer and co-editor with him of the Tigris Journal, soon arrived. She’s
a very classy lady who lives with a fortyish artist in Westchester.
Walking around or sitting at the table, the day was a sea of faces. Some impressions:
Lynda Scott of Gravitas is a sick lady, sort of the whore of the small press scene; she was cozy
with A.D. Winans, who doesn’t look as crazy as I thought he would. Len Fulton of Dustbooks
looks like the Marlboro Man, too eminent a figure for me to approach.
Raymond Federman could Yves Montand with his Gallic charm. Russell Banks, on the other
hand, seems standoffish; he’s working on a nonfiction book about Jamaica, he told me. Ed
Hogan of Aspect is as nice as I’d thought he’d be. His co-editor, Miriam Sagan, is very funny –
one of the sweetest people around.
Herb Leibowitz told me Tom Nevins is on his honeymoon; when I told Herb I didn’t want to
make a life of connecting comma splices, he said that’s all he’s doing this term. Peter Cherches
of Zonepress is in the MFA program at Columbia now, hoping to get a job at BC or LIU.
Ken Bernard came to help Martin, and he brought his wife, children and father-in-law. Richard
Meade of Story Press flew in alone; he seemed a bit lost with only one book to sell. I met Lee
van der Velde, who accepted something of mine for Helen Review, I gave them a donation and
got a free cookie.
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Suzanne Zavrian said they’ve been getting a number of unsolicited intelligent reviews for her
American Book Review and she thought that was a hopeful sign. Bob Hershon of Hanging Loose
Press wore a John Greenleaf Whittier nametag, and his co-editor Ron Schreiber told me to
submit some more things.
Rick Peabody from Gargoyle came down with a bunch of friends; he’s broke and working as a
stock boy. (He’s a friend of White Ewe Press’s Kevin Urick.) I avoided Gallimaufry’s Mary
MacArthur, whom I once insulted in a letter.
Susan Lawton and I had lunch at a new expensive Broadway place, The Saloon. When I
ordered Perrier, she said she’d thought I was an ex-alcoholic. Richard Kostelanetz left early
because his Assembling Assembling show opened at a downtown art gallery.
I found a copy of Junction with “Guillaine-Barre Syndrome” in it. Michael Lally autographed
his book for me and we talked about the heat and the crowd at his Ear reading. I bought $25
worth of books and magazines.
My feet hurt and my eyes hurt. I spoke for a long time with David Gershator of the Downtown
Poets’ Coop, who used to teach at BC’s School of Contemporary Studies; we talked of their
crazy dean, Carlos Russell, now Idi Amin’s man in the U.S.
George is staying at Barbara Howard’s house in Old Westbury tonight. I dropped Susan off at
Grand Central and got home at 8 PM.
9 PM. George never showed up at the Book Fair today. I went there at noon and left with
Ronna at
6 PM, mystified by his disappearance. OK, George just called – he had gone through a real
bummer of an experience but it was his own fault.
I’d told him to call me if things didn’t work out with Barbara Howard. Of course she never
showed up. George waited till after 8 PM and got locked in the school. He kept calling the guy
who knew Barbara but got no answer.
After being let out, George went to Penn Station, thinking maybe he would take the LIRR out to
Old Westbury, but he was so disgusted, having sold one of my books and none of his
magazines, that he decided to take the Metroliner to Philly. The only problem was that the next
connection to Harrisburg wouldn’t be for 13 hours!
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He dialed his friends in Philadelphia but no one was home. Going into the men’s room, he was
followed by some black guy who poked through the bottom of George’s stall. He spent the
night lying on a bench like a bum, unable to asleep because he was afraid his admirer would
bother him.
He caught a cold, of course, and when he got on the train to Harrisburg this afternoon, he
discovered he’d gotten on a local going somewhere else; in his anxiety to leave, he hopped on
an earlier train. They let him off at Ardmore, where he had to wait (outside – and today was
very cold, with a high of 50°) another few hours until finally his train came.
He drove straight from the Harrisburg station to his parents’ house, where he collapsed – and
where he discovered his address book was missing. That book had all the addresses of his
friends and X subscribers. Shit. The trip was a disaster for him. I feel terrible, but of course if
he’d just called me from Penn Station, I’d have picked him up and he could have spent a
comfortable night in this house.
I went to the Book Fair at noon, as I said, and waited and waited for him. Ed Hogan and
Miriam Sagan went out to lunch, and I took care of the Aspect table for an hour. Then I went out
to lunch by myself, and when I got back, Ronna arrived and kept me company and we walked
around.
Michael Lally autographed his book for Ronna, and she thought he was licking his lips at the
sight of me. Once I fantasized about sleeping with Michael, but I’m not really attracted to him.
Peter Cherches told me the Columbia MFA program is a joke, and Louis Pariscondola, who was
taking care of the Confrontation table, said he’s teaching English 10 this semester.
Edward Field signed a book for me, and Ronna was impressed, as she and Susan used to stay
up late reading his work aloud. I met Geri Reilly (who was there with her twin Terri), who said
she’s still working for Social Security. She’s pleased with her writing but hasn’t been published
yet.
Ron Sukenick and Steve Katz were walking around, but they’ve never been to friendly to me
and are not likely to be now, so I didn’t say anything to them. But I did meet Hal Jaffee, whose
novel is being published with the Fiction Collective this spring.
I saw Michael Braziller of Persea Books and Les Von Losberg of Junction and the Poets’ Union.
Richard Meade of Story Press looked very alone (still), and Napoleon St. Cyr of The Small Pond
looked strange wearing a paper hat.
Ed Hogan and I reminisced about the McGovern campaign; I feel like I’ve known Ed for ages.
There are very nice people in the small press movement – it’s crazy, but it’s almost the way
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Student Government was in LaGuardia Hall was for me. In fact, it’s exactly like it: the place
where I fit in.
Ronna and I drove home and it was oh so good to hold her, talk quietly with her, kiss her. She’s
beautiful. Today I first saw her from a distance, and what registered immediately was that she
was a beautiful woman, not the fact that she was Ronna.
7 PM. Columbus Day makes me feel very nostalgic. Especially today because it was so cold:
40° when I awoke this morning. I took a walk late this afternoon, and I never take walks. But
it’s fall and somehow it seemed necessary.
I remember other autumns. 1968: breaking down, unable to sleep, doing nothing, going
nowhere but group therapy. 1969: being a freshman, the Vietnam moratorium, going to classes
after eating lunch (a cheese sandwich, soda, an apple and Sara Lee marble pound cake) and
watching Where the Heart Is. 1970: being active in student government, meeting most of the
people who would be important to me. 1971: breaking up with Shelli, crying uncontrollably,
cutting my hair, getting into herbs, wearing flannel shirts.
1972: dating Ronna, bringing her flowers and sage rinse for her hair, taking her to see Jules and
Jim which she thought very weird, fogging up the windows of my Pontiac. 1973: driving out to
Staten Island at twilight for classes, seeing Ronna still, still hanging out in LaGuardia Hall.
1974: working at Alexander’s and hating it, being in the MFA program and loving it, dinner at
the Pub with Simon, breaking up with Ronna, it being bad but not terrible but still bad enough
to hurt, ending therapy.
1975: teaching at LIU Tuesday and Thursday mornings, getting my first stories accepted,
worrying about the future. 1976: hoping Carter would win, teaching and not being a student
for the first September in 20 years, being lonely and answering ads in the Village Voice, stories
beginning to come out. 1977: again at LIU, still writing, stories coming out all over the place,
frustrated at home, missing Ronna and Avis and Grandpa Nat.
1978: here we are. I held Ronna last night. People recognize my name. I might have a book
published. I miss being an undergraduate, having loads of friends and time to hang out. I’m
scared about being observed teaching tomorrow, but I think that’s only because I feel I should be
scared. I dread the early darkness, the end of summer and sexiness, I dread the cold.
But this term will end in two months and I am really looking forward to December and January.
I want to relax, to write, to see Avis when she comes in, maybe finally get to Florida to see my
grandparents. But I have ten weeks to get through before that.
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I don’t enjoy teaching at Kingsborough and I’m not certain I want to remain a teacher. I find it
hard to write as much or as well as I used to. My teeth hurt often. I look good these days; it’s a
year since I got my lenses. I feel depressed now but the problem isn’t really situational, it’s just
life, and I guess it’s not really a problem at all.
Today I xeroxed my stories and marked papers and prepared for tomorrow’s lesson and
listened to soap operas and got bored. Dad worked a full day today, two weeks (they went so
fast) after his surgery. Jonny passed his road test and has been taking out the Cadillac every
night.
Alice sent a postcard from Spain. Tom Whalen accepted “The Greatest Short Story That
Absolutely Ever Was” for Lowlands Review, calling it “the ultimate Grayson.” Tailings came out
with my meditation, “Conjectures.” The chairman of the English Department at Rutgers-
Camden wrote he was impressed with my vita.
I feel sleepy but there are more papers to mark. It’s only 7 PM and I don’t have to get up early
anymore. And after working tomorrow, it will be Wednesday – Yom Kippur – on Wednesday.
Yom Kippur, a holiday/holy day.
8 PM. It’s Yom Kippur and I feel quite relieved. My observation went better than I could have
expected. I spent hours preparing the lesson, I wore a sport jacket, I was “up” and loose, and
the class, God love them, really came through for me; they must like me after all. Prof. Depas
showed me her form after it was filled out and she checked all the “good” and “excellent” boxes
and had no adverse criticism. In fact, she asked me how long I had been teaching.
I felt jubilant afterwards and had a hamburger in the cafeteria overlooking the beach. Suddenly
Kingsborough seemed a delightful place, and I was filled with affection for the school and for
my students.
Today was a kind of turning point. For the next two months, I won’t have to worry about being
observed; I can get down to business. Even my 3 PM class went well; I let them out early for the
holiday. I handed back papers today, and though the marks were low, nobody complained to
my face.
I spoke with Stephen Sponk and Steve Antelli, and both of them expressed the same frustrations
I’ve been having with my classes. So I’m not alone, and not getting through to the students isn’t
my fault. I feel 100% better about teaching at Kingsborough.
The rest of the week is easy, and I’ve just got to keep on trucking until the end of the semester.
Friday is finally payday, and I think that will ease my sufferings considerably. I feel good about
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myself again – as a teacher, anyway. As for myself as a writer, well. . . Avis wrote that she
didn’t like most of Disjointed Fictions: “too much I, I, I,” she said. I’ve got to cut out all this
super-self-conscious stuff; Avis is a fairly representative person.
Last night I came across a notebook detailing things that happened in the summer of 1972. It
was fantastically interesting, but I have no idea how to present it in fiction. There are too many
characters to make a coherent story, and I’m sick of incoherent stories.
I got three rejections today, plus the invitation to participate in A Critical Assembling.
Kostelanetz and Korn got an NEA grant (the panel probably figured it would shut Richard up)
to do an Assembling where they would print the camera-ready material – it’s all supposed to be
on criticism of avant-garde or experimental literature.
Among those invited along with me are Ed Hogan, Ron Sukenick, George Economou, Clarence
Major, Dick Higgins, and some really heavy hitters: Susan Sontag, Allen Ginsberg, Ihab Hassan,
Northrop Frye, Marshall McLuhan. I’m very flattered to be in such company and I look
forward to the challenge of writing something that’s not fiction.
I’ve discovered since I did the piece on Susan Fromberg Schaeffer that I enjoy doing
assignments and that I enjoy the intellectual challenge of rewriting a dozen times.
Avis told me all about her French vacation in her letter, and I got a card from Teresa, who went
to London with her roommate Mary. Ronna phoned me this afternoon and asked if I could
come over and help her make up her resumé, so I’ll leave in a few minutes.
Last night I typed up a new dossier to include my job at Kingsborough and new publications;
I’ve got to send it off to Rutgers-Camden. I feel that my getting somewhere is inevitable; sooner
or later, I’ll have a writer-in-residence job or a publishing job or something. Working is not so
bad. If I hadn’t worked today, I wouldn’t feel this glorious sense of accomplishment and also
the relief at not having to work tomorrow.
7 PM as Yom Kippur ends. It was a glorious day to believe in Brooklyn. Giovanni da

Verrazano wrote in his journal of “this pleasant place situated among certain little hills, from
amidst which there runs down to the sea an exceeding great stream.”
I feel very boroughistic this evening after reading this new magazine Brooklyn. There was an
article by Rob Edelman on all the movies about Brooklyn, from King Vidor’s The Crowd to
Saturday Night Fever and the forthcoming Boardwalk.
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Also, there was an article about the NBC studio on Avenue M, where they film my favorite soap
opera, Another World. When the building was a Vitagraph film studio, Rudolph Valentino
worked there as an extra for a day and Leon Trotsky made $7 a day there as a set designer. And
in 1954, NBC filmed two series there: Gene Lockhart as His Honor Homer Bell – they used
Midwood High School as the exterior of Judge Bell’s courthouse and LaGuardia Hall as the
town hall. There should be a story or poem in all of this.
Last evening Alice phoned. She came back from Europe two days early and had tried to return
earlier but got stranded for two days in Luxembourg, where there was nothing to do but see
junk movies like Coma and The Swarm. The best part of the trip was her visit with her brother,
who took her all over Iceland. Paris was not as exciting as it had been for Alice; she didn’t meet
anyone except “a lot of creepy Arabs crawling around.”
Tonight Alice left for Miami Beach, where she’ll be covering a conference on teenage
unemployment sponsored by Burger King. Avis has never been to Miami before and I was in
the rare position of telling Avis the lowdown on a new city. She’s even staying at the Carillon.
That reminds me: I definitely want to go to Florida this winter. I’ll have the time off, and I
haven’t seen my grandparents in years. If I want to fly down there in January, I’d better make
reservations soon.
Last night, after dinner, I went to Ronna’s to help her with her résumé. She’s finally getting her
act together and will look for work at newspapers in the Northeast. Alison was just leaving as I
arrived, and Barbara was prancing around.
Ronna and I worked on the résumé and we talked about her dinner with Sid and Carole the
previous night, when Susan also tagged along. They looked terrific, Ronna said, and are both
doing very well. I suppose I shouldn’t be envious of Carole, who hasn’t published any of her
fiction yet, but she did get two $1000 grants out in Indiana.
Ronna and I sat on the living room couch and held each other and kissed. Writing this sounds
so banal. For the first time in years, she said “I love you” to me without my saying it first. We
made out like crazy for hours, but I didn’t think it was cool to have sex in the living room with
other people in the house, so I left at 1 AM.
“We both know what we’re going to do when we get into bed,” Ronna said. I don’t know about
her, but I had an incredible orgasm; I never felt the semen spurt out with such force. I felt
absolutely wonderful and fell asleep and had a dream about space travel in which I was
dizzyingly flying out past Saturn and Uranus. It was very eerie.
Today I woke up late but took care of a lot of errands. I got my insurance card ticket dismissed,
took a haircut, xeroxed my dossier, went to the bank, and on the way I managed to take a ride
through Prospect Park and enjoy the Indian summer weather.
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6 PM. I’ve been feeling very irritable today. Little things have been getting on my nerves –
such as all my pens running dry as this one is doing. I’m very dissatisfied with myself. I’ve
gotten fat again. I haven’t done any work on editing my stories for Wes. Mrs. Ehrlich wrote me
a note suggesting I would really like to come back to therapy, and that made me angry, partly
because it’s true.
I’ve been spending too much money lately – money I don’t have. I have only about $300 in the
bank, and my check next week will be eaten up quickly. I don’t know if I can afford an
apartment.
I’m annoyed at Avis for saying I write too much about myself. I’m annoyed with an editor for
rejecting my story and saying “this is very poorly organized.” I’m annoyed – as usual – with
my babyish students. Most of all, I’m annoyed at myself.
I don’t know what I want, and I seem to spend most of my life on trivia. Nothing important
ever seems to get done; only insignificant tasks get accomplished. I finished the Class Notes
and gave them to Marie this morning. I hope I don’t have to do another one.
Mom uses my car to pick up Jonny from school and it’s always a close call making it to my 12:40
class. My parents don’t understand my frustration about not having time to write.
They’ll never understand my gayness; I talked in broad terms about homosexuality over dinner
and they’re so dense about it. At 27, I’m at the point where I’m tired of trying to pretend I don’t
feel things that I do feel.
Yesterday I got a letter from Bobby Mahoney, whose Voice ad I answered a couple of weeks
back. Bobby is 25; I had to go to the library to remember his ad. It turns out he’s “straight,” but
is interested in “trying something new.”
I called him this afternoon and he seemed very nervous, as if I was about to rape him over the
telephone. He works at Random House as an editorial assistant and Wants To Write; I don’t
think he actually does write.
But I shouldn’t be so sarcastic. Anyway, I tried to arrange a meeting with him (he asked for
something “very casual – over coffee or a drink”), but he said this week was no good and he’ll
get back to me next week.
He sounds like a nice guy, but I won’t ever hear from him; he’s too scared. Damn it, I’m not
scared anymore – not of being myself and not of telling the truth.
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Do you know how hard it is to convince 17-year-olds that clichés are bad? For years they’ve
heard nothing but clichés and now they look on an original phrase – or an original thought – as
something to avoid like the plaque (dental plaque, that is). Maybe I’ll read some Edward Field
or Michael Lally poetry as an antidote.
I suppose I’m too hard on my students. They’ve young, not sure of themselves, and it’s risky
for them to be themselves. I’m not so young anymore; I may not know what I’m doing, but I
know who I am and don’t have time to make excuses.
I was at the gas station filling up when Nestor, Marc’s friend who used to be a creepy drug
addict, came over and told me how much he enjoyed “Bartleby the Scrivener,” which he’d just
read. We talked about it – I told him I’d taught it this past summer – and I began to like Nestor
for the first time.
People can and do change. Carl Rogers thinks we ultimately progress, and I’d like to believe
that. Maybe I’m angry because I know what I’d like to do (edit my book, return to therapy, get
my own apartment, be more adventurous sexually) and am not doing it. It looks as though I’m
refusing to take responsibility.
4 PM. It’s a lovely, bright afternoon. The weekend is upon me, and this is always the best part
of the weekend: the anticipation of it. I hope – no, I am determined – to begin editing the book
for Wes this weekend. Tonight I’m seeing Ronna but I have no plans for Saturday and Sunday,
and I don’t have much schoolwork to do.
Five weeks at Kingsborough have gone by, and I’m starting to feel at home there. I’ve begun to
like my students and even managed to have a good time in class today. They may be stupid but
they’re nice; I haven’t given them much of a break.
Today I got a letter from the Acting Chairman of the English Department at the University of
New Orleans. He acknowledged my application, saying my “credentials” are “very
impressive.” His response (in the AWP Placement List he said he’d only respond “if there is a
possibility of appointment”) and the one from Camden-Rutgers make me feel as though I have
made progress from the days when I got form letters.
Evidently I’ll be considered seriously for jobs now. This New Orleans professor said he wants
to interview me at the MLA Convention in late December (it will be in the city this year, so
that’s convenient).
Last night on public TV, they were showing the documentary Word Is Out, interviews with 25
gay men and women of all types. Peter Adair, one of the filmmakers, was the friend of Skip’s
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who came to Brooklyn College several years ago. He showed two films, about Vietnam and a
San Francisco gay pride parade. Afterwards I went out to lunch at The Pub with him, Skip,
Mason and Libby, Vito and Dom. I remember it as a very pleasant time.
If I do go to see Mrs. E – and I may – one of the things I will tell her is that I’ve come to accept
my gayness as something natural, a part of me. It does take a long time. I see that guys like
Bill-Dale and Bobby Mahoney haven’t yet accepted themselves sexually, so I feel ahead of them.
After the film, I watched an episode of Family where a young couple decide not to remarry
because, while they love each other, they cannot make a go out of it as a husband and wife. It
made me cry. I love Ronna, I care so much for her – too much to attempt to hold onto her.
If that’s true, why am I seeing her tonight? Because I want to, I guess, and because it’s her half-
birthday. Six years ago, on another Friday the 13th, before we were going together, I sent her a
birthday card ripped in half. I want to do the same tonight.
But maybe I’m not being fair to her. She knows all about my proclivities (I love that that word
is never used except when referring to homosexuality) and says it doesn’t matter. Still, my
continuing to see her may be bad for her.
I love Ronna more than I could love any woman, but I think I could love a man more deeply;
anyway, I’d like to try to find out. It would be nice if Bobby called.
I care for Ronna a lot more than I care for our relationship – she’s my friend – and I would
prefer her not seeing me to her being hurt by me. I feel as though I’m taking and taking from
her and not giving enough in return.
I suppose it’s not my responsibility to worry about Ronna not getting enough out of our
relationship. She ‘d tell me, wouldn’t she, if she was dissatisfied? Mostly we’re friends.
This morning in the shower I decided that I’m not at all worried about growing old. Sometimes
I think the nicest time of life is just after 50 when, like Dad or Edward Field, you’ve passed your
mid-life crisis and at last feel comfortable with yourself.
8 PM. Any day when your muffler falls out of your car in Chinatown isn’t exactly a great day. I
went into Manhattan to see the Assembling Assembling exhibit at the Pratt Graphics Center – it
wasn’t anything much, and my contribution looked stupid.
I was driving back to Brooklyn on the FDR Drive when I decided I would exit at South Street
and get the Manhattan Bridge. (It was the first time I’d ever done that, and superstitious me
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won’t do it again.) I started hearing a noise when I accelerated, and then – clunk – on Division
Street my muffler dropped, bending the rear out of shape as I dragged it.
I took it to a gas station where they cut it off and I drove home via Flatbush Avenue very
noisily. Monday I’ll bring it in to Bob. It needs a whole new system and will probably cost a
fortune. My car is falling apart; I don’t know how much longer I can keep it patched together.
Getting to Kingsborough by public transportation will be a pain in the ass – and with Dad and
Marc gone, there’ll be no car for Mom, either (nor Jonny).
Today was my Friday the 13th, but I’m trying not to let it get to me. I didn’t get to edit my
manuscript today, nor do I think I can do it tonight. Is it a kind of writer’s block? Am I
deliberately avoiding getting my book together? Because I’m afraid of success? Because I
resent Wes’s suggestions?
Last evening Ronna and I went to see a late movie at Kings Plaza. Beforehand we talked about
her career and how she’s got to get her shit together; so far, she’s just been playing at wanting to
be a reporter and doing nothing about it.
I told her she’s not informed enough; she doesn’t know half the things I know about what’s
going on in the press. She says I’ve helped her more than anyone through this rough period for
her.
Ronna doesn’t see Susan much because of Marvin, and she resents Alison’s constant presence.
Alison was watching the World Series with Mrs. C and Billy when I arrived. Ronna’s mother
can’t stand Alison’s nasal whining, but Alison doesn’t know that. She’s your basic fuck-up;
gave out the wrong address, for example, to her mother, boyfriend and the movers bringing a
couch. In this respect, she makes Ronna look like a Miss Preparedness.
After the film (Who Is Killing the Great Chefs of Europe? – mildly amusing), Ronna and I came
back to my basement, where I told her what I was feeling about our relationship. She said she
was satisfied with the way it is going and doesn’t expect anything more; if she does want
something deeper – or different, anyway – she’ll look elsewhere.
We made love and it was very pleasant, warm and tender, if not particularly passionate. Ronna
got more out of it than I did, although I’m not complaining. It’s very nice to hug and kiss and
lick and hold and lie next to Ronna, and I would love to be able to spend the night with her. I
like her ass, her breasts, and I’d say I liked her cunt if I could bring myself to use that word.
As I wrote yesterday, Ronna is everything I’d want in a woman – beautiful, caring, intelligent,
independent, funny – but she isn’t a guy. And if I think a man will be better, or at least different
– then, as Ronna told me, it’s my responsibility to find one.
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It was very nostalgic to be in my basement with Ronna till 2:30 AM, and to drive her home at
that wonderfully alive dead hour. I gave her a ripped half-birthday card, similar to the one I
gave her six years ago, on another Friday, October 13th. We are good and old friends who share
a great deal. But I am not the man for Ronna, and Ronna is not the man for me.
She went to New Jersey this weekend, to spend a day with Phil at Princeton and then to visit
John at Rutgers.
Wendy called today, asking for my English-teacherly help on an essay she’s writing for her
application to the Wharton business school at the University of Pennsylvania. It must be nice to
be 17 and applying to colleges.
4 PM. I’m feeling somewhat better today. Last evening I began to edit the stories for Wes. It
went more quickly and more painlessly than I had expected. I even wrote a bit last night: just a
fragment, nothing complete.
But anyway, I feel I’ve caught up on things. I’ve prepared my classes for the coming week, and
for the 11 class I’ve begun an outline of the rest of the term’s work. I marked all the papers that
needed marking. The Class Notes are finished, so I don’t have to worry about them, and I’m
not going to expend energy, time and postage on sending out stories to magazines.
The book is more important now, and so is following up on job prospects. I’ve already laid the
groundwork for my getting somewhere. It won’t be a meteoric rise out of nowhere (God, what
clichés! I’d better pay attention to my own lectures), but it’s better to play the tortoise, I think.
After all, I don’t expect to begin writing a solid novel until I’m 35 or so. (That seems to be the
norm for novelists today, and with my generation’s extended adolescence, it may become even
older in the future.)
This morning I saw on TV a woman of 55 who’d just published her first novel after short stories
since college. I want to become more relaxed about “getting ahead,” less manic, more
thoughtful. I can feel myself becoming more comfortable with who I am.
I don’t have the need to write egomaniacal stories (like those in Disjointed Fictions which Avis
objects to). I haven’t written much in the past three months, not because of writer’s block, but
because I haven’t had the time and because I’m working out a new way of dealing with my
fiction.
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I’m not certain what will happen to my writing once this transition period is over, but it’s got to
be something new. I could be turning out more stories based on my own “formulas,” but why
bother? I’ve given up writing for writing’s sake.
I’ve been speaking to several of my friends. Josh is finding that he knows more about grammar
than he thought he did as he tutors at NYCCC. He and Simon both tutor 30 hours a week and
the pay isn’t great, but Josh prefers it to driving an oil truck. Most of the students are black, and
Josh tries to get the few white female students for himself.
Last night I called Mikey, who’s still getting off for Jewish holidays at Cardozo. Under his
internship program, Mikey defended his first client in Bronx Criminal Court; he plea-bargained
and got the guy three months.
Alice phoned a little while ago. The rooms and the food at the Carillon were to her liking, and
she had an affair with her first black man, a wealthy Oklahoman, 30, who’s been married four
times.
The conference was pretty boring and it will be a miracle if she can get a story out of it. Alice
has decided to stay at Seventeen for another few months before she begins actively job-hunting
again.
I discussed my own career plans with her. She thinks I’m crazy to apply for jobs outside New
York, and to be truthful, I’m not sure I want to be in New Orleans or Tucson or Houston for a
year. The job would have to be a very good one – I wouldn’t want to teach just comp courses –
and the money would have to be good.
Tomorrow I’ll have to take two buses to Kingsborough, but I’ll survive. Mom and Dad are at a
birthday party for the Cohens’ grandson Jordan, Marc is at Donna’s, and Jonny is lifting
weights in the basement. I’ve been inside all day and I’m not going out now. I slept twelve
hours last night; it was wonderful.
7 PM. Last evening I watched the Yankees clobber the Dodgers. They now need one game to
win the Series. I had some trouble falling asleep and didn’t get up until 9:30 this morning.
Dad took my car into Bob’s station earlier, so I had to call car service to get to school. (I decided
a taxi would be worth it.) Before leaving, I finished the minor editing on my stories for the
collection. Now I’ve just got to completely rewrite a few stories --
“Uncle Irving,” “Go Not to Lethe,” “The Mother in My Bedroom.”
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Richard Grayson
I taught my 12:40 class fairly well, going over simple and compound subjects. Rosa Cordero is
getting a bit too friendly with me. I think she misunderstood my interest in her classwork as
something personal. She told me she talks about me to her mother all the time, and started to
tell me something, then said, “I’d better not. . . It’s too personal.”
God, she may be in love with me! What a revolting thought: to be loved by a near-moron. I’d
better be more distant with her; all I wanted was to stop her from disrupting the class. A month
ago she used to burst into laughter at the sight of me.
I worked out a schedule for the 11 class, and I’ve pretty much got the rest of the term under
control. There were notices in our mailboxes about final exams, so you know the term’s
beginning to end – at least psychologically. Our adjunct payroll is this Friday, November 17,
and January 5. I still don’t know how much my checks will be.
After a lesson paragraph development, I grabbed a taxi home and got here by 4:15 PM. The
new pope, John Paul II, is the first non-Italian in 450 years; he’s a relatively young Polish
cardinal who appears to be intelligent and firm.
I don’t know why I’ve been so fascinated by the conclaves of cardinals this year. The mystery
and the rituals involved in the election of a pope are something Judaism is lacking. And of
course I love all kinds of elections and always have.
Without the papers, it’s been hard to follow the off-year elections for Congress and the
governorships, but I’ve been trying. I think Gov. Carey will now squeak past Perry Duryea
next month.
You know what’s beginning to scare me? I think I’m writing like my students. Recently these
diary entries have become boring, banal, and awkwardly composed. I need a dose of good
writing, of something really sharp, where every word is the right word.
The weather’s changed again, to very cool. I’m expecting to catch a cold any day now. I’ve had
no mail for two mail deliveries, and I’m beginning to feel very isolated, as if I’m just drifting.
Late last night I was thinking about my diaries. Maybe I should end the practice of recording
my thoughts every day – perhaps it’s come to the point where it detracts from my “creative,”
“public” writing. I would like to go on to August 1, 1979, and finish out a decade.
Isn’t it an accomplishment to have recorded a whole decade – the Seventies – in these weird red
books? It’ definitely been an influence on the way I write, and on the way I view the world.
Giving equal space to each day make me feel that there are no real turning points, that both bad
times and good times pass, that life is to be lived in day-tight compartments (I remember that
phrase from Dale Carnegie, whom I read in high school).
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I look on my life – and the lives of my family and friends, and on history – as a kind of
adventure, a blank page to be filled in at a later date. I’m not that scared of life anymore; like a
soap opera, it always seems to continue, no matter what.
5 PM on a bright, chilly afternoon. You can just feel winter lurking ahead.
I’ve discovered how to add hours to the day: turn off the TV. It’s incredible how I used to waste
evening after evening plunked down in front of the tube. Maybe one of the reasons I felt so
good at Bread Loaf was because there was no TV there.
I hate being a TV addict, filling up my mind with air. In our house, the first thing we do in the
morning is to turn on the TV and at night the last thing we do is turn it off. Most people in
America live like that, I would imagine. When my students described their rooms, each of them
mentioned their TV set – a couple said it was the most important object in the room.
Last night I read Michael Lally’s books; I think he’s super, although sometimes I don’t “get” his
poems. I have a sensibility similar to his, especially when it comes to sexuality. He is a gay
man who falls in love with women as well as boys – that’s how I see myself, too. The letter was
kind of a come-on; I wrote that I used to have a crush on him but now that I’m mature, I just
respect him. I think I would like to have a relationship with him. I enclosed “Go Not to Lethe”
and of course I hope he’ll be so charmed he will want to meet me.
Two encouraging rejections came in today’s mail – that’s better than nothing. I called Wes
Strick at his apartment, purposely getting his answering machine (he has a tape on which he
talks like a hood trying to sell his record collection, as on TV) so that it’s now his turn to call me.
I’m very embarrassed about this book project; I still half-believe that they’re putting me on.
My classes went well today, though I’m a bit hoarse. I got back, and had to sign my observation
report; I couldn’t have asked for a better one.
Grandma Ethel and Grandpa Herb stopped by this morning on their way home from NYU
Hospital. According to her doctor, Grandma Ethel is making excellent progress and the cancer
is retreating or whatever the proper word is.
The new health-food diet she’s on is making her crazy. She doesn’t understand why she’s
eating all these strange foods, and sometimes makes horrendous mistakes; for example, her
doctor told her to drink fruit juices, so she bought Hi-C and Hawaiian Punch – which are
nothing but sugar, water and Red Dye #2.
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Richard Grayson
Taking 31 vitamin and mineral tablets a day is too much for her to handle, and she doesn’t
know how to prepare foods organically. At 68, she’s changing a lifetime’s eating habits and it
isn’t easy. Grandpa Herb, from whom Mom gets her compulsiveness, doesn’t like the change in
his lifestyle, either.
Last night I called Vito at the newsstand. He feels he isn’t going to get anywhere as an actor; I
don’t know if he tries hard enough, but I’m sure it’s an even tougher field to break into than
writing. “If my biggest news is that I’ve got cable TV,” Vito told me, “my life can’t be going too
well.”
Seven years ago today was the day Shelli and I broke up, the last day I slept with her, the day I
learned she was having an affair with Jerry. The same chill is in the air today, I feel the same
dry throat, my hands feel a similar roughness. I dislike this in-between weather: 45° is too cool
to be comfortable outside and not cold enough to make me feel energetic.
7 PM. It’s night out already. In another two weeks Daylight Savings Time will end and it will
start to get dark at 5 PM or so. We’re heading into winter. I feel tired after teaching two classes
a day for three days straight.
While I now have the respect of my students and the behavior problems are minimal, I still feel
enervated after teaching without a day of rest to keep me going. But I’m doing this for the
money, plain and simple. I have to constantly remind myself that the term will end in mid-
December and I’ll have two months free.
My classes are in the middle of the day, and while I’m spared having to get up early, there’s not
enough time in the morning to get any real writing done. And when I get home, there’s only an
hour before dinner, and after that I’m tired. Of course tomorrow I don’t have to be at
Kingsborough until 3 PM.
Wes phoned me back last night and we agreed to meet Saturday afternoon to discuss things
further. I won’t permit myself to believe that Taplinger is actually going to publish the book;
I’m sure Louis Strick would rather hold off until something more substantial comes along. But I
like Wes, and the whole thing is an interesting experience. Eventually somebody will publish
my book; I have faith in myself.
This morning two copies of the spring (!) issue of Texas Quarterly arrived. It’s a large,
beautifully-bound magazine, rather stuffy and intellectual, but this credit will do me good in
academia. Certainly “I, Eliza Custis” is nothing like Disjointed Fictions; it’s the opposite of
experimental, and Kostelanetz, Klinkowitz, and Baumbach would all hate it.
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But I read it during my break today, and I think it’s good in one respect: I’ve managed to create
(of course I had the help of some material – or did I plagiarize?) a character totally different
from myself, a character one cares about, not a trick, not an illusion.
By the way, Klinkowitz wrote me that his design editor, Roy Behrens, sent the original of
“Innovations” to Baumbach. Now Jon has the only copy, and I’m sure he won’t return it. The
only other copy I had I sent to Ed Hogan at Aspect, and if I don’t get that back, the story has
been lost. The Lord works in mysterious ways; maybe it just wasn’t meant to be.
I spoke to Ronna last night and we made plans for Friday evening. She had a marvelous
weekend in New Jersey. She and Phil visited various friends in Princeton, and on Sunday she,
Susan and John had a chicken dinner, during the course of which Ronna told John she was in
love with him and he asked her if I would consider sleeping with him. (I told her to tell him I
might.)
During the night I had this dream: Avis – or maybe Ronna – had to do a report on
homosexuality. Scott drove us around on a Sunday night following a party and we found that
the Mill Basin branch of the public library had its lights on.
It wasn’t open, but Cassie Levinsky (Scott’s old girlfriend) and her husband were using the
library as their home and they let us in. We reminisced about our college days, Cassie asked me
if I was a writer, and Avis/Ronna studied various documents.
Then an elderly man approached Cassie and asked her if the library had any books by Richard
Grayson. I grinned. “There are two other Richard Graysons,” I explained, “and both of them
are writers. I tell people their books are mine, and they probably do the same with my work.”
I haven’t analyzed the dream, but it feels very significant, touching on the major issues in my
present life.
This autumn of 1978 is taking on a rhythm of its own as I adjust to my routine. It’s still an
adventure, anyway.
Noon. I woke up this morning with terrible gripping stomach pains, the kind I used to get
every few months – probably it’s too much gas. So I’ve been lying quietly. At the moment the
house is empty except for me.
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Richard Grayson
Why haven’t I looked for an apartment yet? Because I do not want to move out. It’s hard
enough for me to get time for my writing, and if I had my own place, I’d have to cook, shop,
clean, do the laundry and a million other time-consuming (that’s not a cliché – I mean it in its
literal sense, devouring) chores which would take up the little time I have.
Last night I spent with my books – what a joy. Reading alone, I feel more alive and in contact
with reality than I ever do in the classroom. I wish there were NEA Reading Fellowships; I’d
like nothing better than to take a year off and read, read, read. I see why writers’ colonies are
needed.
I’m going to apply to Provincetown again and maybe to a couple of other places. I need big
blocks of time, and now I don’t have that. I’ve proven that I can be very productive when I
have the time – as I was this July, for example, when there were no outside pressures. I want
my work to mature.
I’ve been thinking a lot about “innovative fiction” and how it almost seems to be a dead end. I
mean, there just aren’t that many ways to innovate, are there? I’m a writer who was brought up
on and taught post-modern fiction writing, and most of my work has been non-traditional – but
it’s also been self-conscious, precious, self-indulgent, form without substance. Right now I want
to get back to telling stories; that seems the most important thing.
Jonny wrote a satirical essay for school on “How to Commit Suicide,” and I gave him The Savage
God to read. But Jonny is doing very well; he’s not afraid to go out. Last night he took the
Cadillac to Bergen Beach and went out with his friends.
My car is falling apart: the heater doesn’t work, the shocks need to be welded, oil leaks out
daily, and I get strange knocking noises when I make turns. I remember the first day I had that
car: it was a shiny god and smelled that fabulous new car smell. I drove it out to Staten Island,
and it was a joy. I found Ronna in Clove Lake Park with those kids from Red Hook she was
tutoring. Those days seem idyllic now, and in fact, they were.
The only regret I have about my college years is that I cannot live them all over again. The four
years I spent as an undergraduate were the happiest, most carefree years of my life. I savored
them, but if I had only known that life isn’t all college (if you know what I mean), they would
have been more precious to me.
Although now I am more sure of myself, I miss the innocence of my college days – not moral
innocence but the innocence of what it means to be an adult. I’m resisting being an adult even
this minute. (Peter Pan: “I don’t wanna grow up, I don’t wanna go to school.” – and I don’t; I’m
thinking about calling in sick today.)
Oo, my stomach hurts. Last night Gary told me about all the problems Betty’s been having with
her stomach: nausea, acidity, pain. She’s been to doctors, but they can find nothing physically
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wrong with her. Gary and I know it’s probably emotional, but as Gary said, “You still have to
alleviate the symptoms.”
Pseudo-profound thought: Maybe life is a symptom. And it needs to be alleviated. Da-de-dum.
6 PM. I’m tired after a full week. I’m glad I prevailed upon Ronna to meet me in Brooklyn
rather than Manhattan tonight. My stomach felt much better by yesterday afternoon, and I was
able to teach my class. I talked to my freshman students about how they feel about
Kingsborough after half a term; most of them see it as an extension of high school. I do like
them after all, and the affection is mutual.
Even with the more difficult 23 class today, I’m able to get through at times. So I am a good
teacher; it just took time to win confidence in myself at a new school.
The second half of the term should be easier.
Today I got paid, which cheered me up immensely: $671.63 (about $200 was taken out in taxes).
I now have nearly $900 in my bank account, more than I ever have had. And 4 weeks from
today, I get paid again, and by then I should go over the $1,000 mark for the first time.
Today I also cashed a $25 check from Bernhard Frank of Buckle. He thought my piece on Susan
Fromberg Schaeffer was “a joy.” She liked it too, apparently. I’m pleased to know I can write
non-fiction well (though I always knew I could) and that if Baumbach hates me, I have a friend
in Susan.
George wrote me an incredibly delightful weird letter, ranting on and on about my bright
future in the world of literature. I’ve spent much of my spare time in the past two weeks
catching up on correspondence.
David Gross thanked me for helping him with his story. I advised him to send it to Sue
Stephens of Tailings, and she accepted it: his first publication. I’m really glad I could help. Sue
herself sent me a letter asking for help in getting Tailings distributed; I’ll see if I can get Laura to
stock it in the Eighth Street Bookshop.
Last night I wrote letters to Tom Whalen, Tom Person, George (in two weeks I should be in
Harrisburg), Brian Robertson (who’s got a writer/teacher position with the Texas Arts Council
and who’s starting a newspaper humor column), Bernhard Frank (advising him to change the
last line of my profile of Susan, which he thought was too gushy), and Douglas Messerli of Sun
& Moon (I re-subscribed; my “Clumsy Story” will be in the next issue, now at the typesetters).
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Richard Grayson
Yesterday I got a rejection which said, “Your work always leave me with a haunting feeling.
Sometimes you seem satisfied with mediocrity, and other times you’re brilliant – as in that story
about the family [“Wednesday Night at Our House”] . . .”
The editor was right, of course. Maybe it’s all to the good that I’m not producing a story a week
now. But how it surprises me when people are familiar with my “work.” Another rejection
said, “...but congratulations on Disjointed Fictions.” There are people out there who know who I
am.
The funniest letter of the past two days was addressed to Mom. Remember that dippy Miss
Louisa G. Rogers of the new renaissance and how I got back at her for her stupid letter by writing
in Mom’s name that I’d died? Well, last spring I had “Mom” send her “late son’s story,
‘Coping,’” to the new renaissance.
Today Mom got a flowery letter announcing its acceptance and publication in the spring 1980
issue. They’re giving me (or my mother, rather) $40 for the story. I wrote back in Mom’s name
thanking Miss Rogers and telling her that she, Mom, was now writing stories under the pen
name Richard Grayson “as a tribute to my late son.” This has to be the best literary hoax I’ve
done. Of course, by spring 1980 I might very well be dead, and then the joke will be on me.
9 PM. Very unlike myself, I feel happy just to be alive. The past 24 hours have been almost
perfect – and I wouldn’t want them to be perfect, anyway, because that wouldn’t be real life.
Everything seems to be going my way for a change. I look forward to the future.
My relationship with Ronna is better than ever; she’s an oasis in my life. Last evening was
idyllic. I went over to her house at 7 PM, and while she showered, I watched TV and talked to
her sister, who soon left for a friend’s house. When Ronna came out, she started kissing and
hugging me and I didn’t want to go out to dinner or to the movies or do anything but kiss and
hug her back.
She made us hamburgers for dinner and we had a salad and grapefruit juice, and it was so
good, just the two of us in the apartment. We watched some TV and then retired to the
bedroom, where we simultaneously undressed each other and got into bed.
It was lovely – a word I get from Ronna. I am very attracted to her, and being with her like that
was heaven. I was able to let go, to be completely free, and she did the same. The intimacy is
actually better than the physical release. We play like children, we discuss our lives like friends,
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and we touch each other like lovers – or maybe like an old married couple. For now, for each of
us, our relationship is all we want it to be.
I wish I could have slept overnight with Ronna, but I wanted to prepare for my meeting with
Wes today. Her mother and Billy came home from the wrestling matches at Nassau Coliseum
just as we were getting dressed. I wasn’t embarrassed, nor was Mrs. C.
We all sat around the kitchen table talking. Mrs. C thinks that when Alison’s parents come for a
visit next week, they should get her out of that apartment. It’s dirty and depressing and too big,
and Alison doesn’t know how to handle her landlords – when the bathroom sink fell out, she
was afraid to yell at them to get it fixed, and as of yet, they haven’t.
I awoke with a bad sinus headache today, but I cleaned my sinuses out and got up to Wes’s by
12:30 PM. He was sleepy-eyed, wearing an undershirt and painter’s pants. God, I’d give
anything if I could manage that lithe, casual, rock-star attitude and appearance he has.
We discussed his rock criticism (he’s doing a review of Heart, the group Ronna and Phil are
seeing at the Palladium tonight), and his father came by to drop off a Canadian book that may
be best-seller material. Mr. Strick didn’t stay very long, and afterwards we began editing the
book.
We bullshitted a lot, and drank coffee, and Wes’s friend who designs set (for, among others,
NBC soap operas and Saturday Night Live) dropped by. Wes is seeing this girl Marla, and
they’re spending more time together because the guy she lives with, a musician, is out of town
on a three-month gig. It sounds like a typical New York affair.
Wes was a bit afraid about how I’d react to hearing about his shooting heroin last weekend, but
I was more amused than shocked. He likes needles, he says; I think he enjoys the forbidden
nature of it.
We worked very hard on all the stories and I was there for over five hours (I had a Pop-Tart for
lunch). Many of my last lines are weak and had to be cut – and we switched things around.
There’s still about ten more sections that need editing, and I’m going to work on them during
this week.
And when everything is finished, we can go into production – hard as that is to believe. I came
home exhausted, starved and quite happy.
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Richard Grayson
7 PM. Another weekend over, and another Monday-through-Friday about to begin. Today was
summerlike, 70°, sunny, light breezes – the only problem was that there wasn’t enough of it.
It’s pitch-black now, and that means next week, when we turn the clocks back (we do get an
extra hour, though), it will be dark before 6 PM. Ugh. But I shouldn’t complain. I’m young,
I’ve got my health, $900 in the bank, a book on the way. . .
Last night I saw the last episode of The Mayor of Casterbridge. Butchered Hardy though it was, it
got me wondering about the “happiness” I was feeling. Is happiness an illusion in a universe
conspiring against us? And Other Questions. Alistair Cooke quoted King Lear, that line about
the gods playing with us and destroying us on a whim.
I went out to Rockaway this afternoon. Feeling out of shape (I’ve gotten fat again), I walked up
the ten flights to Grandma Ethel’s apartment. Grandpa Herb and I sat on the terrace and I read
Grandma Ethel’s diet; it’s so complicated I had trouble explaining it to her.
Basically, she’s forbidden all canned and frozen goods, most milk products, anything with
sugar, refined sugar or refined wheat. She’s supposed to eat a lot of raw fruits and vegetables
(eating the “whole” of the food, even seeds and skin), legumes, herbs, bran, wheat germ, nuts
and fresh juices. There are ten bottles of food supplements on the table – a total of 34 pills
Grandma Ethel must take every day, all at different times.
This revolution in her body – “detoxifying,” her doctor calls it – is making her into a nervous
wreck and giving her headaches, stomachaches and aggravation. But she’s probably eating
more wisely than any of us. I think I would go mad trying that kind of diet.
Grandpa Herb showed me all the money he’s making as a tailor for people in the building, and
he insisted on pushing a five-dollar bill on me – “for carfare.” I ended up taking the money and
feeling a bit guilty. (No, I’m not really guilty. That was a lie. I like the idea that my grandfather
gives me money almost as much as he does.)
Avis wrote me a wonderful letter in which she apologized for criticizing my book and telling
me she would knit me a sweater to assuage whatever pain she caused. Oh, Avis! She’s
disappointed she didn’t get to see Teresa while Teresa was in Europe, and she’s anxious to see
us when she comes to New York on December 16. I can’t wait to see her.
Helmut has tonsillitis again, and he’s going to have them removed soon. They’ve got a
houseguest and a new cat, and Avis overdrew her bank account for the first time. Her father is
being taken off chemotherapy next month, and that’s good news.
I wrote her back a long, breezy letter last night, though I wish I could have phoned her and
chatted.
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Today was the New York Marathon: 10,000+ people ran, and Mom and Dad went to Downtown
Brooklyn to watch the runners pass by (and pass out). The new Polish Pope, John Paul II, was
inaugurated today; he seems brilliant and his fluency in in many languages astounds
monolingual me.
I just came across a favorable review of a couple of pieces of mine in a literary magazine, The
Smudge – well, maybe not that favorable; they said “a decent duo of stories.”
There is a conflict in me between my small press loyalties and my New York-publisher dreams.
Obviously some small press people will see me as a sell-out. But I refuse to look at it that way.
Mr. Strick contacted me; I didn’t go, hat in hand, begging to be published. As A.D. Winans said,
“We all make compromises, whether we want to admit it or not.”
And certainly if Taplinger does publish my book, it will do me more good than anything else
has. I’m beginning to feel more confident about my work again. I’m young, after all – young
for a fiction writer, that is.
8 PM. Today was about the best day I’ve ever had at Kingsborough. I guess it’s because I’ve
finally adjusted to the place. My students are now used to me, the freshmen are used to college,
they seem to like me, and I’ve discovered I like them. And people at the college are familiar to
me; I can walk through the campus and hear people call my name.
Today, for example, some girls said, “Oh there’s Ivy and Alison’s English teacher.” Rosa
Cordero invited me to her birthday party on Thursday, and since it seems to mean a lot to her, I
told her I’d drop by. My lessons went well today, and I felt I was really getting through to my
classes. Teaching can be very satisfying on days like today.
It was eerily warm – 76° – and very sunny; it won’t be like this again for another six months.
Right now a storm is brewing and the temperatures are plummeting.
I went to Kings Plaza at 11:30 AM and had lunch at Bun ‘n’ Burger; it was a nice change of pace,
and it also gave me time to go to the bank. The day went so quickly, and I had so much energy
I can hardly believe it. (This is a counter-example of the kind of organized narration I lectured
my students on today.) Maybe it’s because I stayed in bed until 10 AM, shifting from one
delicious dream to the next.
During my break today, I typed up a new vita on the English Department IBM typewriter, and
at about
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Richard Grayson
5 PM I went over the Junction to xerox it. I ran into Angie, who’s now a Brooklyn College
student, and she waited while I had my résumé run off so I could drive her home.
She enjoys college, she says, but it’s very hard work; she spends every night studying. Angie’s
in a special program and goes from 9 AM to 4 PM almost every day, taking all of her courses in
one room in Whitehead.
Despite limited financial aid, she’s having money problems and she hasn’t been getting along
with her mother. Angie said she’d like to move out; maybe if she could get welfare, she could
swing it.
She also doesn’t like running into Chuck. The last time they saw each other, he smacked her;
Chuck’s just too angry to be friends. His mother, however, spoke with Angie and says she
understands how she feels. I dropped Angie off and wished her luck with her studies. I think
she’ll make it.
Last evening I spoke with Ronna. She and Phil had a good time at the Heart concert; yesterday
she spent with Alison, who was sick with her period. (Alison is “very frail” – that’s what
Midwesterners call a kvetch.) Well, (“Avoid well,” I write on my students’ papers).
This is the first time in a while that I feel I have spare time. It’s wonderful. It’s four weeks since
Dad’s surgery; he felt dizzy again today, but that’s to be expected. Tomorrow is the halfway
point of the term, so it’s going quickly.
Time does seem to be flowing at a more rapid pace these days. It’ almost Halloween, and then
comes Election Day, Thanksgiving, Christmas, 1979. Soon I’ll have to buy my eleventh of these
diaries.
I like this time of year, for some reason. It reminds me of being young. Today, talking to my
students and to Angie, I remembered so clearly the fall of 1969, when I was an entering
freshman at Brooklyn College. The neurotic in me tells me things are going too well and that
there’ll be hell to pay tomorrow.
7 PM. Today was not the day yesterday was – obviously. For one thing, the temperature
dropped into the 40°s. For another, my classes did not go all that well, especially the 3 PM class,
who were so rowdy, I ended my lesson in mid-period and made them do a series of busy-work
exercises.
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I didn’t like them very much today. They’re so immature. One girl in particular angered me by
talking throughout my lesson, calling out irrelevant remarks and then mumbling “Bastard!”
and tearing up the C paper I handed back to her.
Kingsborough was an annoyance today, an interruption in my real life. Last evening was real
life; it was terrific. I wrote 18 poems, most of them better than anything I’ve ever written before.
It started when I began leafing through my diary from last fall. I found some passages that
sounded very good and decided to put them in poem form.
I used all lower-case letters and a conversational tone. I guess reading a great deal of poetry
finally paid off. Today I bought envelopes and stamps, xeroxed the poems and submitted them
to about 20 magazines – my first real assault on the poetry market. If I get three acceptances, I’ll
know I’ve got something and that I really am a poet.
I seem to have found my voice all at once. Of course, it remains to be seen whether I’m
considered a real poet, but for now, I’m excited by this new development. For months I’ve been
leading toward this; there are some things which never worked in fiction which might work in
poetry.
I’ve had half a dozen poems published so far, but I’ve never really worked on my poetry.
Maybe I should take a workshop. Why am I interested in writing poems now? Maybe it’s just a
whim, or maybe I need a break from fiction, or maybe I’ve accomplished everything I want to in
fiction – at least for now.
With my book probably being published, I feel the need to prove myself in another area; I want
to succeed as a critic, too. Maybe this is just a fantasy, but trying to achieve this looks like fun.
And last night I felt just the way I do after writing a good story.
Teresa phoned last night; she’d just received the copy of Disjointed Fictions I’d sent her. She and
Mary had a lovely time in London, and they traveled all over England and Scotland; Paris was a
mistake, for they found it dirty, dismal and unfriendly. As others have told me, Europe is
crawling with rich Arabs; in some parts of London, the Rolls-Royces are parked four abreast,
Teresa said, “and they’re all dressed like the characters in a grade-school Christmas play.”
Teresa’s unemployment (and Mary’s) runs out in February because they shortened the period to
26 weeks (from 39 – when I collected two years ago, the period was a whole year). I told Teresa
I’d come by late Friday afternoon; my weekend is going to be crowded, what with Janice’s
Halloween party on Saturday night, but I can’t spend my whole life working.
I had told Ronna that I might see her tomorrow night, but now I think I’d better make time for
myself. I’m having trouble getting everything into 24 hours. Last night, when I felt free for the
first time in weeks, my creativity asserted itself.
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I just wish I had time to read books. The only things I’ve been able to read lately have been
magazines, newspapers and poems. I know if I got some kind of fellowship, I could be
terrifically productive. To have a Guggenheim . . . And it’s not the money that’s vital, it’s the
time. But this is a problem most artists have, and have always have, and will always have.
11 PM. Today was very hectic. Wesley phoned this morning to say they had a meeting
yesterday and they’ve decided to do my book in the spring. “That means we’ve got to move
fast,” Wes told me.
I can barely believe it. When Wes first mentioned them having a meeting, I thought surely
they’d decided not to do the book at all. The cynic in me can’t understand why the Stricks are
so interested in my work.
Anyway, this made my whole day – and the days to come – into nervous times. I wish I could
take off a few days from Kingsborough to get myself and my manuscript together.
The less said about my classes today, the better. I resent having to spend time trying to teach
kids who aren’t interested in learning. Of course, about half of them are really nice, but the
other 50% seems to overwhelm the good kids.
I also resent being treated as less than human by the full-time tenured professors. I just wish
people recognized me as a writer there. I constantly get mistaken for a student by the
professors.
Do I sound obnoxious with all these complaints? Anyway, when I got home from school, I sat
down at my typewriter and began revising some of the stories, and I noticed that my letters
were fading away.
Immediately I decided to buy a new typewriter. I had my eye on the Smith-Corona Coronet XL
with its cartridge ribbon, IBM-style keys, wide carriage and power return. Catching Mom in a
good mood, I persuaded her to come to Ciro’s with me and pay for it with her MasterCharge.
I’m a cheapskate, of course, and having to shell out $250 to pay Mom back doesn’t thrill me, but
I need a typewriter more than I need a car or my own apartment or new shoes. I’m sure to get
use out of it.
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When I opened up the typewriter at home, I found they’d given me one with artistic type, and I
had to return it for one with pica type. (While I was there, I ran into Ronna’s mother and Billy,
who were buying a toaster, a smoke alarm, and a Water-Pic.)
I’ve been working steadily since 7 PM or so and I really like my new machine. It’s no IBM
Selectric, but it’s good enough for my purposes. In any case, I have to type over two stories that
I don’t seem to have in typescript, and I’m still waiting for the two stories I don’t have at all;
Wes sent them out on Monday. He wanted me to come in tomorrow or Friday and I told him
I’d be at his office at 2:30 PM on Friday. So, things are happening fast, and there’s no time for
reflection or poetry.
It’s chilly now, but it’s almost November, after all. Today I sat by the beach at Kingsborough
between classes; it was relaxing, but very windy. I didn’t get a chance to exercise today, and I
worry that I’m going to become “un-addicted.” But this is a special time in my life. If Taplinger
does publish my book, it will be the most important of my achievements.
I’ll finally be a real writer; then I can start worrying about whether I’m all that good. I want
other people to know I’m 27 and to get envious the way I did when I saw books by Ann Beattie
and Fran Lebowitz. I just wish there was more time in which to figure out what the hell is
going on.
7 PM. I’m feeling rather chipper after a decent supper. Maybe I feel more energetic because I
had no meat. They now say it’s best to have your lightest meal late in the day, and I think that’s
probably true.
Or perhaps I feel good because I don’t have all that much to do. I rewrote and revised all day
today and seem to have most of the manuscript in shape. I feel very loving toward it; it’s as
though it’s my child.
I still do not believe it’s actually going to be a book, and I don’t know what it will take for that
to happen. My name on a contract won’t do it; maybe seeing it in the Taplinger catalogue will.
Certainly getting the galleys will. I want not to think of it, not to write about it – because I’m
desperately afraid of a kinnahora.
Last night I slept like a prime minister; there was this delicious dream of me riding a bike
through the neighborhood, not having to pedal, relying solely on a friendly wind.
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I awoke and found I had to go to the bathroom; my arms and legs moved so stiffly because of
that chemical secreted during dreams which prevents you from physically acting out what
you’re dreaming.
One of the better things about my present schedule is the luxury of lying in bed at 8 AM and
knowing I can go back to sleep for an hour or two. This morning, as I said, I worked on the
manuscript. It was dark and mild, a perfect day for a Thursday.
My class at 3 PM was small and they were tolerable – which is to say that I came away not
hating them all that much, possibly because I won’t have to look at them for three days.
Last Friday, my old linguistics teacher at Richmond, George Jochnowitz, had an article in the
Post on graffiti. I wrote him, and in reply, I got a very kind letter; he said he remembered me
well and asked where he could buy the little magazines my stories appear in. How nice – but
he’s a great guy.
And I got a rejection from Zone, but Peter Cherches asked me if I wanted to contribute to a
reading they’re doing at the West End Bar on December 10. Maybe I will. Paul JJ Payack sent
me a “What’s happening?” card. Months ago I promised to a critical article on him.
I feel smug now that I’ve got a commercial publisher. I do want all the small press people to
know about it – which is horrible of me. Some of them will probably say I’m selling out, but
deep down I know of few of them who would turn down this chance. But I promised myself I
wouldn’t write about it! It’s hard not to write about the main thing on your mind.
Ah, I’ll write about trees instead. The trees in Brooklyn are glorious now; this is the prettiest
week of autumn. I especially love the leaves that turn fiery gold and wine-red. I sat on the
porch this afternoon and admired the trees on our block. Our own sycamore looks good from a
distance, but it’s infected with that blight that affects many of the sycamores in New York. Its
bark is peeling off and the leaves are tattered and shot through with holes.
I like – maybe I love – my new typewriter; I’ve begun to get used to it. I promise to take good
care of it. I wish I’d taken better care of my car, which is now a sputtering heap and looks and
acts the part. I don’t even know if it will get me through the winter.
Tomorrow I see Wes, and why do I feel impending doom? The book isn’t going to happen, a part
of me keeps saying. Tomorrow night I’ll feel dreadful and angry and pour my frustrations onto
the next page. (Kinnahora?)
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7 PM. I’ll be going over to Ronna’s in a little while, just to hang out and watch TV.
Last night I realized something else about my dreams. I dreamed about a black cat pouncing on
me, and the shock of that woke me up. I closed my eyes and I saw an orange outline of the cat,
a kind of after-image. So images are really flashed in front of my eyes when I dream – or
anyway, they seem to be.
This morning I surprised myself by marking eight papers; that was more than I expected I
could. I had an easy day at Kingsborough, meeting with my English 23 students individually to
get their term paper topics.
Then I drove into Manhattan to meet with Wes. The secretary was expecting me, and Wes was
having a meeting with some executive when I arrived. He introduced me as “one of our spring
authors” – he also did that with another person, who said, “Hitler in New York, right?” Wes
said, “Yes, he’s the man who brought Der Führer to the Big Apple.”
He showed me the copy he’d written for the spring catalogue; it was embarrassingly fulsome
hype. But God – these are all dreams of mine come true. The book is listed for May, and in his
father’s office, Wes assured me we have plenty of time.
He wants to read the manuscript over again and make any new changes he thinks necessary. It
doesn’t have to be at the typesetter until the end of the year. Then we get the galleys back and
the fun begins.
When Mr. Strick returns from London in late November, he’ll want me to sign a contract; Wes
left all that to his father. I keep thinking something’s going to happen – Mr. Strick dying in a
plane crash, Wes having a falling out with him and leaving the firm, the whole company being
taken over by a conglomerate. I’m not going to believe it until I see the book.
Oh, this is torture – exquisite torture, but I can’t help feeling it’s not going to happen. I’m going
to wake up and there will be no Louis Strick, no Wes, no Taplinger, no With Hitler in New York
(even underlining the title makes me feel creepy).
When I called Teresa yesterday to cancel our plans for this afternoon, and I mentioned how I
felt about the book, she said, “I know; you don’t want to give it a kinnahora.” You’d think
Italians would have their own word for it, but there’s no word like kinnahora.
I loved just talking to Wes – about John Irving (he just finished The World According to Garp) and
George Braziller (Mr. Strick is negotiating to possibly buy Braziller out; he’s taken tremendous
losses lately) and just plain gossip.
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I love Wesley Strick for what he’s done for me; it’s not just that he’s cute. Without him, his
father never would have done the book.
I was shaky when I felt the office – Wes said not to expect to hear from him for a few weeks – so
I went to Brownie’s and had orange cake and rose hips tea. Then, at the Eighth Street
Bookshop, I noticed that they’d sold another copy of Disjointed Fictions.
Back home, I found two neat pieces of mail: an acceptance of “Headline History” by Nit & Wit,
and a wonderfully friendly note from Mary Stuart, thanking me for sending her a copy of the
Joanne Vincente article. She’s doing a book for Doubleday this spring and she’s excited about
it, too.
5 PM. Tonight is the night we turn our clocks back. It will get dark very early tomorrow, but at
least we get an extra hour’s sleep. I, for one, can use it. I didn’t get to sleep until 3 AM last night
because my mind was racing.
I couldn’t stop thinking about my book and what it means. Strange thoughts kept popping up.
For about half an hour I decided I was in love with Wes – really in love – and I became
frightened I would make a fool of myself.
In the brisk light of afternoon I realize that I’m confusing a lot of different feelings with love.
But Wes and I have worked so closely on the book, I’ve come to know him very intimately.
And he’s read just about everything I’ve ever written except my diaries, so he knows me better
than just about anyone else. He’s handsome, sexy
(Interruption: there was just a terrible car crash on our block by the Fillmore corner, and I called
an ambulance because someone yelled for one. They’d gotten a call already and said they’re on
their way. A little girl is hurt. God, there have been about 40 accidents on that corner –
including mine.)
Where was I? Wes. He’s charming, literary, witty, so it’s natural I’d be attracted to him. But
I’m not in love with him, thank God. Maybe it’s easier for me to think of that than to
comprehend the reality of my book.
It changes a lot of things for me. It gives me a reason to live through the winter. It gives me
hope that I won’t have to spend another four years teaching remedial English. (Yesterday I
read in the Post that the CUNY community colleges have to lay off faculty in the spring because
of the tremendous budget cuts caused by low registration, so I might be out of a job anyway.)
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And in May, when it becomes warm again, my book will be out. I can’t complain that I’m going
nowhere. It’s obvious, anyway, even without the book, that I’m coming up in the world.
Today’s mail brought a letter from Rick Peabody of Gargoyle, asking me to submit something
else for his special Fiction issue if I want to; an acceptance of “The First Annual James V.
Forrestal Memorial Lecture” by Chouteau Review (the story will be in the book anyway); a copy
of Another Chicago Magazine with my “More Fragments” and a contributor’s note saying I “play
lead guitar with A Small Band of Zionist Hoodlums, which recently played CBGB.”
Now in my contributor’ notes, I can mention With Hitler in New York. I have 120 stories
accepted by now, not including about six or seven which will appear in Hitler for the first time.
And today, in response to Coda’s announcements, I sent out another eight submissions of poetry
and fiction.
Last night when I went over to Ronna’s, her mother was in bed with the flu. We watched the
movie Obsession on TV. Ronna was very affectionate, but I really wasn’t in the proper mood, as
I was too keyed-up. I hope to make it up to Ronna tonight, when we go to Janice’s party.
Alice is coming in costume; she’s meeting Philip, who’s reviewing the River Café and refuses to
take Alice there in her lion-tamer costume. Last night Janice had an opening at some gallery in
Soho; I’d forgotten all about it.
I spoke with Elihu yesterday – mostly talk about being teachers and the gulf between us and
our students. And I called Mason, who had a dreadful cold that sounded more like the flu; he’s
been under a lot of stress and it’s no wonder he’s gotten ill. At least he doesn’t have to face
those rotten Rockaway junior high school kids while he’s sick.
3 PM. I’m definitely coming down with a cold or flu, and I must say I’ve been expecting it.
Perhaps I’m even bringing it on subconsciously. When I spoke to Mason the other night, I
realized I was feeling a trace of envy. And last night and Friday night, seeing Ronna’s mother
being pampered and waited on may have also contributed to my wanting to get sick.
I’ve been under a great deal of stress for the past couple of months; getting used to working five
days a week at Kingsborough; then Dad’s surgery and hospitalization; then the book for
Taplinger. Now that the term is half over, Dad is well and the book is going to be published.
I’ve let down my defenses. It’s a good time for me to get sick. There’s nothing pressing this
week except my going to the Motor Vehicles Division to fight my summons. I need a couple of
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days off; this is the middle week of five 5-day weeks in a row, so maybe this illness is my own
doing. If so, I’m doing a good job of it.
I woke up with a sore throat and a postnasal drip, which always presages a cold for me. I felt
very weak. Upon starting my exercises this morning, I strained that muscle in my chest, and
that ended that.
I haven’t been able to gather the energy to mark the papers I have to; I have no energy at all. In
fact, I’m going to stop here.
Half an hour later: I was lying inert until Jonny just came up with a chipped front tooth. He
was gritting his teeth while lifting weights. I am from the teeth-gritters myself, and my teeth
are also very soft.
My body now feels as though it’s been taken over by aliens: aches everywhere. Last night,
however, was nice. I picked up Ronna at 9 PM and I can honestly say I never saw her looking
more beautiful.
She was wearing a white pullover over a man’s shirt, chino pants and high boots. I couldn’t get
over how well she looked. Her hair was kind of frizzy, and I like it that way.
Janice’s party was in the basement, and when we arrived, Dolores and her friend had arrived,
dressed as Tweety and Sylvester, Dolores in yellow crepe-feathers and tights and headgear.
Janice was dressed as Fritzi Ritz, and someone else was Mickey Mouse.
It was a small party, and I didn’t know too many people there, and some of them I did know –
like Harry Steinberg the dreary pornographer – I avoided.
Janice roped me into a contest eating donuts from a string and trying not to let the pieces fall to
the floor. I lost. I danced with Janice and Dolores, who was on roller skates.
Alice wore tights, a top hat, a bow tie and velvet jacket; she gave me an Icelandic comic book
(Anders And – Donald Duck) and book of Icelandic short stories.
At Seventeen, Alice said, everyone’s leaving, and she would like to as well. Macmillan wants to
do her modeling book, but only if Seventeen puts its name on it. Ray Robinson gave his okay,
but now it’s got to go through 100 other people.
I got a bit upset when Janice told me what a bad businessman Louis Strick is. She said he
doesn’t know which direction he wants to go in.
[166]
Philip, fresh from the River Café, looked very well. He found Ronna enchanting (that’s a Philip
word) and told me not to let her “slip away.” Philip’s show is going to open in January, he sold
a children’s musical to Boston TV, and will be on The $20,000 Pyramid.
Ronna and I drove Philip and Alice to the Newkirk station, then we came to my room and made
love. It was silent and very slow; the feel of Ronna’s ass muscles moving under me nearly
drove me crazy.
5 PM. Last evening, as I began to feel better physically, I also began to sink into a depression. I
was feeling very high while reading Kenneth Tynan’s portrait of Mel Brooks in The New Yorker.
I identified like mad with Brooks’ outrageous humor, his struggles, his deep suicidal
depressions.
It surprised me that as late as 1970 Brooks was, by his own admission, a failure who earned less
than $10,000 a year. Now he can do anything.
Tynan thinks that the 2,000-Year-Old Man is Brooks’ finest creation, and I’m inclined to agree
with him. I’ve heard those records a dozen times and some of those lines are so resonant: “We
mock what we are going to become” and the classic “Tragedy is if I cut my finger. Comedy is if
you walk into an open sewer and die.” (That would make a great epigraph for a book.)
Anyway, I was feeling pretty good until I got a call from Peter Cherches, who wanted to know
if I’d donate my time for the Zone reading at the West End Bar on December 2nd. I said I would,
and we talked for an hour, and when I got off the phone with him, I wanted to die.
For one thing, Peter said Disjointed Fictions was very hard to read and shabbily produced. I
know it now, and it’s mostly my fault; I was so proud of it when it came out and now I’m a bit
ashamed of its homemade look.
What bothered me also was Peter telling me about the MFA Columbia program (Hilma
Wolitzer teaches his workshop and she can’t deal with Peter’s stuff, which is similar to mine –
she thinks he’s just a comedy writer) and small press gossip (how what he called bad poets like
Lyn Lifshin, Guy Beining and Susan Fromberg Schaeffer get oodles of credits) and his own
acceptances (the same Aspect issue I’m in, Fiction, etc.)
It made me feel that my work is unimportant, that I’m just one among thousands, and that I
may be just another widely-published bad writer. And the Taplinger book probably won’t get
noticed unless I push it hard.
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Richard Grayson
Let’s face it: it’s no great shakes and I’ll be lucky to get a couple of decent reviews and sales of
300 copies. But I’m going to do my damnedest no matter what. I just hope that I won’t have to
be ashamed of the work.
I lay inert in bed for hours, not able to sleep. No matter how well I do, it will never be enough,
and there will always be people who’ll knock me and times when I’ll consider myself a failure.
I’m a regular manic-depressive, going from fear of superstardom to despair over super-failure.
Why did I choose a job where I’m constantly putting myself on the line? Because, like Mel
Brooks, I want to shout, “Look at me!” and “Love me!” and “Don’t let me die!”?
I didn’t want to get out of bed this morning, and just before I left for school, I had a terrible
attack of diarrhea. Somehow I managed to get through my classes, but my mind was elsewhere
and my stomach was rocky. (Remember the old days when my stomach was usually rocky?)
I got an acceptance of “The Unexamined Life” by Scholia Satyrica that should be coming out next
month. Three acceptances in the last three mail deliveries: I can’t expect to do better than that,
and yet it doesn’t satisfy me.
I got responses from Oregon State and Arizona State, and I’ll have to send them new dossiers
once I have them made up. (More typing, more xeroxing. God.)
I’ve got 25 papers to grade, but I think I’m going to let it go for tonight. I don’t understand it.
I’m doing very well, I’ve never felt more loved (especially by Ronna) or more loving (ditto
Ronna), yet something’s missing.
And it’s turning cold.
7 PM. Another month gone. Five-sixths of 1978 over. And six weeks from tonight, the term
will be over; I can’t wait for that. My students are unbelievably immature. Today two groups
got into a name-calling match that ended with one student stalking out in the middle of the
class.
I didn’t blame him. There are loudmouth girls there whom I can’t handle. I just wish I could
forget about this term. I don’t enjoy teaching at Kingsborough and I don’t enjoy teaching every
day. My students probably don’t belong in college at all, or else they need someone with more
patience as a teacher.
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I’m throwing away all my intellectual gifts and my knowledge teaching idiots third-grade
grammar. Ah, well. Tomorrow I don’t have to teach. I’ve canceled my early class, and at 3 PM
Carolyn Eckhaus, the counselor, will talk to the students.
I intend to be absent a couple of more times before the term ends. Tomorrow I have to go down
to fight my traffic summons. I’m going with the idea of playing a game; I view it not as a
nuisance but as a learning experience. The worst that can happen is that the fine stands at $25.
Last evening Michael Kramer phoned. He’d run into Peter Cherches and heard I was having a
book published. Michael’s stomach problem was diagnosed as an ulcer, and he’s had to take it
easy. But he’s still working for that correspondence school, grading and commenting upon the
stories of 200 no-talent suckers.
Joel Agee’s book is due out in August, Michael said, and Farrar, Straus is sending Joel to a
writers’ colony in Virginia to finish it up. I told Michael I’d do something with him on Friday
night.
Last evening I typed up a new bibliography, and today I xeroxed that and my dossier and sent
it out to Oregon State and Arizona State. But I don’t want to live in Corvallis or Tempe.
New York City, it’s clear, is going through a renaissance. Despite the financial crisis, or very
likely because of it, there’s a new pride in the city. It’s become the international capital, with
many Europeans, Japanese and Arabs living here. In the words of the TV commercial, I do love
New York.
What I think I’m going to have to do to live here, though, is to get out of academia and into
publishing. I took out some books on publishing from the library. I think I’d enjoy a job like
Wesley Strick’s, or even like Alison’s at Oxford University Press.
In January and February I’m going to attempt to find a job in publishing or in a related field.
After nearly four years of college teaching, I think I’ve had it.
I’ve been worrying about signing a contract and I wrote to the Authors Guild to see if I can join.
Maybe they can help me; I don’t think I need to get an agent at this point in my career – not if I
learn everything I need to know.
I’ve always been ready to totally immerse myself in learning about a field. I did that with
politics, and even now my knowledge of electoral facts and figures is stunning (if I do say so
myself – I can’t wait till Election Day next week; I love watching election coverage).
And I did that with little magazines. I can also do it with any field I’m truly interested in.
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Richard Grayson
Tonight at dinner at Bun ‘n’ Burger, I thought I saw Mr. Feintuch, Avis’s father, but I wasn’t
sure enough to say hello to him. If it was he, he looked terrific.
Wednesday, November 1, 1978
5 PM. November started out mild and sunny. I woke up early this morning and was
downtown at 10 AM. I went to the hearing room my trial was scheduled for and waited and
waited while Patrolman Terranova charged various defendants with running red lights, driving
without license plates, speeding, and other traffic infractions.
One guy got off on a speeding charge because he was on his way to take his dying mother to the
hospital. Since she died the next morning, the verdict was not guilty. Another alleged
speedster had a smart lawyer and got off.
I noticed Officer Walters and nodded to him. He told me that he was going to ask for an
adjournment. Through a clerical error in Albany, the notice of my “not guilty” plea went to his
partner instead. Walters, who was in the court on other business, didn’t have his notes or
diagrams to refer to.
After two and a half hours, my case was finally called. The officer moved to adjourn, and I
protested, saying that I had prepared my defense in good faith and taken off a day of work in
hopes of a dismissal. He said he was sorry I had to wait, but he was pretty snotty about it.
The trial was adjourned until December 13, the day after school lets out. Officer Walters was
nicer than the arbitrator, since he arranged it for a date convenient to me, and we parted on
good terms.
I expect to be found guilty, but at least I won’t have to pay until next month. It will be the day
after the term ends, and I can visit Margaret at LIU that day. (I just sent her a birthday card and
enclosed my keys.)
Anyway, the whole experience wasn’t frustrating because I took a positive attitude; I took the
clerical foul-up wryly rather than paranoiacally.
My 3 PM class was devoted to Carolyn Eckhaus’s counseling advice, and she was interrupted
by a fire breaking out at 3:45. We all evacuated the building and five fire engines soon came. I
didn’t see any smoke or flames or reason to stay, so I came home.
All in all, this was my best day at Kingsborough.
Time is not as precious a commodity as it was a couple of weeks ago. I have more free time
now to do some reading – and writing, if I can back to it. It’s been over a month since I’ve
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written any fiction, and maybe I’ve just gotten out of the habit. More likely, it’s a good vacation
for me, and when I do get back to fiction, it will be with a refreshed attitude. I have my new
typewriter now, and I’m used to it.
There seems little else to write today. I don’t feel much of anything: not depressed, not happy,
not intellectually stimulated; I just feel a bit numb.
6 PM. I’ve just finished reading “Goodbye to All That,” the last essay in Joan Didion’s Slouching
Towards Bethlehem, a book I took out of the college library because I’ve wanted to read it for
years, because Didion is such a good stylist, and because I have trouble writing the third clauses
in complex sentences like this one.
“Goodbye to All That” is about New York, sort of, and why Didion came and stayed eight
years, and why, at 28, she finally had to leave. I don’t think I want to leave New York, though
I’ve sent out my dossiers to Corvallis and Tempe.
But New York is only the city to me; it’s magical but it’s my city and it does not intimidate me
and I have no fancy illusions about it. New York is very important to me, and I’m glad it’s
going to be in the book’s title (if there is to be a book – I still have to add that). Sometimes I
think my religion is not Jewish but “New York” – although, to me, they’ve always been the
same thing.
Thursday, November 2, 1978
1 PM. Perhaps now is not the time for a diary entry, but let’s find out. Last evening I got terrible
diarrhea again and now my stomach is kind of gurgly. I did go over to Ronna’s, though,
because I wanted to see her. She was still out on her driving lesson when I arrived. I sat at the
kitchen table with her mother, aunt and uncle. I felt quite comfortable with them, but Ronna
soon came home, saying her right turns are too wide.
We’ve been getting closer these past few weeks, both as friends and lovers. We had an all-time
great talk last night. She asked me if we could go to the 92nd Street Y next Monday night to see
John Irving. Wesley had told me he was going and I didn’t want to appear as if I was following
him around, but with the suggestion coming from Ronna, it now seems legitimate.
On Saturday night Ronna told Alice that she thinks Wes is not just interested in my book, and
last evening Ronna admitted that she is jealous of him even if he’s totally straight; she’s worried
that I’m going to become Manhattan-trendy and shoot heroin.
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She said she’s been wanting to ask me if I’m in love with him. “I am, a little,” I told her, “but
it’s all so connected with my book.” “Well, I suppose that’s natural,” Ronna said.
I walked her to Flatlands Avenue at 10 PM to buy bagels – it was a lovely night – and then I
kissed her goodbye. She didn’t want me to drive her the block to her house.
Ronna feels strange now that her friends are getting married next year: Carole to Sid, Helen to
Marvin, Alison to her boyfriend Roger (though she’s stopped talking about her wedding so
much now that she’s adjusting to New York).
Yesterday I got an invitation to a gala disco benefit party at Studio 54 on Friday, December 1,
from 5 to 9 PM. It costs $10, and Ronna and I are going to go just to see what the place is like
and to say we’ve been there.
At 11:30 last night the phone rang sharply in the darkness. Both Marc and I picked it up and
heard a guy say, “Is Richard there?” “This is he,” I said, but he hung up.
I lay awake for an hour, trying to figure out who it was. When the phone rang and I first heard
the voice, I thought it was Wes because I don’t quite recognize his voice yet, but obviously it
wasn’t he.
I have a strange feeling it was Bobby Mahoney. I think he’s very nervous about a possible
relationship with a guy. One thing I’ve learned from answering Voice ads is that there are a
number of people – Bobby, Bill-Dale, that Robert Lasky – who are having a much harder time
accepting their sexuality than I am.
I had a nightmare Tuesday night about Bubbe Ita’s funeral; after she was buried, the coffin was
unearthed and we had to eat her corpse. Last night I had magical dreams and one frustrating
one – I found a little magazine that was supposed to contain a story by me and instead it had
one by my old friend Willie Levitt.
Avis sent me a long letter and a photo of herself and Helmut in Bavaria; she looks good with
her new frizzy hair. Avis thinks “nothing can stop Richard Grayson from fame, fortune and
occasional appearances on the Merv Griffin show.”
She was grateful for the newsclips I sent her about the Marathon, the new TV shows, Gig
Young’s murder/ suicide. She’s glad I’m so enthusiastic about seeing her and that I’ll have time
to do things with her. I’ve missed her a great deal. Avis has begun to make hints about trying
to live in the Apple again. I almost wish she doesn’t move back, as I like having a German
friend. (Her Deutschmarks are worth so much more now.)
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Friday, November 3, 1978
2 PM. I’m on the verge of a weekend which I’ve looked forward to for a long while. I’ve done
everything that needs to be done and purposely made sure there are no papers to grade.
I want the luxury of boredom for the next two days. I want to read, try to write, watch TV,
maybe take a little drive, and I want to remember what it’s like to have time on my hands.
Yesterday I cracked down on my 3 PM class, giving them a quiz and giving them zeroes for not
bringing their books and generally enforcing rules strictly. They seemed almost grateful for the
structure, despite their complaints.
I also had a nice class this afternoon. Both classes are scheduled for finals at 8:30 AM,
Wednesday, December 13, so I won’t be able to go for the hearing. I’ve decided just to plead
guilty and forget it – probably I should have done that in the first place.
I’ve been counting the days till the end of the term – there are 40 as of today – but I may find
I’m going to be unemployed for a long while. Because of the drastic budget cuts, I’m sure to be
fired – or rather, laid off.
Perhaps I can go back to LIU again. Margaret got my card and the keys; I know that because
Elihu said so when he gave me his father’s regards.
But I’ll have a book out next May (I hope, I hope) and I don’t have to worry all that much about
my future. Maybe it’s best that I’m forced to stop teaching for a while and am forced to change
jobs.
I was a damned good administrator for the Fiction Collective (they once wanted me to be
Coordinator, remember?) and I have organizational skills I put to use in political campaigns, in
student government, and serving on college committees.
(This week in The New Yorker’s “Talk of the Town,” there was an article about Mina
Shaughnessy, dean of CUNY for basic skills; that reminded that four years ago I was on the
search committee that hired her.)
I’ve forgotten that I wasn’t born to teach, that it’s not the only thing I can do.
God, it’s a beautiful day: 65° and sunny. This week’s weather has been better than I can ever
recall for early November. I bet this winter is milder than last year’s, although it would have to
be pretty horrendous to be worse. But today snow just seems as foreign as a volcano.
Josh called yesterday; he and Simon may be laid off at the end of the term, too. Elihu bought
Disjointed Fictions at the Eighth Street Bookshop, and Laura told him to tell me there are only
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two copies left. Apparently Laura isn’t teaching this term; I guess she got sick of freshman
comp.
Alice phoned, telling me that Philip couldn’t stop raving about how pretty Ronna is – she
reminds him of Pam Katz, an ex-student and ex-lover. Alice said that Robert and Judy’s
wedding in Connecticut was small and tasteful: just a simple synagogue ceremony and dinner
at a restaurant afterwards.
Alice sat with Rachel and Mark, who are now living in Raleigh, North Carolina, which is a step
up from Syracuse. They’ve both gotten fat, Alice said, and Rachel looks pretty awful “but she’s
so sweet.” They were impressed with my success, and Alice’s – though to us, of course, it’s
rather a different matter.
George Myers expects me in Harrisburg on Thursday night; I may go down with his friend Stu.
I’ll probably take the train rather than the bus; I just don’t want to screw up my connections in
Philadelphia.
So next week I’ll only work Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday – which means only one full
work week after that, then a short week because of Thanksgiving, two more full weeks, and the
final.
Sue Stephens of Tailings took “But In A Thousand Other Worlds” and “Look at Our Lives.”
Saturday, November 4, 1978
6 PM. I’ve just come back from the movies. I went to the Seaview to see Altman’s A Wedding. It
wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be, but Altman takes such a cynical view of people. I’ve
been guilty of the same thing in my work: presenting characters who are absurd, laughable, yet
never quite loveable.
Ultimately we don’t care about such people; feeling superior is not a very fulfilling reaction. I’d
love to be Altman, though, and have the luxury of being bankable enough to have fun with my
experiments.
It was dark when I got out of the theater and drove home on the parkway. It’s fairly mild,
though, and there are piles of fallen leaves everywhere.
As I expected, I’m a bit bored. I haven’t accomplished much, although I intend to spend the
evening reading Joan Didion.
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Last night Michael Kramer and I went out to dinner at Minsky’s; it was a pleasant meal, and
afterwards we watched TV in his apartment.
Michael is a nice guy, but his bathroom says everything about him. You have to screw in the
lightbulb above the sink because the switch doesn’t work. Above the toilet tank are his bottles
of Maalox and Epsom salts, and he must remove the top of tank and fix some mechanism inside
in order for the toilet to flush again.
I got home at midnight. Driving down Flatbush Avenue is scary now; I feel like I’m going
through 125th Street in Harlem. They are repaving the street, though, and that’s making for a
better ride. From Avenue J to Avenue N there are no yellow or white lines drawn yet, and it
makes for an almost playful ride.
Last night I dreamed about Hilary Cosell, God knows why. I have an ingrown toenail I
managed to butcher, but I hobbled out and visited my grandparents anyway.
Grandma Ethel was sleeping when I arrived; she’d been dizzy, but when she did get up, she
looked terrific with her hair cut very short and chic. Grandpa Herb interrupted his tailoring
and we all sat around the kitchen table, which had on it bottles and bottles of vitamins,
minerals, and whatever else Grandma Ethel takes.
Grandpa Herb told me about his visits to Uncle Jack in the hospital. Aunt Betty had gone away,
and they were in the visiting room when suddenly Uncle Jack decided he wanted to leave the
hospital. He was attempting to get on an elevator and Grandpa was arguing with him when a
nurse came along and asked what the trouble was.
“I want this man arrested!” Jack yelled, and the nurse took him back to his room, playing along
and shaking her finger and Grandpa: “Don’t you bother Mr. Sarrett anymore!” Grandpa stood
by the door of his room and Jack closed it.
Later, when Grandpa came in, Jack again yelled to a nurse, “This man is bothering me! I want
him arrested!” And, looking at Uncle Morris, who was sitting by the bed: “And while you’re at
it, arrest him too!”
Jack likes to sing Russian songs to the black nurses and constantly talks of his mother, which
surprises Grandpa Herb: “When Bubbe died, he wouldn’t come with me to make arrangements
and I had to go with your Grandpa Nat. And though we visit the cemetery all the time, Jack
hasn’t been there since the unveiling.”
This week Jack said to Grandpa, “Momma called and said he was so sick she didn’t even take
her clothes off at night. She had to go to bed naked.” Grandpa pacifies Jack: “How’s Tillie?”
Jack asks. “Fine.” “And how’s Abe?” “Fine.” “And how’s Herbert?” “Fine.” “And how is
your family? I heard the kids were sick.”
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Even my grandparents see the awful humor in the situation. “It’s pathetic but it’s funny,”
Grandma Ethel said to me. They’re trying to get him into a nursing home. “It’s terrible in those
places,” Grandma said. “It’s like the Indians – they’d give an old person his things and tell him
to go out to the plains and die.”
Sunday, November 5, 1978
6 PM. I’ve just finished reading Joan Didion’s wonderful essay, “On Self-Respect.” Didion
states that self-respect stems from old-fashioned character –taking responsibility for one’s own
life. I don’t quite understand all her ideas, but I do feel I am lacking both character and self-
respect.
If I had these qualities, why would I have such a voracious appetite for the approval of others?
And if I were halfway there, I could accept my tremendous need for “success.”
I walked along the pier in Canarsie this afternoon – it was yet another beautiful day – and I
watched people fishing dreamily and intently but always patiently. I admire their ability to
wait; I don’t have it, and I’m afraid that unless I acquire patience, my life will be very unhappy.
Here I am in this diary; I can’t fool you. People may think that I’m a great success or an egotist
or a decent, well-meaning guy, but everything comes down to these pages, where I seek refuge
because I can’t hide here. I need more discipline and more patience and a great deal more
courage.
Rhett Butler told Scarlett O’Hara that people with courage don’t require the esteem of others. In
a way I see myself as this kind of figure, but in many ways I am not.
Maybe a couple of years ago this would have been a self-lacerating depression, but one of the
comforts of growing older is becoming more tolerant of myself. Someday – not too far away, I
hope – I may yet become the writer. . . I was going to say “the writer I need to be,” but what I
really mean is “the writer who doesn’t need to be any kind of writer.”
I’m young, and my ideas aren’t very complex yet – though they’re much more mature than they
were. This morning, shaving, I wondered if writing for me was just a means to an end – success
– and that, if circumstances had been different, I would have used politics or acting or athletics
to achieve my real goal.
Sad to say, a lot of my need for success is mean-spirited. I simply want to “show up” people
who have never believed in me – people like my parents’ friends the Cohens, or my Italian
neighbors, or the kids who rejected me and ridiculed me.
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Often I’m scared at how much I want fame, what I’m willing to do to get it. Like there was a
notice in today’s Post inviting readers to send in on a postcard a list of the ten most important
people in the history of New York, and initially I decided (and have not rejected the idea yet) of
sending in fifty postcards, each bearing the name “Richard Grayson” at the top of the list.
It’s pathetic, I know, and it shows a lack of self-respect, even if I treat it as a game. Success has
been so important to me; I’ve been unable to cope with failure, and that’s something I must
learn to do.
Last night I slept for twelve hours, dreaming of everything – of crying uncontrollably at a
funeral, of lusting uncontrollably at a nudist party, of running for blocks and blocks yet arriving
too late to prevent my car from getting a ticket for an expired parking meter.
I dread Sunday nights and Monday mornings in autumn. I don’t want to go to school
tomorrow even though I’ve been bored for two days.
I finally washed the car today; there was too much birdshit and grime on it for even me to
ignore any longer. I’ve been trying to reach George to find out details of my trip to Harrisburg;
I’m looking forward to it more than I am scared of it.
Great-Grandma Bessie is going to Florida with Uncle Jerry, and she’s giving up her nice little
apartment. I mentioned to Mom that I might like to live there. It’s not a good neighborhood,
but the apartment is splendid, and it’s right by the beach.
I feel a superstitious and neurotic but very real sense of doom.
Monday, November 6, 1978
5 PM. I didn’t reach George last night, and maybe it’s just as well. Wesley phoned this
morning – he always sounds stoned – and said he’d reread the manuscript and made new
marks. “The Mother in My Bedroom” needs a new ending, but most of the other stuff is minor.
He wanted me to come in as soon as possible to go over the book with him so we can get it to
the copy editor. (Every time Wes calls, I expect him to say they’re not doing the book after all.)
I was supposed to go to Harrisburg on Thursday, but now I don’t think I will. I can see in a
way that I’m trying to get out of it, but that’s not really true. Or maybe it is. But it’s not
important enough for me to get excited over; my book is.
The car broke down today; I’ll have to take it to the mechanic tomorrow, which is not a
Kingsborough holiday. Why does everything happen at once? It always seem to make that
way; for example, it would be my summons that got loused up last week and the new date for
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my hearing would turn out to be the time of my classes’ finals. I think I’ll take off Thursday and
Friday anyway; I have many things to do.
Last night I decided not to eat dinner alone, but to go to Ronna’s instead. She was at the sink
when I walked in and said that second she had just been thinking of me. I wanted to ask her
out, but she just insisted on making hamburgers for me and her sister.
It was fun to be out on a Sunday night; I usually spend them dreading the week to come (that’s
a holdover reaction from public school). We sat in the living room, my arm around Ronna’s
shoulder, and we watched TV, chatted and kissed. She looked smashing in that white sweater I
love.
This morning I worked on preparations for the week’s classes and I sat outside waiting for
Mom to bring Jonny home so I could drive my car to school. It was very peaceful. A leaf was
floating downward from our sycamore tree every few seconds. Jerry came home for lunch.
Evie looked to see if the mail had come. Father Marsh strolled by on one of his long walks. It’s
nice to live in a neighborhood where I know most people.
My classes went painlessly today; I don’t mind them if they’re well-behaved.
Today Marc went to the bank next door to Jay’s Slacks in Flushing when a man tried to hold up
a teller. The teller, an off-duty cop, refused to give up money; the robber panicked and shot
him; and a detective shot the fleeing robber. Both men died. Marc was very scared, of course,
but he wasn’t hurt at all. Seeing a man shot in the face must be very traumatic.
Marc just came in and told me the story of his part in the bank robbery. He was friendly with
the teller who was killed. Marc noticed that this teller, Mr. Lee, always wore a jacket, unlike the
other tellers; he must have kept his gun holster underneath.
Marc was probably his last customer before the robber tried to hold him up. Lee just took out
his gun and they shot at each other. None of the eleven shots hit anyone other than the two
dead men.
It’s just become night now, and the Indian summer is ending.
Tuesday, November 7, 1978
4 PM. I canceled my 3 PM class, so I’m home early. I got a lift home with one of the lab
teachers and took the bus from Ocean Avenue to Kings Plaza.
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As usual, I’m looking forward to Election night coverage on TV. There are times when I think I
should have gone into electoral politics, even if I had to run as a sacrificial lamb as my old BC
classmate Harry De Mell is doing for the State Senate in this district.
I am cynical enough to know that this election won’t change anything except faces, but I like a
good political race the way some people like horse races. The numbers flashing on the boards;
the restless, drunken crowds at the candidates’ headquarters; the sense of urgency in the
networks’ announcement of projected winners (so that each race is not only a contest between
Democrats and Republicans but also among ABC, CBS and NBC) – I love all the clichés of
election night.
Ten years ago I drove around (without a license) and took photos of people to vote; 1968 was a
really exciting and ultimately disappointing election. 1976 was also fun, staying up late and
watching Carter win. Off-year elections are less important but often more interesting, as the
networks go in depth into each Senate and governorship race.
I walked into the American Legion hall at 9:30 AM and I was the 62nd person in our election
district to come out. I voted a straight Liberal Party ticket with one exception: I wrote myself in
for Congress.
Gov. Carey, who once looked like a sure loser, has been picking up steam in recent weeks and
may pull out a victory.
I tried to call George all last evening but couldn’t get him in. Finally I phoned his office this
morning; he was out, and I left a message for him to call me, also telling the secretary I couldn’t
make it this weekend.
In a way I would very much like to go; a part of me hates myself for shying away from another
trip. I took the excuse of my book eagerly, so I guess I was a bit apprehensive about Harrisburg.
In any case, it’s no big deal – or is it? It’s another risk I have not taken. Maybe I should have
entitled this diary “Risks Not Taken.” But the book has to take precedence over everything else
now.
I can’t let Tuesday go by without remembering and noting that in another five weeks the term
will be over – and so, I expect, will be my career at Kingsborough.
Last night I dreamed about seeing Margaret at LIU; in the dream, they refused to take me back.
Yet I don’t regret my decision not to teach at LIU this term, as I would have been a nervous
wreck by now.
Next week I get another $675 paycheck, and that’s worth all the hassle of teaching at
Kingsborough – or most of it, anyway.
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I finished reading Didion’s book this morning. She’s brilliant, writing with a stylish ease that
belies, I’m sure, much hard rewriting and hard thinking. I would love to write personal essays
the way she does – I’m really much better at that than at fiction.
Speaking of fiction, it’s been several months, and I still haven’t written any stories. I don’t
really want to. In a sense, my getting a commercial book published was my goal in writing a
story a week and hunting out little magazines that would print them.
I’ve ended a stage in my development as a writer, and now I’ve got to try to go on to something
else – what, I don’t know. Those poems I sent out last month have brought only rejections, so
maybe they’re not poems at all. I’m searching for a new form, a new voice, and some new
themes, and I’m convinced that if I keep living and writing, eventually I’ll discover all three.
8 PM. Last night was fun for an old election hand like myself. They call the races so quickly
now, there’s not much suspense, but I like the figures racing on the board, the rush to announce
projected winners.
Dad thinks my knowledge of electoral politics is astounding, and I suppose it is. Like
everything else, though, it’s mostly a matter of studying as much as I can. I can cite percentages
and candidates in most Senatorial elections from 1962 on.
I remember being very caught up in the ’62 off-year elections. Bill Scranton beat Richardson
Dilworth for governor of Pennsylvania; George Romney defeated the Democratic governor of
Michigan, John Swainson, who had one arm; Teddy Kennedy was elected to the Senate, beating
Speaker McCormick’s nephew in the primary and Henry Cabot Lodge’s son George in the
general election.
In New York that year, the Democrats nominated what Time Magazine (my major source of
information at age 11) called “the curious candidates”: Robert Morgenthau (Time said his face
always looked like it was cracking apart) for Governor and James Donovan (a lawyer who spent
most of the campaign in Cuba, negotiating the release of Cuban refugees) for Senator. They
were trounced by Rockefeller and Javits.
It irks me that I can’t recall the name of the ’62 Democratic candidate for Lieutenant Governor
(since then they’ve been: Howard Samuels, ’66; Basil Paterson, ’70; Mary Anne Krupsak, ’74 and
Mario Cuomo, this year). But I’m showing off.
The thing is, governing doesn’t interest me all that much. I like politics – wheeling and dealing,
devising strategy, horse-trading. In the end it’s all a game – like last night: there were the usual
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upsets and squeakers, old faces managing one last hurrah, new politicos mentioned as
Presidential hopefuls when in fact they’ll be unknown in eight years.
Gov. Carey was reelected, so I was satisfied. The Republican gains across the nation were too
small to be of much significance. The GOP will always be able to elect a President, a Governor,
a Senator on the strength of the individual, it’s lower down on the ballot where most people
vote Democratic – when they don’t recognize the name, they will go with the party.
Enough about politics. (Yet I can’t help thinking that life is all politics, all a wonderful
competitive game – that’s how I view my literary career.)
I was a bit bleary-eyed this morning; it was a dark, raw autumn day, in contrast to the
marvelous weather we’ve been having recently. (I can’t remember a more glorious fall.)
I got through my classes very well today; I was on top of things, felt confident and acted
confidently. I was sharp. I got Gary’s Kingsborough transcript sent to St. John’s, as he hopes to
start their MBA program in January.
Mom got her first “acceptance” today. A couple of weeks ago I noticed a Coda announcement
for an anthology of women’s “true confessions”; I sent in a piece about Mom almost having an
affair with Senator John F. Kennedy and the editors of Dirty Linen loved it! They asked Mom to
send in more work. Now Jonny, Dad and Marc are jealous and want me to write stories in their
names, too.
The police questioned Marc about the bank robbery, but he couldn’t tell them that much. The
other day Marc told me he feels “trapped” working for Dad and living at home. I think Marc
just doesn’t like working, period. (Who can blame him?) Dad says Marc is silent most of the
day while they’re together.
I called George and he said that since I wasn’t coming, he would try to get out of the day’s
work; he’s been very busy at the paper, doing special promotions.
10 PM. No one can ever take this day away from me. Today was the day when – here comes
the cliché, folks – my dream came true. So how come, if I’m such a lousy writer, I’m having a
book published?
Let me crow a little tonight; I promise this will be the last of it for a while.
This morning Wesley and I prepared the first edited version for the copy editor. We worked in
his father’s office and I agreed to most of the changes; he was correct in almost every case.
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I can’t explain how it feels to go to a publishing house as an author. Mary Walling told me
she’d sent my contract out on Tuesday, hoping I’d bring it today – but naturally I didn’t get it in
time. It did arrive this afternoon, however, after I got back from Kingsborough.
Today, for the first time, I actually believe the book is going to come out. And it’s thrilling: to
get a contract in which I’m hereinafter referred to as “the author,” to fill out a bio form to be
used for publicity purposes; to be able to go next door and tell Evie I’m having a book
published and for her to kiss me spontaneously and feel happy for me. I want to share my good
news with everyone.
I took the contract to the library, to compare it to what standard author’s agreements look like,
and I couldn’t resist telling the librarian about it – I wish he’d have been more startled. I
pointed it out to Joe at the copy center after he’d xeroxed it and he said, “Good luck with it,
Richie.”
I walked onto the Brooklyn College campus just as it was getting dark. Strolling through
Boylan Hall, I hoped I would run into an old teacher so I could show him the evidence of my
success. But the corridors were empty, and I realized I didn’t need to show anyone – the good
feelings were all inside and they couldn’t get any better.
For the first time in years, I walked into a LaGuardia Hall, which was almost deserted. The
offices are all changed (Student Government is in 160 now, the deans’ old complex), disco music
was coming over the speaker, there were no chairs in the lobby – but still, it looked just the
same.
There are memories in every inch for the place. A thousand moments came back to me all at
once, and I started to cry a little. I felt like the hero of “The Eighty-Yard Run” by Irwin Shaw. I
looked at Kingsman (Kneller is resigning) and the announcements on the bulletin board.
I wanted to tell some students in yarmulkes that I used to be a part of this place. And that there
were great people here, and great stories and magnificent times and dreadful times and days
that just dragged on. I wanted to touch it all, hoping that would make everything come back to
me.
That’s why I am a writer, after all – I must record things. “Bear witness,” if that’s not too
pompous. And my next big task is to tell the stories of LaGuardia Hall. Maybe it will be fiction,
maybe not – but those times, 1969-1974, are gone now, and someone must recapture them.
I walked out of LaGuardia Hall feeling very whole; it was what Maslow (a BC professor
himself) called a peak experience.
I phoned Grandpa Herb and Grandma Ethel, and then Josh. I was so pleased to hear he’d sold
a story to Screw and is writing a lot again. Denis dropped by, and Jerry put him on; Denis likes
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LIU except for the pay – he told me the people there think I’m really terrific. (Denis said Rose
Aronson should be my pres agent.) That made me feel great.
The Authors Guild responded to my letter and invited me to apply for membership. Mikey
called and of course asked, “How are you?” I said, “Great,” and I meant it.
I know this all sounds like an incredible egotrip, but it’s not myself I’m celebrating – it’s
everyone, it’s life. I’ve put my family and friend and neighbors – my Brooklyn, my Manhattan –
in my stories, and without all that, I’d be nothing like the self-conscious bore I can see myself
turning into.
8 PM. I’ve just been riding around the neighborhood. Friday night and Successful Young
Author Looks Good, Feels Great. But Has Nowhere To Go. I thought of driving over to Park
Slope to visit Mrs. Judson, but it’s been so long since I last dropped by. Anyway, I could use an
early night.
It’s November now, but it’s unseasonably warm. It’s almost eerie, 70°, and crisp, dried-up
leaves all over the ground. You could go out without a jacket today. So I picked a perfect day
to take off from work.
I wouldn’t have minded going into Kingsborough for an hour, but now I feel like I’ve had a
vacation. Of course, it may be the book more than anything else. Today in the Voice, I read
Richard Price’s account of his early success with The Wanderers – that was a fluky thing, too, but
boy, did he make it big.
I don’t expect to be on the Today Show, nor will I have great blurbs (the only ones I could
suggest were Susan Schaeffer, Ashbery and Irwin Shaw, who might do it because of my BC
connection), and obviously there’ll be no movie sale. I doubt if there’ll be a paperback sale, but
who knows?
I’ve got six months to prepare my attack on the media. This summer’s spree with the Page Six
thing was a good dry run, but I’m going to have to go much further. I hope the Taplinger
people help me, but I expect to do much of the work on my own.
I spoke to Aunt Arlyne, who books authors for the A&S Hempstead store; she told me of the
phenomenal sums publishers spend on Big Book Authors like Marilyn French and George
Sheehan.
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Richard Grayson
I won’t have access to much money, but I’ve got idea. For example, I can play up the angle that
I was a messenger at the Voice to get some publicity there. I can go back to the Flatbush branch
library where I worked and ask them to buy a copy.
I’ve got to get a notebook and fill it with ideas, and I need to make a mailing list of everybody in
my family, friends, acquaintances, etc. I feel I can make the book a success.
I mailed out my filled-out bio form and my signed contracts today. Wes said I could call him to
find out what’s going on; he was going to ask Bobs Pinkerton for the name of a good copy
editor.
Anyway, Richard Price said at the beginning of making it, he was Richie In Wonderland. That’s
what I want to be: a visible public person, someone playing a part in the world. Enough said.
Grandpa Nat went to a group sing-along in the nursing home yesterday. Grandma Sylvia
didn’t want him to attend, but another resident, a man who has befriended Grandpa Nat,
insisted.
Grandma Sylvia watched from just outside the door and she was astounded to see Grandpa Nat
remember the word to every song. He sang at the top of his lungs and was obviously enjoying
himself immensely. When he left the singalong, he told Grandma, “I’ve never been so happy.
This place is the best place I’ve ever been.”
Hm. Next to that, my ego-tripping sounds pretty stupid. But Grandpa Nat, though you’ll
never know it, you’re a part of my book and one of the reasons I want it to succeed. Yes, I’m an
egotist, but I do feel I’m part of a community.
That’s why I feel a kinship with young writers like Tom Person (who sent a letter today),
George Myers, Brian Robertson and Tom Whalen. That’s why I sent a check (albeit for only $3)
to the Bread Loaf Endowment Fund – Robert Pack said any amount would be appreciated, and I
want to help someone else get a scholarship.
9 PM. These last few days have been wonderful. I feel incredibly relaxed and read to face
going back to school again. And I’ve got only one more month at Kingsborough, and that
should be easy to get through. Tomorrow I have marking and preparing to do, but the work
won’t be that much.
[184]
I spent today with Ronna. It’s been difficult getting ahold of her these past few days. On
Thursday night she went to a play with John, his lover Andrew, and John’s drama class and
didn’t get home until 1 AM.
I told Ronna’s sister to have her call me, but I wasn’t very coherent when we spoke.
Last night she went to the movies with Brad, and then out to eat with Susan and Marvin. Today
she was going to meet her friend Debbie and her mother, who had taken a bus in from
Harrisburg; Ronna had gotten them theater tickets and was meeting them at Radio City to give
them to them. (That’s terrible construction, isn’t it?)
Anyway, I took the D train and arrived at Radio City one train ahead of Ronna. I could see her
thinking as she walked up the subway steps, “That guy looks like Richie – it is Richie.” We
gave Debbie and Mrs. O’Hara the ticket and I was introduced, and we walked down to the
Smokehouse for lunch.
Debbie is a tall, gawky, very sweet girl who’s obviously very close to her mother. They were
very nice, unassuming people; they talked about the autumn beauty of Harrisburg and the
goings-on in the area.
Mrs. O’Hara very generously paid for our lunch. I tried to protest and finally she let me leave
the tip. They wanted to go to Lane Bryant, so we took them to Fifth Avenue and pointed them
in the right direction.
Ronna will see them next week (charter buses run from Harrisburg to New York every
Saturday) and maybe on her trip to Harrisburg tomorrow.
Ronna wanted to buy a blouse, a belt, a shirt and shoes for her interview with Saul Kohler, the
Patriot-News editor; she already has a jacket. So we walked to Bloomingdale’s, and there we
were, Ronna and Richie, another couple in the Saturday shopping crowd at The Store. Ronna
found a gray flannel shirt but couldn’t find any of the other accessories. We looked in
Alexander’s, Fred Braun and The Gap.
I liked being with Ronna, but the crowd were giving me a headache and finally we decided to
take the train back to Brooklyn. At my house, Ronna and I relaxed, drank soda, looked over my
students’ very funny (unintentionally, of course) papers and whispered in each other’s ears.
I’m very fond of that woman – in fact, I love her, and it’s hard to imagine her not being a part of
my life in some way. These past few months our relationship has gone extraordinarily well,
ever since we decided it couldn’t go anywhere.
I’m terribly attracted to her, but I’m terribly attracted to other people, females as well as males.
Right now things are just perfect between us. Our relationship has come a long way from our
first date nearly six years ago; even on that night I knew she was special.
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Richard Grayson
I like to make her laugh, I like to feel the small of her back, I like her honesty. When we went to
Kings Plaza, where she did buy shoes, a blouse, a belt and panty hose, she told a shopgirl she
weighed 143. Incidentally, the salesgirl said, “You two must be a lot of fun to be out with.”
Ronna and I looked at each other and denied we were a couple. But we do have that easygoing
banter that couples have – yet we don’t have the tension, usually.
I left her at her house an hour ago; she wanted me to stay for dinner, but the chicken looked
unappetizing and she had to prepare for her trip. I hugged her good night and told her to have
a successful interview.
One of the bright spots in my life has been my relationship with Ronna. She says she’s always
had faith in me, but I think she’s amazed that I really I made it as a writer. Well, I am pretty
amazed, too.
1 PM. To be in the house with my family on a Sunday is a reminder of how much I need to
escape and how desperately I need the book to succeed. While I’ve been making much of the
fact that ten years ago I was a complete failure at 17 – a compulsive, frightened, homebound
agoraphobic – and now I am about to have a book published, I have left out the part that says I
still haven’t gotten out of this room and this house.
Whatever its virtues, Hitler is the book of a child – a precocious one, to be sure, but definitely a
child. I am, at 27, neither a “family man” nor independent, and this must change. Perhaps now
would be the best time to leave. My car is on it last wheels, and an apartment near a subway
station might be what I need.
My mother told me today, “Hang up your jacket,” “Dust your room,” “When you’re in my
house, you’ll do as I say.” I simply ignore her. If she doesn’t see what an absurd situation it is, I
do. Or maybe she’s just being difficult in order to get me to leave.
Anyway – I’ll have about $1200 in the bank as of Friday’s paycheck, and that’s enough for me to
start looking next week. My advance should cover a couple of months’ rent.
The term is winding down and I’m not all that busy. I haven’t been able to write. Correction: I
haven’t needed to write, and I suspect that I’ve simply run out of material. Living in my own
place will probably give me a new perspective, and even if it doesn’t, I’ll still grow personally.
The book changes a lot of things. I no longer have to strive to be published in every little
magazine there is. Indeed, my shelves of little magazines with my own stories will seem almost
[186]
beside the point when my book comes out. What do I need eight copies of Writ with “Joe
Colletti” if it will appear in my own book?
I’m no longer scared of living alone, so what better way to close the book on the ten years since
my breakdown than by finally moving out? The publication of the book signifies my worth as a
writer; now I need to signify my worth as an adult male.
My stomach hurts, but damn my stomach. If I don’t leave 1607 East 56th Street, Brooklyn, New
York 11234, the book won’t mean a damn thing.
4 PM. I’ve just gotten off the phone with Mason, who’s really in a bad way. He’s so miserable at
that damn school. He took off Thursday and Friday and went upstate, yet it wasn’t good
enough for him.
He went to the Crystal Run School, though, and there the retarded residents immediately
surrounded him with gestures of deep affection – such a contrast to the hostility and tension of
the junior high.
Mason would like to leave, and I was encouraging him to do what’s best for himself. He can’t
allow himself to get sick and depressed; the money isn’t worth it.
But of course he feels like a quitter and a failure leaving the job, and people will tell him he’s
crazy for “walking out on such a great opportunity.” He says his parents have been supportive,
though, and I told him to do what he wants and not let other people judge him.
I wish I was rich and famous so I could help Mason and Ronna and Avis just a little. Our lives –
I told Mason that thirty years from now we’ll all look back on this and say, “Thank God I’m not
that age anymore.”
7 PM, still Sunday – but I must write. I have always hated November Sundays – dark, dreary
days like today – and I will always hate them. This weekend, which started so triumphantly,
has left me feeling defeated and suicidal.
I just came home from The Floridian, where I sat at the counter and had a Western omelet with
tea and toast. My waiter had an earring. Probably gay. Despite the defeat of the gay rights bill
in the City Council this week, we also had the rejection by California voters of the anti-
homosexual teacher initiative and also an affirmation of gay rights in Seattle.
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Richard Grayson
Too bad my problem isn’t being gay. I wish it was that simple. Though if I killed myself, as in
the Michael Lally poem, “they’d say it was because I was really gay – or because I wasn’t really
gay.” No, my problem is being human.’’
If therapy were the answer, I’d somehow find a way to get back to it. But as a veteran of eight
years and $10,000 worth of therapy, I can readily attest that it’s not The Answer.
Oh, it helped me an awful lot, but it can’t change life, and despite the pep talks of Dr. Wayne W.
Dyer and the other pop psychologists whose paperbacks line drugstore racks, life is the
problem.
Then is death The Answer? I’ve always suspected it might be. Much of my fear this year has
dealt with the possibility of my regressing to ten years ago. Now I see that it’s also a wish for
that kind of pseudo-suicide.
Back in 1968, I didn’t take my life, and I’m very glad I didn’t. So I probably shouldn’t do it now.
But still, I’ve discovered that the book doesn’t make me a success; in the eyes of the world –
damn the world, in my own eyes, I’m a failure.
I may have a book of short stories published at age 27, but I’ve paid an exaggerated price for
that. I’ve never had a home of my own. This house is not my home any longer. It can’t be.
Today I saw a beautiful studio apartment on East 66th Street and Avenue N. It was perfect:
modern, cozy, magnificently laid-out and decorated. The landlord was young and friendly and
wanted no lease. The place was so beautiful I came home ready to give the landlord a $200
check for security.
Then, later, I took out a pencil and began figuring: I’ll have $1200 in the bank as of Friday, but
my only income for the following three months will be a paycheck in January. $1950 minus
$1000 for four months’ rent plus one month’s security – that leaves me $950 for twenty weeks.
Which means, taking off $50 for a phone, I’d have $45 a week to live on.
I couldn’t get by on that now, and now I don’t have to buy groceries or toilet paper or other
household supplies. I need about $75 a week to live on at present. And of course all this goes
along with an assumption that I’d have eight credits of classes at Kingsborough in the spring,
and that’s not likely, considering the budget cuts.
My mother looks at me in disgust and says, “When are you going to get a job? How long is this
going to go on?” My father says nothing, stares at me. I don’t blame them. If I had a son my
age who was doing something I didn’t understand, I’d behave the same way.
So why, with no money for an apartment, do I send $3 to the Bread Loaf Endowment Fund and
$5 for some books by Samisdat’s Merritt Clifton, a writer who loathes my work?
[188]
Because in literature I find the home I don’t have here, perhaps. My contract with Taplinger has
a clause which states that its provisions will be in effect for my heirs. I wrote Mr. Strick a letter
naming Ronna as my literary executor in case I die before the book comes out.
In a way, with the book coming out, I don’t need to go on living. For months I’ve been
postponing suicide until the summer session ended, until Dad’s operation, until I was sure the
book was going to be published.
And now? I want to see Avis in December and Grandpa Nat in January.
8 PM. I haven’t written in my journal for 49 hours; probably it was a good thing that I didn’t
write yesterday. As I expected, Mom was very cross me with me Monday morning. She told
me, in that very hard way of hers, that she want me out of the house.
I tried to explain to her that I couldn’t afford the $200 a month rent and then have money left
over to live on, but she continued to abuse me until I broke down completely, crying and
throwing myself.
I ran out of the house and into the car, screeching away. In the car, with the windows closed, I
sobbed like I haven’t sobbed in years. “I want to die!” I kept shouting, and I meant it. I tried to
drive with my eyes closed so I would get into an accident, but I was too afraid to do it for more
than a few seconds.
At the Marine Parkway Bridge I was stuck as the drawbridge went up. I just sat there crying
and moaning and feeling my throat beginning to hurt.
When I returned home to have breakfast, Mom went about her chores, acting very coldly.
(Maybe if Maude had come in, none of this would have occurred. Maude’s presence puts our
family on better behavior. But Maude’s mother was ill yesterday.)
I again tried to explain to Mom the situation of my finances; she couldn’t understand how I
spend $75 or $80 a week and told me I must cut down my expenses.
At that point I broke down again, blubbering about how I have nothing, that I haven’t bought a
new pair of shoes in three years, that I have no clothes. Mom asked me how my friends
managed. “Maybe I made the wrong choices,” I told her. “I wanted to be a writer. That was
the important thing. So I made sacrifices. I’m sorry. I wish I were dead.”
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Richard Grayson
Finally Mom couldn’t take my crying any more, and she became sympathetic even though she
suspected I was acting – but I wasn’t. I was saying to her the things I said to myself in this
journal on Sunday, and I believed them then.
I don’t believe them totally now – in a moment of routine tranquility – but they gnaw at me.
There is a price I’ve paid for my hopes and ambitions. So forgive me if I toot my own horn too
much; I’ve given up a lot, and I need to believe that I’ve given up things for a worthwhile goal.
I spoke to Wesley yesterday; the manuscript had gone off to the copy editor (with a style sheet
of my grammatical quirks) that morning at 11 AM – just the time I was contemplating suicide.
Wes was very excited. “Your virgin editorial project,” I said. “We’re losing our cherry
together,” he told me. Bobs Pinkerton, the managing editor, had taken the book over the
weekend and was impressed – and she looks like a hard-bitten, I’ve-seen-it-all type.
Wes said he liked my bio sheet and told me he’d sent me a package in the mail: “an early
Chanukah present.” “Thank you for everything,” I said.
“Thank you,” Wes said. “I didn’t do anything. You did it all.” That, and a letter from Wayne
State telling me they’re considering me for a job on the basis of my vita, helped me make it
through these past two days.
That, and work – and I began, as I promised Mom, to clean up my room. Last night I threw out
letters, postcards, memorabilia, junk; it was very painful, but I can’t keep birthday cards from
1972 forever.
And the four classes I’ve had yesterday and today went reasonably well. I still can’t help
counting down: four weeks from today, it will be all over but the final and the final grades.
10 PM. Walking by my parents’ bedroom just now, I overheard Mom tell Dad, “It went by so
fast.” Sticking my head in, I asked, “What went by so fast?”
“Our years together,” Mom said. “We were just teenagers going together, and our parents
seemed so old, and now. . .”
I finished the thought: “And now you’re your parents.” Mom nodded.
Life does whizz by. That’s why I’m taking off tomorrow; I need to catch up with my life.
There’s so much just to read and people to call and see. I never seem to get my life in order.
[190]
My classes are so enervating, and it’s rare when I feel I’m stimulating my students to any
thinking.
Luckily, I’ve made friends with the other adjuncts, and talking to them (mostly commiseration)
helps pass the time. The best parts of my day seem to be on the telephone or in the mails.
Today I got Wesley’s “CARE package”: a copy of Taplinger’s book As My World Turns by soap
opera star Eileen Fulton and a proposal for a book on circumcision. “We need photos,” Wes
wrote, “so please send them along with your facial shots.”
He’s a darling; I’m glad we get along so well. Wes has taught me a great deal. For example, I
now notice things I didn’t used to.
For example, Carolyn Bennett sent me her Seagull Press book, The Last Detective by Richard
Vetere. It was a wonderful, haunting novella (I must write Vetere), but I found many errors an
editor should have spotted: In one chapter, somebody goes to a bar on Sixth Avenue and then
takes a cab to a whorehouse “over on Sixth Avenue.” In another section, a transatlantic flight
arrives at LaGuardia Airport rather than Kennedy.
Josh phoned yesterday and invited me to a reunion of the writing class that Simon has arranged
for Saturday night at Henry’s End; everyone will be there and it should be fun. I’m the most
successful, of course, but I’d better not try to put on any airs. Simon wouldn’t even call me
himself, so obviously, inviting me was mostly a duty. Perhaps they even hoped I had other
plans.
I spoke to Alice, who’s spending Thanksgiving with a friend in Boulder. She’s flying to
Colorado with Richard Sasano, who’s visiting his brother there. (Steve’s getting married to an
English girl and moving to London.)
Peter Cherches phoned to tell me the West End reading has been postponed until January. We
had a wonderful chat about the MFA biz; he’s so disgusted with Columbia but figures he’s
“buying a name degree.” Most of his classmates in Hilma Wolitzer’s workshop are into
“passionate realism. . . Redbook fiction. There’s no concern with language.”
Ronna and I spoke last night. In Harrisburg, Saul Kohler took her out to lunch and treated her
like a Dutch uncle. He told wonderful reporter stories; he’s been in the business a long time,
covered the White House for the Philadelphia Inquirer, and was press secretary to Sen. Hugh
Scott.
Kohler gave Ronna places and names all over the Northeast and South; he urged her not to
specialize right way and to get on a medium-sized paper where she can learn to handle
everything. Ronna got out a bunch of letters last night, and Kohler said he’ll give her more
contacts if need be.
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Richard Grayson
He’s a very sweet man; he wants to help Ronna get started because someone once did the same
thing for him. It will be a struggle for Ronna, but she really wants to be a reporter.
The Mississippi Mud arrived in today’s mail. It’s a beautifully laid-out magazine, and my
“18/X/1969” read really well.
I spoke to Teresa and she had a delightful lunch with Costas; they reminisced about college and
were both surprised at the fun they had. So they’re friends again.
I applied for jobs at Arkansas (ugh) and Princeton (hoo-hah).
9 PM. I didn’t catch up very much today. I can’t seem to get ahead of myself.
Dad called us all in for a conference this afternoon. He’s been drawing a salary of $500 a week
from the business, and it isn’t enough to live on. He felt completely humiliated and degraded
confessing that he can’t make ends meet.
“I’ve been taking tranquilizers day and night,” he said. “I don’t know whether to kill myself or
what.” Dad said we must let Maude go, or if not, Mom has to get a job (which might be good
for her, to get out of the house).
I immediately offered to give Dad $50 a week and told him it was the least I could do. At first
he was reluctant to accept it, but it’s certainly only fair. It will make me feel better anyway.
Marc can contribute something, and maybe Jonny can get an after-school job, though I doubt he
will.
Jonny still doesn’t know about going to college next year, but what kind of job can he get? As
Dad said, neither he nor Marc are professionals, and they’re in a terrible situation.
The trouble with Dad’s finances is that because he was always in business for himself, he got
used to taking whatever money he needed. The family has never lived on a budget, and even
now Mom and Dad have no idea how much they spend each week on food, insurance, clothing,
etc.
I’ve been limiting myself to $75-$80 a week, although lately I’ve been spending more. I’ve got
to cut down on expenses. Hopefully, I’ll begin to earn some really decent money next year. As
it is, I have twice what I had last year at this time, so I can make do.
[192]
In a way I’m glad I can help Dad and Mom out in a crisis. They have almost no savings left – in
the past three years, Dad has eaten into almost $45,000. Inflation is partly the villain; it’s hard to
comprehend when they give cost-of-living figures on the TV news, but it hit home when I
looked at Dad’s pained face.
That decides it for me: I’m going commercial and I’m going to hype my work or whatever I
have to do to get us out of this mess. Otherwise we’re going to go under. Everyone predicts a
recession in 1979, and some say it could be worse than 1974-75.
My making it will be the best hedge against an uncertain economy we could have. I can’t let my
family down. Damn Art – at least until we can afford the luxury of it.
Today I got a check from Ideal Publications: $30 for “Specialized Soaps.” And tonight I found it
in a two-page spread of TV Dawn to Dusk; they didn’t give me a byline, though.
I also got a new story in Waters Journal of the Arts – “Different Places” – they handled it
beautifully. Too bad it’s the last issue “due to inflation.”
I’ve written almost nothing in three months and I feel almost no pressure to write. This half of
the year I look on as a vacation, not a writer’s block. I have to redirect my writing goals now
that I’ve reached the point of having a commercial book published (I just got a horrible flash:
What if they don’t do it?).
I went down to the Motor Vehicles and changed my plea on the summons to guilty. As it was
my first offense, they fined me only $15. My car can’t last much longer, and when it dies, that
ends my driving years.
It’s strange, my having been poor (financially) for all these years. I still don’t feel poor, yet my
room and clothes are shabby, and I don’t have much tangible hope of a wealthier tomorrow.
2 PM. It’s a very rainy and chilly Friday afternoon and a good time to take a nap. Our
remarkable fall weather has ended; now it’s winter-jacket rime. In another month or so, it will
be snowing and freezing. But I do have a reason to look forward to spring this year.
I’ve just come back from Kingsborough, where I had a pleasant session with my 23 class.
Earlier this morning I went to school to pick up my paycheck. I deposited it in the bank, but I
had to withdraw $300 to give to my parents: $250 to pay the bill for the typewriter and $50 as
part of my first weekly payment for household expenses.
[193]
Richard Grayson
I got my photographs back. Most came out poorly, but I sent one black-and-white head shot to
Taplinger. I look very boyish, I suppose. I wrote Wesley, thanking him for the book he sent
and mentioning his article on Heart in this week’s Rolling Stone.
How do I feel? All right, I suppose. I’d like to start writing again, but I don’t feel desperate
about it. I feel I’ve earned the right to take this breather. Today Pat Griffith of Washington
Review accepted “Super-Fab Senators” and told me to send a bio note noting “how many
thousands of stories you’ve published by now.”
Maybe now I can live off my reputation for a couple of months. I don’t know. I have $1005 in
the bank now, but it will be eaten up fairly quickly now that I’m giving Dad money every week.
I might take a full-time job; I think maybe now I can.
I don’t have to prove myself as a writer anymore, and I could probably take a job in publishing
until I can find a full-time academic position. Yesterday I answered an ad in the Voice for an
editorial assistant at a confession magazine.
Next month and in January I can test the waters of the job market. I’ve had nearly four years’
teaching experience, and maybe it’s time to more on to something more profitable. If I loved
teaching, I wouldn’t consider it, but I’m only half-satisfied with my present job.
I’ve been applying for every academic job, and if I get hired, I’ll have to go. I can’t afford to
pass up any opportunities, be they in Arizona or Arkansas. I’ve applied to writers’ colonies, for
grants (it’s obvious I’m not getting a CAPS award; they would have written me for extra copies
of my manuscript if I were a finalist), for readings – for anything that will help.
Sooner or later all this work has to pay off, doesn’t it? Anyway, I’m reconciled to living at home
for a while.
Tonight I’m seeing Ronna. I was just thinking that we don’t fight anymore, so tonight we’ll
probably argue for hours. But there’s not really much to argue over. I’m very fond of her, and
for the first time I think that if I weren’t gay, I’d marry her.
Of course I am gay, and I’ve accepted that, even subconsciously: in a dream last night a woman
accused me of being a homosexual and I said, “I am. So what’s wrong with that?”
What I like about being gay now I being able to walk down the street in this neighborhood and
see an attractive guy and look at him and his earring or whatever and realize he’s gay, too.
I will probably always love women (always Ronna?), but I will always be gay. I answered a
Voice ad from a gay guy, 22, who’s a big boxing fan. I feel glad to know there are gay people
who share my interests like that.
[194]
I’ve gotten fat in the past couple of months, and I’ve got to work hard to become slimmer. I
want to look great next spring. At Brooklyn College yesterday I ran into Ken Charters and then
Ellen, Ronna’s cousin. Both had heard I was having a book published, and Ken said, “You’re a
popular guy. Everyone at LIU talks about you.” One day even more people will.
4 PM. The sun is low in the sky now, but it’s fairly mild out. I didn’t enjoy the day because I
feel pretty grungy. I didn’t get to sleep until about 4 AM and woke up (just barely – I’m still not
sure I fully have) at noon. I didn’t shave today. I’m a day person, and staying up late, no
matter how much I sleep, makes my eyes very tired.
Tonight I have the MFA class reunion, but I’m not sure I’m going. I’ll see how I feel. While it
would be pleasant to see the class again, I’d rather not stay up late again, especially since I told
Teresa I’d come over tomorrow. I have about 15 papers to mark and lessons to prepare, and I
didn’t get much accomplished today.
Last night I went over to Ronna’s at 8 PM. Her sister had a bad cold but was going out dancing
anyway, much to Ronna’s dismay. Ronna and I drank Diet Pepsi in the kitchen and made out
furiously in the living room; we were rougher with each other than usual.
Then we watched a bloated Liz Taylor in some dumb TV movie, and at 10 PM, when Barbara
left, we went into the bedroom. Susan, who has the world’s worst timing, took that occasion to
phone from Marvin’s house.
I was undressed in bed already, but Ronna had only her socks off and was going on and on
about some office intrigue. I tried to take it casually at first, but as the minutes passed, Ronna
kept chatting on and on. I began to feel ridiculous, so I put my clothes on and told Ronna I was
leaving.
Still she didn’t bother to hang up. I walked outside, where Barbara was waiting for her friends
to pick her up, and finally went back in. Ronna was crying but still talking to Susan.
When she finally hung up, I told her how I angry I was; I knew she wanted to cut off the
conversation and she couldn’t do it. Maybe it was childish of me, but I took it as a form of
rejection. And of course now Susan has even more reason to think I’m a stinker – not that she
needs any.
But we forgot about it quickly and made love – earnestly, only nothing was going quite right.
Finally I suggested that Ronna and I both masturbate; she was hesitant about it, but it worked. I
think we were both a little annoyed with each other and not admitting it.
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Ronna said, “Just when I think I’m getting deeply involved with you, you show me why I
shouldn’t.” And that’s good, as far as I’m concerned. At this point I’d almost rather be friends
and forget about sex.
I’m very, very fond of Ronna, and when her mother and Billy came home from wrestling, we
sat around the kitchen table and talked for an hour. I loved that, but it was a mistake, because I
feel so tired now.
Today I got an acceptance from The Smudge, a great little magazine. They asked me for a photo,
and now I have plenty. I must now have more than 130 stories published or about to be
published. And Elizabeth Janeway sent me a letter welcoming me to membership in The
Authors Guild.
Every day this week the mail brought another delight. Things are going so well, I’m almost
scared. Kurt Nimmo, the editor of The Smudge, says he’s going to review Disjointed Fictions –
favorably, I assume. So I feel light years away from my old classmates in the MFA program. If
I don’t show up, they’ll probably think I’m a snob. And maybe I am.
7 PM. In an odd way, the more I write, the harder writing gets. It now seems less mysterious
than ever, yet it seems to be more work. Most of what I write is garbage, and that realization
has made me re-think my whole attitude toward writing.
Even teaching remedial composition has made me more conscious of my worst mistakes –
especially misplaced modifiers; overuse of “really,” “only,” and “just”; occasional dangling
participles; and a fondness for gimmickry.
Working on content is just as difficult. I attempt to sharpen my mind with reading, but there
never seems to be enough time, and I end up with the merely obvious. My concerns are too
narrow and too superficial. I have almost no capacity for critical theory or abstract thought of
any kind.
Yet, having accepted all of this, I have to say that I am a writer (no, I don’t need membership in
The Authors Guild to confirm this) while most of those who claim to be are not.
All this is apropos of the MFA class reunion, which I dragged myself to last evening. Actually,
it woke me up and made me feel alive on an otherwise dead day. I enjoyed seeing my old
classmates as a group and speaking with them individually. But I’m aware now, if I wasn’t
before, that I am a writer while they are not.
[196]
Simon, the most talented of them, has given up completely. He couldn’t survive the criticism of
the writing workshop, so how could his ego come up against editors in The Real World? I feel
badly for Simon’s writing, the work he might have produced.
But Simon is a schlep; he now tutors at NYCCC and works as a short-order cook on weekends
and hasn’t written in years.
Sheila never was a writer and she admits this. She enjoyed working in advertising, could have
had a future as a copywriter and potential editor at Avon Books, but she took a job teaching at
Grady H.S. because she would have lost her license had she turned it down.
Josh will never be happy; one suspects he wishes to make a career out of being unhappy. He
likes to think of himself as a rebel and a punk; wants to get into advertising; has bright ideas but
always seems to defeat himself. Josh says he’s writing, and he might have commercial potential
if he straightened himself out.
Todd is of the Old School, like Hemingway – a writer of careful control, “true sentences” and
outworn clichés. He doesn’t realize that the Hemingway model was obsolete even for Mailer’s
generation; no one takes hard-drinking, competent, hairy-chested writing seriously anymore.
Todd has only one story: his own, and while it’s a fairly good story, it won’t set Manhattan on
fire. But Todd has a wife and baby and a house, so he doesn’t need it so badly.
Denis has little talent but the most ambition. He wanted to find out my “secrets” of “successful
marketing,” etc. Denis wants to be an academic and he may make it, but he’s terribly
unsophisticated (“I don’t understand poetry,” he told me. “Not at all.”) He said he admires my
single-mindedness and was heartened to know that I doubt myself at all times.
Of course they are all kind-spirited, friendly people: good companions I want to see again,
much like the people I met at Bread Loaf. It was actually a delightful dinner, and I enjoyed it,
and I even liked driving Simon and Sheila home.
But although I haven’t written a story in two months, I am a writer and they are not. This is not
in the way of self-back-slapping, but to keep me from despairing in the face of my own failures,
my own lack of sophistication, grace, and discipline.
5 PM. Three more weeks and I won’t have to look at my students anymore. Granted, most of
them are nice kids, but a few have them ruin it for everyone.
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Richard Grayson
When I arrived at my 23 class this afternoon, Rosa Cordero and John Petrowski were bickering;
the other day they actually slapped each other in class. “Two-timer,” the retard John calls Rosa,
and she says, “Shut up.”
“All right,” I say, “let’s try to behave like adults here.”
And Rosa yells out, “Teacher, you shut up, too!”
I said nothing but gave her an icy stare – which didn’t faze her a bit. By now I think Rosa is
psychotic. She’s told me some incredible lies, which at first I believed (like her cousin drowning
his four kids). I figured people she knows must be insensitive, violent, and lacking any idea of
what life is about.
But last week she told me some whoppers. She was in an accident with her cousin, who died
but whose baby was still living inside her. Then she introduced me to a girl she said was her
younger sister.
“But last week you told me you were the baby of your family,” I said. She explained that she’d
just met her sister that week; her mother had surprised her. Supposedly the sister had been
living in Puerto Rico all these years, unbeknownst to Rosa.
“But why didn’t they ever tell you about her existence?” I asked. The answer: “She was very
sickly and not expected to live, so they didn’t want me to get my hopes up!” And it turns out
this “sister” has been attending Kingsborough all along.
I hate the fact that I have to teach such scum as Rosa Cordero. I’ll pass her because she’s
already threatened me if I don’t. Anyway, I’ve got to concentrate on the well-behaved, earnest
students who (even at Kingsborough) seem to constitute a slim majority. But yesterday I
scanned the want ads for jobs in publishing and other fields.
Wesley phoned today. I always think he’s going to say they can’t publish the book after all. But
it came back from the copy editor, who did a very good job. There were some “flags” –
questions on yellow paper that the copy editor attached – we had to go over: the title of Bishop
Sheen’s book, the spelling of Farshteit, etc.
Now I just have to think up half-titles before we can go into production. I’ve decided to use
story titles as half-titles, but that means changing one of the titles in the “Women” section. I
told Wesley I’d phone him tomorrow.
Tomorrow’s the middle of the week already, and I’m going to the English Department meeting
rather than teaching my 3 PM class. Thank goodness this idiocy will be over soon. I long to
read good books instead of banal student paragraphs.
[198]
This morning I woke up late after a delicious ten-hour sleep. I took $100 out of my Anchor
account and went to the Dime in Kings Plaza, where I paid off my loan. It was getting late and I
didn’t want to wait around for my bankbook, so they’re mailing it to me.
I paid $10 for my gas this morning; I’ll have to watch how much I drive now that I’m not using
Dad’s credit card.
Last night it got down to 30° and we had steam heat for the first time since April. The trees are
almost bare by this time, and I’ve been wearing my winter jacket.
Fifteen years ago this week President Kennedy was assassinated. To my students, JFK is as
distant as FDR was to me – just a figure on the front of a coin.
8 PM. Yesterday I wrote, rather stupidly, “I hate the fact that I have to teach such scum as Rosa
Cordero. “ Today I found this note in my mailbox at school:
“Para mi querido amor: Yo quisiero escribe estas lineas para decirle lo mucho que te a o, quiero decirle los
momentos amoroso y apasionados que yo pas contingo en mis sueños. . .”
Even I could figure that out. On the bottom of the ripped-out loose-leaf paper, there was a red
lipstick outline of a woman’s lips with the words “¡Este beso es para te, amor mio!” And it was
signed “Te enamorada, Anonima.”
“My love, Anonymous”? Good Lord, what have I gotten myself into? The letter was phony-
poetic Spanish; John translated the whole thing for me:
“. . . I love you like a desperate one. . . I hope these words do not offend you, but I must say
them because I cannot contain my soul. For my love for you is the most beautiful and veritable
love that I have felt all my life and it doesn’t pain me to confess this. . . Now I despair with great
sadness because I think this great love is not requited. . .”
Just before I had gone up to my mailbox, Rosa asked me if I had checked my mail yesterday. I
said I did, but very early in the day, and she said a girl gave her a note to put in my mailbox.
I gave John an essay she handed in yesterday and asked him if the handwriting is similar. “I
don’t have to look at the handwriting,” John said. “Read the essay.”
And I read: “. . . I have at KCC a crush on a very special teacher named that I will not emention
[sic]. He know who he is. I won’t tell him my feelings. The way I feel above [sic] him.”
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Richard Grayson
I am flabbergasted by this. No one’s ever fallen in love with me like this. And look who it is: a
moronic slob, probably a psychotic. I don’t feel at all flattered; it makes me queasy, as if she’s
intruded into my personal life.
I’ve been asking colleagues, friends and family how to deal with this, and everyone says I
should ignore it, so that’s probably the best bet. Until Rosa comes to me and confesses her
“love,” I don’t have to say anything.
I had thought she was over her crush on me. But even Rosa seems to understand that I couldn’t
possibly reciprocate; I hope she knows, deep down, that this is just an infatuation.
What does intrigue me (and undoubtedly there’s first-rate fictional material in this) is why
Rosa chose me to idealize. Was it just that I was polite to her, as few other people are? I’m
hardly a romantic figure.
Maybe this will help me understand my own crushes better – not that I take them seriously,
anyway.
This morning I got a haircut, and then Wesley and I straightened out the half-titles; we’ve
decided to go for vague ones like “Objects,” “Artifacts,” “Families.” Bobs thought using titles
as half-titles would be confusing.
So now the book moves into the production stage, going to the designer. Six months from now
the book will be a living thing; you can’t help comparing it to a baby.
Today I got a book from the brilliant Opal L. Nations, and a book and a card from Susan
Schaeffer’s friend Linda Lerner, as well as several rejections, an acceptance of a very traditional
story (“A Distant Death”) by a very traditional magazine, The University of Portland Review; and
a letter from the English chair of the University of New Orleans telling me to submit my
recommendations very soon.
I have no recommendations, really; I’ve always been embarrassed by asking for them, but now I
suppose I’ll have to. Of course I’m not sure I want to move to New Orleans; I definitely don’t
want to go there in the spring. Am I such a coward that I would jeopardize my academic career
because of neurotic fears?
10 PM. I feel tired and very glad I don’t have to work tomorrow. This is my first four-day
weekend since Rosh Hashona, and I’ve looked forward to it for quite some time.
[200]
My shoulder has been aching. I wonder if I’m old enough to get bursitis. Enough kvetching,
though. I have been sleeping fitfully this week, and my wisdom tooth has stopped aching.
This morning I got a call from Donald Stauffer, Director of Graduate study at SUNY/Albany.
He thought he might be able to get me a fellowship for spring, and I said he should go ahead
and try.
But later, I sent him a letter advising him I’d prefer a fellowship for the fall. I don’t really want
to go to Albany in January. Part of it, of course, is the neurotic fear I wrote about yesterday.
But I want – and I know this will sound absurd – “to finish out my ten years.”
Since the summer of 1969, when I began keeping a diary, when I began college, when I ended a
long year of isolation, I’ve felt that my life really began that year. Next August I will have
completed ten years of these diaries, and after that, I feel, I will be ready for the next step in life.
Even though I am still in this room, I have left it enough so that I am a part of the world. If I can
finish my ten years of these diaries, I’ll somehow feel complete; I’ll be ready to die, even.
Michael Metcalf, a counselor at Kingsborough, was killed in a car crash Friday night. Sheila had
mentioned it Saturday night; a friend of hers, another counselor, was very upset. I had seen
Michael in the elevator all this term, but not until today, when I saw his black-bordered photo
in The Scepter, did I realize why I always felt I’d known him from somewhere else.
He was a delegate to the University Student Senate from Hunter when I represented Richmond.
He was a very competent, very well-liked guy, and no, I can’t believe that I saw him on his last
day alive.
Life is incredibly fragile – the murders and suicides by that cult in Guyana amazed everyone, I
think, because these people were alive and well one minute and dead the next.
Classes went well today. Now that the term is ending and I’ll probably be laid off (The Scepter
said “adjunct faculty will be hardest hit by the budget cuts”), I feel at home at Kingsborough.
I’ve got friends on the faculty, among the staff, and I’ve even gotten attached to some of my
students.
Speaking of students, Rosa came to me after class and asked if I got the note. “I haven’t checked
my mailbox,” I said, unable to think of anything else. “I’m in a hurry now, so I can’t talk.”
“I just wrote, like, my feelings for you, and I hope you don’t become mad.”
“I won’t get mad,” I said, rushing to the elevator. But that was not dealing with it.
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This evening I went over to Ronna’s and watched her knead dough for some pastries she was
making for tomorrow’s dinner at her aunt’s. Billy and Robby were acting like wild creatures, as
usual, and snickering about “dick” being short for “detective.”
It was good just hanging out. Billy called me “a friend of the family,” and I like that. Six years
ago, the night before Thanksgiving, Wednesday, November 22, 1972, Ronna and I had our first
date.
I remember that night clearly. I can see Ronna in her blue turtleneck, sniffling into a paper
towel (there were no tissues in the bathroom) in the right-hand side of the Midwood Theater
audience.
We saw Rohmer’s Chloe in the Afternoon, had tea and muffins at The Foursome, and sat on the
floor of my room until 2 AM. When I kissed her goodnight, she said, “I hope you don’t catch
my cold.” I didn’t.
7 PM. Today was one of the most depressing Thanksgivings I can remember. I’ve never really
enjoyed Thanksgiving and don’t see why Mom has to make a big production over dinner.
She’s been in severe pain since last night; evidently she has a severe toothache. I feel sorry for
her, but I also can’t help feeling angry with her for making today such a down day.
The weather didn’t help; it’s dark and raw and rainy. All in all, not the kind of day you feel like
giving thanks. I know I have much to be thankful for, but I didn’t want to do it today.
I slept poorly last night, annoyed with myself for thinking about school while I’m on vacation. I
kept coming back to Rosa and her “love” for me, to my other students’ problems: Ivy Siegel
with her Harvard boyfriend, unhappy in a community college; Maria Martinez, who wants me
to give her extra work so she “can become a good writer”; John Petrowski, who seems retarded
and is the butt of the class’s jokes.
Yesterday some professor asked me how I liked my term at Kingsborough; I told him I was
enjoying it. I didn’t want it to become a real part of my life, but it did. I thought I could just
teach there eight hours a week and collect my salary, but involuntarily, I’ve become involved
with the school and the people there.
And the emptiness of today makes me wonder whether this is how I’ll feel when the term ends.
At 27 (and about six months), I still don’t know what I’m doing with my life and that bothers
me terribly.
[202]
I have no direction except in my writing, and even that seems gone now. I feel old, in a bad
way – as if my body were aging every day. Yet yesterday I got enraged when the old lady at
the Kings Plaza newsstand said, “Sonny, don’t read the magazines here.”
I answered another ad from a guy in the Voice last night – at 4 AM, when I couldn’t sleep. I’ve
decided I want to be Ronna’s friend and not her lover. I’m just not that attracted to her
anymore, and I have to make that clear to her soon. I love her more than I love any other friend,
though, and I don’t want to lose her.
I feel a bit – no, a great deal – of dissatisfaction with my life. Or maybe this is just a bad mood.
A dozen years ago on the Friday after Thanksgiving, I consulted a psychiatrist for the first time.
It was scary, being in Dr. Lippman’s dark, African-themed office, but I felt I had nowhere else to
go.
I was a mess then, and now I’m an older, more intelligent, less neurotic, somewhat successful
mess. I have a bad headache that I woke up with. I feel fat. I can’t believe spring will really
come, and I hate writing sentences like these.
When I get these depressions, I’m impossible. Let me write about other people: Teresa got a job
in the public relations division of the New York public library. She start Monday, but she’s not
excited about it because the pay is so low (the benefits, however – as in any city job – are very
good). But it does sound very interesting. Gary and Betty went to his parents for dinner, so
they’re getting along better now.
Grandpa Herb told us Uncle Jack’s now in the nursing home next to Peninsula Hospital. Jack
doesn’t know much of what’s going on. Aunt Sydelle is seeing a man who takes her out only
on Fridays and Sundays, and Mom and Dad suspect he’s married.
In the Authors Guild Bulletin, I read that Teresa’s ex Fletcher Newton has become president of
Cambridge Books, owned by the New York Times. Alice did not go to Boulder for the holidays
after all; she had dinner today with Philip.
I’ve been reading Richard Reeves’ Convention, about the Democrats in New York in 1976. I miss
politics and being a politician. Then again, I guess I am one.
6 PM. I awoke to the sounds of vomiting this morning. Mom was in such pain from her tooth
that Dad went to Larry Rothenberg’s and got some Codeine and Demerol, and I guess Mom
couldn’t tolerate it, because she was retching and throwing up violently.
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Richard Grayson
Dad managed to get her downtown to the endodontist in the Williamsburgh Savings Bank
Building. Mom vomited again in the doctor’s office, but he fixed her cap. There was an abscess,
the nerve had died, and there was nowhere for the pus to go.
It’s draining now, and Mom’s still in pain and is running a fever; she’s in bed.
Jonny has the same horror of vomiting that I once did and ran down to the basement this
morning. He later explained to me that he vomited the night his friend’s father was killed, and
since then he’s associated vomiting with death. I understood but didn’t know what I could do
to help.
Marc took my car to Flushing, so I got to Manhattan for my lunch date with Alice by bus and
subway. I had expected to eat out, but Alice prepared a Brooklyn-style lunch of bagels, tuna,
cheese and salad.
On her kitchen table was her “Thought for the Day: Fun builds character – P. Breglio.” It
replaced “Work builds character – A. Trifonikis.” (Andreas is working in Miami now.)
Alice told me she’s been discouraged with the BMI musical comedy workshop; this week, when
she and her partner performed three songs, Lehman Engel tore them apart. He’s a martinet and
dislikes Alice’s work; in fact, he ignores all the women (he’s gay and takes out the men from the
class).
Alice got a letter from the BC journalism program asking her about her recent working
experiences and inviting comments on how relevant her coursework was. Alice replied that her
BC classes were no help and mentioned that Prof. Miller advised Alice she’d never make it as a
writer.
Alice is still looking for a job. Richard got her an interview at Rogers & Cowan, and they’d hire
her in a minute, at $20,000 a year, but Alice doesn’t want to do PR work and plan ad campaigns
for perfume. When Alice complained recently about money, her brother reminded her that
their father never made more than $10,000 a year in his life.
Alice generously gave me review copies of several books and we walked down Eighth Street,
getting the subway uptown. We were hoping to see Movie, Movie at the Sutton, but we arrived
too late, as there was an incredible line.
Coming out of the last show were Mason and Stacy, and we started talking and decided to go
with them to La Crêpe. I hadn’t talked to Stacy in years (or should I say the reverse?) but she
told me she was looking forward to my book, which Mason had told her about.
Evidently Stacy’s parents split up; she’s dividing her time between Brooklyn and Rockaway,
trying to get into grad school in arts management, and still hoping for a musical career. One of
[204]
the first things she asked me was if it was true that Ivan was married; when I told her he was,
she was pumping me for information which I didn’t have. Interesting.
Apparently Stacy’s still friends with Mona; Alice mentioned that one of her friends at Seventeen
was on the jury in a case where Mona argued brilliantly and won. (I’d heard Mona was doing
well from Ronna via Leroy and from Teresa via Costas.) We mentioned Scott and the Wexlers
and Avis, and Stacy suggested that I have a party inviting everyone from BC.
It was a pleasant lunch. For one thing, I was glad to see Mason, and I rode back to Brooklyn
with him and Stacy and he gave me a lift home from Kings Highway. Stacy looks well and I
understand what attracted me to her years ago – and what turned me off.
6 PM. My diary entries lately have been pretty stale. This is due to a combination of factors.
Wesley’s editing, though very shrewd, has made more careful in my writing; so has teaching
grammar exclusively. I’ve been hyper-aware of the flaws in my style and have been over-
editing in my mind. My writing has become more controlled, more carefully correct – but I’ve
lost vitality.
This is one reason I have written hardly any fiction. Now that I’m a “real” writer, I’ve gotten a
fear of committing myself on paper; I’ve stopped experimenting, trying out weird things and
allowing myself the possibility of flopping on my face.
But – I recognize (I reckon) The Problem now; or mebbe it’ll clear up (no, verbal cute-isms ain’t
gonna do the trick, pardner. Jes’ don’t work so gol-darned hard).
This is apropos of my purchase of my 1979 diary at Barchas Book Store this afternoon. You
Grayson diary fans from way back when will recall that the 18-year-old Richie bought his 1969
diary (same National Time-Line, #55-148) at a half-price sale at Barchas.
On the way home, my car hit 60,000 miles. I was stopped at Kings Highway and Avenue J, by
that yeshiva which was a private school Jonny attended for a few days during the ’68 teachers’
strike. I looked down and the odometer said 60000.9 – another tenth of a mile and I would have
missed it. So, as Eric Sevareid might say (I always thought his shoulders were too big for my
TV screen), “it’s been a day of milestones.” Or millstones.
My airline ticket arrived from Delta right on the day it turned frigid and I needed gloves for the
first time this season. I’m terrified of flying, but I’m going to do it; I need the warmth of Florida
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Richard Grayson
and the sight of my grandparents too much. I’ll take along one of those anti-phobia books I
read this summer. (Was there a summer?)
Nice Thing From the Week: Riding up Flatlands Avenue to Ronna’s, an old LIU student, Stuart
Charney, honked next to me. I may not like teaching, but I do like having taught. (Secretly I’ve
wanted to be Mr. Chips all along.)
Last night I moseyed over to Ronna’s, where she gave me a career update: she doesn’t want to
work on a weekly, only a daily. I have no way of knowing if her goal is realistic. I advised her
to read Editor & Publisher and everything about journalism she can get her hands on. I want to
spur Ronna on the way Andreas does for Alice.
We drove out to Kennedy Airport, and that sort of opened up the evening: it was a clear, cold
night. Back at Ronna’s house, we had tea and watched TV while Susan called to tell Ronna how
crazy Marvin’s getting because he hasn’t heard how he did on the bar exams. (I bet he failed.)
Susan, Ronna said, was annoyed to find me over again and purposely talked longer.
That being the case and for the all-around mental health of Ronna, I told her I’d bow out of next
Saturday’s dinner. I’d really like to go but I don’t eat shrimp (she’s cooking tempura) and am
not sure I’m up for an evening with Susan, Marvin and John. (I’m sure Alison, Brad and
Andrew would be less offensive.) Ronna wouldn’t have time for me and would get mad if I
acted aloof or annoyed, the way I did at Susan’s.
I hugged and kissed Ronna in a cuddly, sweater-y, winter sort of way. It ain’t passion, but it’s
tender. (Yes, I admit I’m still very attracted to Stacy. I told Ronna about Stacy’s questioning me
about Ivan. “Another broken heart,” she said.)
George sent a wonderful letter, about his grandfather, the Colonel, and bike-riding and
nominating me for the CCLM grants committee. I got five rejections today and an acceptance
from Snapdragon.
4 PM on the first really cold day of the winter. It didn’t get out of 20°s last night, and since I
have no steam in my room, I had to make do with an extra blanket. Today’s high was a
blustery 35° and some snow is expected tomorrow morning, although it will probably change to
rain later in the day.
[206]
I’ve just come back from Long Island. David Gross called me this morning, saying he was at his
brother’s fiancée’s parents’ house in Oyster Bay. David said he wanted to move to New York
and “get established as a writer.” He told me I could introduce him to all my “friends in the
publishing world.”
I drove out to meet David and his brother Jeff for lunch at the Howard Johnson’s in East
Norwich, on Northern Boulevard. I hadn’t taken a long drive in many months, and it was a
pleasure.
David looked the same, though his brother lost so much weight, I didn’t recognize him. I gently
disabused David of the noting of coming to Manhattan and “the literary world.”
When he told me I could introduce him to “the New York little magazine people,” I tried not to
laugh and explained that I don’t know anyone, that little magazines are widely scattered all
over the country, and that he has as much chance getting accepted from Maine as from
Manhattan.
He quit his job in Bath as head of his father’s plant and was willing to spend $500 a month for
an apartment – “but not in the Village with the faggots.” (“Gay people,” I coolly corrected him
– and felt glad I did.)
I told David he can write stories from anywhere, that living in New York was fine, but that
launching a literary career was not a good reason for moving, that I’d just gotten acceptances
from magazines in Oregon and Montana.
I was aided in this by Jeff, who detests New York and its people. They’ve been very wealthy all
their lives and so can afford to play with the idea of being artists. I felt rather proud about my
struggles with money, my living at home (“in the slums of Flatbush,” I almost said.)
Playing “poor kid” is a new favorite game of mine. I make vulgar remarks about other people’s
money (i.e., “Wow, you must really be rich. Is your father a millionaire?”) and point out my
own noble, artistic poverty.
Last night I worked on some concrete poems based on pristine terms like “windows,”
“justification” and “rivers.” This morning I came up with a one-page “New Testament Diet”
(“How did Jesus shed those unsightly pounds and become the slim Savior we know him as
today?”) which would be great as part of a stand-up comedy routine, though I don’t know if I
can find a publisher for it. Maybe I should become a comedian and forget about writing literary
stuff.
Anyway, I do feel creative today, and energetic; maybe yesterday’s realization that I’ve been too
serious about my writing has liberated me. After all, I wouldn’t have written “Hitler,” “Real
People” or “Chief Justice Burger” for a book – too undignified – yet that was what’s going in the
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book. Why? Because it’s weird and Richard Grayson-ish. That’s what got me where I am today,
with Disjointed Fictions next to Graves’ I, Claudius on the shelf at the Eighth Street Bookshop.
This isn’t my usual glum winter Sunday. Two more full weeks of teaching, two days, the final
exams and final grades – and I’m free to get depressed as often as I choose.
7 PM. Throughout this past week, we’ve been seeing images of incredible violence on TV. First
there was the murder of Congressman Ryan and the reporter at the airstrip in Guyana by the
followers of the Rev. Jim Jones.
Next there were those horrible photos of 900 decomposing bodies of People’s Temple members
– the mess recalled Masada, the piling up of corpses reminded me of the Holocaust.
Today San Francisco Mayor George Moscone was shot by a city official he’d recently fired; then
the man ran across City Hill to the Board of Supervisors meeting and shot gay activist
supervisor Harvey Milk.
Immediately I recalled (and of course the networks replayed) the scenes of Mayor Moscone a
week ago regretting his one-time appointment of Jim Jones as Housing Chairman and of Milk
breaking down in tears at the funeral of his friend Leo Ryan. He had no idea (oh, this sounds
banal) he too would be dead in a week.
They say the shooting had no connection with the Guyana massacre, but I believe violence
conditions us to expect and even to perpetrate further violence. Human life is so terribly fragile
as it is, and here people make it their business to destroy others’ lives on their own.
I don’t know what to make of it. Not for ten years have I felt the world to be such a dangerous
place, not since the assassinations of Martin Luther King, Jr. and Robert Kennedy and the
Chicago convention riot of 1968.
Today was a hostile day, anyway – there was snow most of the day. I can’t remember snow in
November before. A bad sign of a long winter or is it a false start? Driving to Kingsborough
was treacherous, as I slid all over the rad.
Only a few students showed up for my 12:40 class. Rosa handed me a so-called term paper that
was actually a word-for-word copy of an article by Jonathan Kozol. I have to give her an F on
it, but I worry: she is capable of great violence, I’m certain, and she’s crazy.
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If she can love so passionately, couldn’t she also try to kill me? I know this is my imagination
running wild, but an F isn’t much different than being fired from a $10,000 job with the city of
San Francisco.
Rosa has so much emotional energy invested in me, or rather, in her image of me. Last year a
teacher was shot by dead by a student he failed. If anyone is capable of murdering me, Rosa is.
I know I have to pass her in the course. Jesus, I feel as though I’m living in an Alfred Hitchcock
movie, and it doesn’t feel very good.
For the first time in my life I got stuck on an elevator today. I went into the elevator, pushed the
button for the third floor (where the English Department is) and noting happened. I was alone.
I rang the alarm; I called out. Finally I pressed the “Door Open” button and the door opened to
the first floor; I had been there all the time.
The snow turned to freezing rain by the time I made my way to the 3 PM class. Some of the
accumulation melted, and driving home was a bit easier. It’s raining now, as temperatures are
rising. It’s so weird to see snow on the streets again; it’s as if winter had always been here, as if
there never was a summer.
Last night Mom and Dad went to a wedding of one of Dad’s cousin’s sons. Aunt Sydelle was
there with her boyfriend, who’s given her a magnificent ring – not an engagement ring, but it is
filled with diamonds. Dad’s Uncle Benny, the groom’s grandfather, danced like a youngster
even though he has a pacemaker and is 83. Uncle Joe was the only other brother there, as
Grandma Sylvia, Uncle Daniel and Uncle Bernard are all in Florida.
The Authors Guild sent me their model contract; I don’t have much protection in my contract,
but I felt I couldn’t negotiate.
7 PM. A peculiar day. I dreamed dozens of dreams last night and did not want to get up this
morning. So when my car died on Ralph and Avenue N on my way home from the bank, I took
that as an omen that fate didn’t want me to go to school. I could have made it on time: the AAA
boosted me at about noon, the usual time I leave, but I didn’t want to go in.
I called Evalin, but she was out sick too, so I gave my name to the student aide. I can’t help
feeling a bit guilty, as I used to do when I stayed out of high school because I was avoiding
something. I dread going back tomorrow; I’m just sick of teaching and sick of Kingsborough.
Two weeks from tonight I’ll be free – sixteen more classes – ten more days. Yet I can see where
I’ll be depressed staying home and not working. The winter is so deadly and I almost always
get depressed; that’s why I’m so glad Avis is coming and that I’m going to Florida after she
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leaves. If I know nothing else about my mental health, I know that inactivity makes me very
depressed. So it’s a heads-I-lose, tails-you-win kind of thing.
Books help. In the past 24 hours I’ve been reading Carolyn Heilbrun’s Toward a Recognition of
Androgyny; Dennis Cooper’s Little Caesar magazine (he sent it to me for free); various popular
periodical; and J.L. Dillard’s All-American English.
I went to the CCLM office and used their library; also I got their list of fall grants, but I don’t
have the urge to submit everywhere as I used to. For one thing, I don’t have that much
unpublished, unaccepted work; for another, getting published in little magazines doesn’t matter
as much as it used to.
And the cost of submitting is so expensive. The Consumer Price Index reached 200 today,
meaning that everything costs twice as much as it did in 1967.
When I was a high school senior, gasoline went for 30¢ a gallon, postage stamps cost a nickel,
buses and subways were 20¢, and rarely did a paperback book cost more than $1.25. I guess we
paid a couple of dollars to get into a movie. I remember pizza at 20¢ a slice.
Dad used to tell me about the low prices during the Depression, and I seem to have the same
stories now. Dad is probably making the same salary he made in 1967 – but that means his real
income has been halved. Hell, even in 1972, Dad gave me $40 a week allowance and never
missed it.
I applied for various jobs in the Sunday Times, including a position as editorial assistant to Eliot
Janeway, the economist. I’m just not certain what it is I want to do. I know I want time to read
and write, but more than that, I just don’t know. I am tired of teaching, that’s for sure.
Grandpa Herb and Grandma Ethel stopped by on their way home from NYU Hospital. The
doctors found no spread of the rash but warned Grandma Ethel that she has cancer and must
return every six weeks for three years. They laughed themselves silly when they heard of
Grandma Ethel’s health-food diet.
Isaac Bashevis Singer was interviewed in the Sunday Times Magazine, and I was relieved to
learn that he wrote nothing for ten years; that gives me some hope. A great deal is made of the
“sufferings” of writers (I’ve read a couple of essays on Lowell and Sexton recently). I don’t
think writers “suffer” more than other people. Perhaps their suffering is more interesting, that’s
all.
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8 PM. The National Weather Bureau’s forecast is for a mild winter this year. Let’s hope so.
Most of the snow has melted by now. I feel free, knowing that I have only one class each of the
next two days – and on Friday I’m having my students write, so I don’t have to prepare
anything.
Less than two weeks to go and you can feel it around school. Everyone’s looking ahead to
finals and Christmas vacation. I had two pretty good classes today; I suppose I do have good
rapport with my students even if I dislike teaching.
I gave Rosa back her term paper, which she vehemently denied copying. I asked her the
meaning of some of the words in her essay, and she grew exasperated: “I don’t know, I just
wrote it!”
Her tutor sent me a note that she missed two consecutive sessions and is being dropped from
tutoring. In between classes, I had my own tutoring session with Maria Martinez, a lovely
Cuban girl who wants extra help – and I gave her tips on style. Now if Maria were in love with
me. . . But of course she’s too intelligent for that. (“I’ve noticed you often put yourself down,”
Maria told me. “You shouldn’t do that.”) Anyway, I suppose I have a grudging affection for
most of my students.
This week’s mail has brought nothing but rejections and junk mail. After last week, I was
expecting an acceptance a day. David Gross sent me a story to criticize and help him get
published; he’s living in his family in Newton Centre now.
This morning I got up early and went to the post office and to do some shopping. At Christie’s
I met my friend John, one of the interns, who lives a few blocks away. Mikey called and asked
if I could participate in a mock voir dire at his law school tonight, but I wouldn’t have been able
to make it in time. (Too bad – I might have enjoyed it.)
Last night I kept notes on my dreams. I wake up after most dreams – generally every 90
minutes. What I’ve discovered is that there is no dream-remembering mechanism in my brain;
if I don’t write my dreams down, most evaporate without a trace by morning – even the ones
I’m certain I will remember.
Dreams are very boring, so I won’t copy all my notes here. In one dream, I was in a
supermarket and met Dad’s cousin Ike and his father-in-law, Uncle Nathan (who died years
ago).
Then I went to Grandpa Nat’s house and saw Grandpa Nat, Grandma Sylvia and Aunt Sydelle
(I told Sydelle that Dad said she looked good at the wedding – which he did, just yesterday).
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As I left, Grandpa Nat pressed twenty dollars into my hand. I didn’t realize it until I was
walking away. I ran back, hoping to return the money, but he ran upstairs so quickly I couldn’t
catch him.
Remembering that he was in a nursing home, I wondered how he could run so fast. “I love
you!” I shouted upstairs to Grandpa Nat, but he couldn’t come down.
That dream symbolizes my inability to reach Grandpa Nat any longer. I can’t communicate
with him rationally; I can’t make him understand my feelings toward him. Every once in a
while, I find myself remembering that he’s brain-damaged, and I stop short: How can it be?
In another dream, I was staying with a young couple who were living with an older married
couple with two grown sons. The old husband was having an affair with the young girl, an
affair to which both spouses consented.
The family of four wanted to be alone together (“family time”), so I left one room only to enter
another to find my friends having an intimate discussion (“It’s couple time, sorry.”) I felt alone
until a little kitten jumped on my lap to comfort me. You figure that out.
1 PM. This morning I wrote my first story in nearly three months. It feels good to finally get
something good down on paper. Even as I put the first sheaf in the typewriter, I felt very
clumsy and nervous; I made three typos in my name and address.
But after seven pages, I finished what I think is a publishable story, “Relentless Days, Corduroy
Nights.” I used the same expanding sentence device I employed in “Roman Buildings” and
“Appearance House.” It makes for a dreamlike story.
The ending was dream I had last night. Ronna and I were on a terrace, watching boats pass by
below. A Hispanic family on a boat overturned and a little boy drowned. We looked down on
them and I cried, “Oh, Ronna, life is so relentless. So much happens. How can we keep up with
it all? There’s no time for anything.”
I’m sure I couldn’t have written the story on any other day but Thursday when I don’t have the
pressure of leaving the house at noon. This makes me certain that with less outside pressure, I
will be able to write as I used to.
It’s such a relief; for a while I thought I was never going to write another story again. I got a
letter from Gretchen Johnsen of Gargoyle. She and Rick Peabody want to use “What About Us
Grils?” in place of “Minimum Competency Test” in their double fiction issue. I agreed that it’s
a stronger piece and gave them my okay.
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George Jochnowitz wrote that he enjoyed the stories I sent him. (He caught an inconsistency in
one of them.) And Michael Lally sent me a wonderful letter. I could fall in love with him, I
know it. I admire him so much and he said he loved “Go Not to Lethe,” which I’d sent him.
Michael said to keep in touch and so I sent him a copy of Disjointed Fictions.
I had another dream last night; in it, I was greedily eating peanuts and raisins. When I awoke,
my pillow was covered with saliva; I had been drooling all over the place. Last night I relaxed
by watching Billy Jack, a simplistic but well-intentioned movie.
In a couple of hours I’m teaching comparison and contrast, but I’m not too prepared. Hell, it’s
the end of the term and I’m sick of the whole thing, as are my students.
I spoke to Ronna last night; she and Alison had dinner at Shakespeare’s in the Village. Last
weekend Phil came in and they had a nice time. She hasn’t yet heard from any of the
newspaper editors she wrote to. Next week she’s got an interview with the Placement Service
at Penn State.
Tomorrow Ronna and I have that cystic fibrosis disco party at Studio 54; I’m kind of sorry I
bothered with it now (as I knew I would be).
My car didn’t start this morning, so we had to call the AAA again; I’m afraid the Comet needs a
new battery.
I haven’t heard from Avis in weeks; I hope everything is all right and that she’s still coming in
as planned.
It’s a sunny day, but I haven’t been out yet. I cut myself twice while shaving and in squeezing a
pimple. I made a red blotch (kinnahora, my skin has been very clear lately, but now, with winter
and steam, my pores tend to close up).
Tomorrow’s December. It’s unbelievable that 1978 should have gone so fast. What I said in my
dream – and in my story – is trite and banal, but it’s so true. It pains me how little I’ve done,
how much I’ve yet to do. If I do have a real enemy, it’s my Timex ticking away.
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Winter in Brooklyn
December 1971 – March 1972
Wednesday, December 22, 1971

The first day of winter and the shortest day of the year.
I had a strange dream last night: Jerry appeared in it. In recent dreams about him, my feelings
were naturally hostile, but in this one, he was so nice. We started talking and he was telling me
how hard things were for him and he started crying and shaking. And I held him in my arms
like a child, comforting him until Shelli arrived. But it’s only a dream.
I drove to school and finally found parking. Stacy left me a handmade Christmas card in my
mailbox. Yet I didn’t see her all day, and when I called, she sounded distant. Stacy is so
complex, I don’t think I’ll ever figure her out.
I sat for awhile in LaGuardia talking with Timmy; I feel kindly toward him and think he’s going
to accomplish a lot someday. In Poli Sci Vince lectured on parties and after class he okayed my
term paper topic, a comparison of the British Liberal Party and the German Free Democrats.
Next door to the Poli Sci Department, I found Gary and Kjell doing the experiment Gary’s been
working on, and I volunteered to be a confederate. We tried to see if the subject would go along
with the rest of us in giving the wrong answers on a perception test, but the subject caught on to
what we were doing.
Back in LaGuardia, I met Ellen and Vlad, visiting from Boston. Laura was very upset about
something with her family, especially her mother, and Jill was trying to help her. Laura and I
went out for bagels and orange juice, stopping to stay goodbye to Steve Sasanoff, who was
leaving for Florida.
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When Laura and I returned, Snake joined us in the Sports office and we ate and talked. I’ve
never seen Laura so down; she kept saying what a rotten Christmas it would be and how
everything would be simpler if she just died.
Snake said he’s going to look for a job when he graduates next month, then he’s going to grad
school in September and later perhaps teaching here at BC.
I left school at 3 PM, took Gary home, then came to m house. Mom and Dad and the boys are
getting ready to leave tomorrow for Paradise Island. I hope everything goes smoothly and
Jonny will be okay; he can’t seem to shake the stomach virus he had last week. But I suppose
things will work out.
Thursday, December 23, 1971

A strange day. The holiday season is upon us, now I’m alone and little tired and a bit sad.
They say that this is the time of year when the suicide rate goes up; I can understand that.
When I awoke this morning, everyone was gone. Mom, Jonny and Sammy left on a morning
flight to Nassau; Marc had a test so he and Dad took off this afternoon.
I decided to skip English and instead took a drive on the Belt Parkway to Bay Ridge; the drive
relaxed me as I watched the cool blue water of the Narrows and the majestic Verrazano Bridge.
When I got to LaGuardia, I gave Mikey his birthday presents, the Love Story soundtrack album
and an autographed photo of Luci Johnson Nugent. Mikey cracked up.
In Poli Sci, Berkowitz discussed revolution. Scott and went back to LaGuardia, where I bought
$5 worth of grass from him. Stacy and Steve wanted to go for pizza, but also with Stacy’s friend
Robbie - and with Shelli.
On the way to Flatbush Avenue, Jerry met Shelli, slobbered over her, but he didn’t come into
the pizzeria with us. And when we brought the pizza back to the Spigot office for a party,
Shelli joined us, but Jerry did not.
Shelli was friendly to me and told me Teddy Bear (“your son”) lost a leg in an accident and
complimented me on my leather jacket. But I’m not going be taken in by her again – although
with Stacy holding hands with Robbie, I could have used some loving.
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I smoked for awhile with Stacy, Timmy, Scott and Avis; then Leon told me he was filming at
Riis Park and to meet him there, so I went home and then to the park.
But no one was there – except a 25-year-old guy in a blue car. I could see him staring at me
funny, so I got in my car. He got in his car. And everywhere I drove, at each turn, he was
following me. Though it seemed funny a first, I got scared and finally lost him back over the
bridge in Brooklyn.
Finally, on the beach, Leon filmed me, Timmy, Steve Cohen, Lois, Howie Blount, Carl Karpoff
and two kids from Rockaway, Bart and his girlfriend, at whose house we later warmed up in
with hot cocoa.
I drove Robert home; he said he likes Columbia grad school and that he convinced Alice to
come to the Safari Awards.
I made myself dinner and then Gary dropped by on his way from work. But he had to leave
and now I’m alone with a cup of sassafras tea and a joint.
Friday, December 24, 1971

Christmas Eve. ’Tis the season to be jolly, right? Well, I’m not feeling very jolly tonight. I woke
up with a bad sore throat and nasal congestion and felt sort of weak and blah all day.
It’s probably from being on the beach without a coat yesterday. The things I do for Leon Fish…
But he’s been very nice to me lately. Elihu told me that he, Jill and Suzanne are boycotting the
Safari Awards this year. Elihu finds fault with everybody: Leon, Scott, Jerry (though I may
agree on the latter) and I’m getting a little annoyed at him. Anyhow, I enjoyed being in Leon’s
movie and I enjoy being his friend, just as I enjoy being Scott’s – even though Scott and Leon
despise one another.
Grandpa Herb and Grandma Ethel slept over last night, and now that I’m sick, I’m kind of glad
they’re here. Grandpa Herb is still very worried about the condition of the Slack Bar. Uncle
Marty called last night, wanting to speak to Dad. I think the Slack Bar may be going the way of
the Pants Set, into bankruptcy.
I felt really wretched all day and stayed in – it was cold, drizzly, dreary – and watched soap
operas. Is life a soap opera? One whose option is always being renewed, for it never seems to
end. We’re down to the last week of 1971, and I feel things are just beginning.
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I look back at this year and all that has happened and I say to myself, “What do I have to show
for it?” Memories: some good, many bitter. I had love – and then it died. I tried – and I got
hurt. Yet I’m going to try and love and hope and wish for a better tomorrow.
Although I’m alone now and – for all the many friends I have – lonely, things will be better.
There’s no real basis for saying that except it’s in my nature. Oh, I complain and kvetch a lot,
but deep down (and this would surprise everyone) I’m an optimist.
I spoke to Gary this morning; his dog’s illness is getting worse. He invited me to have dinner
with his family, but I didn’t feel up to it.
I was at the school library today and ran into Jill, who was working hard. Scott called tonight to
say that he’s staying over at Avis’s and he told his parents he’d be at my house, so I shouldn’t
call later to ask to speak to him. I offered to have Avis’ birthday party at my house. But then
I’d have to invite Shelli and Jerry. To be continued…
Saturday, December 25, 1971

A dreary Christmas. I feel ill and depressed. I should have gone to Paradise Island with the
family. I could use the warmth of an orange Caribbean sun on my face. Why didn’t I go?
Because (at least so my rationalization went), there were all these term papers and the Safari
Awards and Avis’ birthday and New Year’s Eve. Well, I’d trade it all in a second for one
tropical breeze.
I woke up feeling shitty and feel even worse tonight: my throat aches, my sinuses are stuff and I
have diarrhea. “But enough from you, you old hypochondriac. You’re always sick anyway and
I suppose you think you’ll die during the night.” “Damn right.” (The preceding was a dialogue
between me and me.)
Anyway, this morning after breakfast, I drove to Rockaway and found Grandpa Nat and
Grandma Sylvia on the boardwalk. They both had good Florida tans and looked relaxed
although Grandpa Nat complained of a pain in his chest.
It was a sunny day and on the boardwalk it felt warm and I lingered in Rockaway until early
afternoon. Then I drove back home and had lunch. I called Avis, who was similarly alone at
home. Scott, she reported, had a good time when he slept over at “my” house last night.
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I spent the rest of the afternoon reading Burns’ The Deadlock of Democracy, which I have to write
a report on for Berkowitz. I was interrupted by a call from Gary, who’s the one using my
house as an excuse tonight; he’s really staying around the corner at Eileen’s place.
I called Scott, who was also studying for Foreign Policy, and told him I’d be glad to have Avis’
party at my house Monday night, and I had no problem with inviting Shelli and Jerry. It made
me feel good when Scott said he didn’t really like Jerry.
I told everyone that I’m going on a date tonight, when in reality I’m going stir crazy alone in the
house (Grandpa Herb and Grandma Ethel went to Aunt Claire’s). We shall see if I survive
Christmas night.
Sunday, December 26, 1971

A good, restful sleep made me feel just fine when I arose early this morning at 8 AM. I opened
my shades and it was a mild, grey day and I was glad to be alive. So I cleaned up the house, got
dressed and had a well-balanced breakfast.
Then I left the house and got into the car and drove on the Belt Parkway. For the first time I
drove through the Brooklyn-Battery Tunnel – it was a snap – and then up the West Side
Highway, just as I’ve seen Dad do dozens of times.
The first place I went to was Franklin School on West 89th Street by the park. I spent only one
school year there – and only from October ’65 to May ’66 – but I don’t think I’ll ever forget that
place. It was the year that I failed to cope with growing up – which is what I’m belatedly trying
to do now.
I had a terrible urge to go to the bathroom, but the Museum of Natural History was closed and I
began driving around frantically until I got to Lincoln Center, where I was able to relieve myself
in Philharmonic Hall.
There was no traffic at all, so I drove the Pontiac slowly down Fifth Avenue. I went to the giant
Christmas tree in Rockefeller Center; it was beautiful. And all the stores and buildings look so
nice this time of year; even the people in Manhattan seem to have gotten a whiff of the magic of
the season.
I drove down to the Village and went in for a burger and tea at Nathan’s, then looked around
Washington Square. As I was driving, I saw a sign saying “Holland Tunnel,” said what the hell
and went under the Hudson to New Jersey.
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There wasn’t much there to see – Jersey City must be the ugliest place on earth – and I soon
came back, but I was proud I could drive to New Jersey by myself without an anxiety attack.
Then, back in Brooklyn, I went to see Carnal Knowledge at Georgetown. It was good, but the
attitude toward sex expressed by the characters appalled me. After two months of chastity, I
miss lovemaking. And I’m going to find another girlfriend. I need a girl: all day I look at their
breasts and their hair and their legs and I get so horny I could burst. There are several girls I’d
like to go to bed with: Stacy, her sister Leslie, Michelle from The Grapevine, and a few others.
Scott said to cancel Avis’ party. He said (was he sincere?) that they both had too much
schoolwork.
Monday, December 27, 1971

A cloudy, mild day; I arose late this morning.
Last night I spoke to Alice. She and Robert went out the other night, and they’ll be at the Safari
Awards. I took a drive out to Green Acres this morning and I bought a birthday gift for Avis: a
small gilded chain with a Chinese symbol that supposedly means “long life.”
Back at home, I had lunch and drove Grandma Ethel to Kings Plaza. From there I went to Avis’
apartment in Philip Howard, but no one was home, so I continued down Flatbush Avenue
downtown until I got to Dr. Wouk.
We had a good session today. As the year ends, it is time for reflection, and we decided that
1971 was a very good year for me. I had a relationship with a girl and I survived the breakup of
that relationship and I made a lot of friends and I’ve done more things on my own.
After my therapy session, I did find Avis at home by herself. She liked the gift and kissed me
on the cheek. I sat in her bedroom with her, she in a teddy-bear rocking chair that was Scott’s
birthday gift.
Apparently Scott’s story about all his schoolwork is true because Avis said he can’t see her
tonight and she wanted to go to the movies with me. But I didn’t really feel like it and made an
excuse.
Avis and I talked about Stacy (who’s now a trip with Timmy to Virginia). Avis says Stacy’s
very into herself, and I’m afraid that’s true.
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I saw a card with Shelli’s handwriting, and out of morbid curiosity, I guess, I picked it up. It
was a printed, embossed holiday card that said “Peace…Shelli & Jerry.” I felt a bit down when
I saw that and went home for supper.
I needed to think, so I took a long drive into Manhattan and back. Earlier I had spoke to Laura,
who was crying; she has family problems but the main thing that’s scaring her is graduation. It
was easy for me to tell Laura, “Life is what you make it,” but can I apply that to myself?
As I drove by the lake in Prospect Park, I thought, what I said is true. I have so much. I want to
share it with other people, especially one particular person. And I’m sure she exists –
somewhere.
I had a good talk with Gary later. He thanked me for making his weekend pleasant. Gary said
that he and Kjell saw what was happening to me with Shelli “but we really couldn’t do
anything.”
Tuesday, December 28, 1971

This holiday season is mild and fair, although we did have some rain last night. Grandpa Herb
came home from work with a bad cold yesterday. Today was his day off, and he rested and
seems to be better. I had a restless night and woke up feeling lousy.
I guess every time I see some new evidence that Jerry and Shelli are a permanent thing, it upsets
me. They’re not ready to be married, but it’s nice, I guess, to have something permanent,
especially if you’re as neurotic as they are.
I’m neurotic too, but at least I realize that. I was talking to Gary last night and we decided that
Kjell and Sharon are in a similar situation: they’ve been going together for years, but can they be
sure of what they’re getting into?
I don’t want to get married for years. I do want to love a girl and I want a girl to love me. And
with each passing day, I feel more confident that eventually there will be a girl. It may not be
for months, but I can be patient – although I’m not going to sit on my ass and wait for some girl
to come to me magically.
Mikey called me to ask about the term paper he’s doing for Fuccillo. After I hung up with him,
I decided to work on my own paper. I drove to the school library, listening on the radio to
Mayor Lindsay, in Miami, declare his candidacy for the Democratic presidential nomination.
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I worked in the library for two hours, meeting Joel Scherman, who said he now has a good
chance for a C.O. deferment. Then I came home and spent the afternoon working more on my
Poli Sci paper.
Ray phoned, inviting me to a New Year’s party at his girlfriend’s house in East Flatbush. I was
glad that they thought of including me; as Laura said yesterday, “It’s so nice to have friends.”
I’ve also been invited to Eileen’s and at Bruce Winofsky’s, but I don’t know too many people at
those places so if I don’t get any more invites, I’ll to Ray and Robin’s party.
Tomorrow night is the Safari Awards and I found out from Laura why Jill and Elspeth aren’t
going: they’ve mad at Leon for not consulting them regarding the Faculty Council
demonstration, which embarrassed them as student members of the Curriculum Committee.
Uncle Isaac was in surgery for six hours, but the doctors hope for the best. I hope so, too. My
great-uncle has had a hard life.
Wednesday, December 29, 1971

As the year comes to an end, I feel that things are definitely going to be better in 1972. And this
was generally a good year, so 1972 should be terrific. Everything will not go well, certainly;
there will be downs as well as ups, but as I said to Dr. Wouk, if there are no downs, how can
distinguish and enjoy the ups?
I slept decently last night, and this morning I finished my term paper on the German and British
parties for Prof. Fuccillo. I drove to the college this morning and walked into LaGuardia. No
one was there except for a few secretaries in the Dean’s office.
LaGuardia lobby seems so strange without people; I’ve spent a good deal of the past year, and
so many things have happened in that place. I suppose the lobby doesn’t have any special
qualities, but all the people whose lives are connected there: what makes them stay there?
I met Gary, but he was on his way to talk to his lab teacher and didn’t have time to chat. Mikey
and I waited in the Poli Sci office for Vince, but after an hour, I gave up waiting and went home.
Grandma Ethel said that Leon had called. I couldn’t imagine why he had called me. “Leon
doesn’t call people,” I told Grandma. It all became clear later: he wanted to borrow my movie
projector for the Safari Awards tonight.
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I went over to Leon’s house and we screened the movies that he’ll show later this evening. He
lost some footage, but the films came out nicely. I enjoyed them, anyway.
At home again, I got a call from Alice, and I agreed to pick her up tonight so she can meet
Robert at the awards. The invitations read “9:23 PM” – very Leonlike – and he says it may not
end until 3 AM. I don’t really want to stay that long.
Come to think of it, I’m not sure that it’s going to be much fun with eighty or ninety people
crammed into that little basement on Snyder Avenue. But it’s “the social event of the year,”
right?
And Leon told me that I’m going to be giving out the award for Worst Supporting Actress,
which Anne Wiazemsky has won the last two years and for which she’s nominated again. So
I’ll go and try to have a tolerable time.

Last night was the Tenth Annual Safari Awards. When Alice and I got there, most people
hadn’t arrived, but within the hour, they were there. So many faces: Jane Graves and Jon Aiuto,
Chuck and Barbara O’Bannon, Gary Hazen, Lou Marcus, Bob Miller and Estelle, Donald, Bud
Lipp, Bill Kirsch, Alex and Sherie, Rosie Blanchetti, Mikey and Mike and Steve Cohen and Steve
Cooper, Bert Wolf, the Karpoff twins, the Friedberg brothers, Stanley, just about everyone who
is anyone in our circle.
First came the mingling. Shelli and Jerry came over to me, and Jerry shook my hand and we all
talked pleasantly. And during the award ceremony itself, I wasn’t even upset when Leon called
up me and Elspeth (“winners of the Harold Stassen medal”) to give out the award for Worst
Supporting Actress – the joke being that me being dumped for Elspeth’s ex-fiancé makes us
both losers, ha ha. Well, not as big as Anne Wiazemsky, and anyway, afterwards I found out
some people assumed Elspeth and I were brother and sister.)
Later, when Jerry mispronounced WR: Mysteries of the Organism as “Mysteries of the Orgasm,” I
made sure to laugh loudly. As I whispered to Elspeth as we made our way to the “stage,”
“We’ll bring this off with dignity.”
Leon ran everything so beautifully and he put so much work and planning into making the
Safaris good; the trophy this year was the head of Sen. “Scoop” Jackson surrounded by
sparklers. I talked with people I haven’t seen in ages; it was so nice for us to all get together
again.
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Alice enjoyed the whole thing, and as I told her, I don’t think of the eighty or so people in that
room, there was one I really disliked. Leon’s movie was the highlight of the evening, of course.
Alice and I didn’t stay for the screening of Targets, which Leon showed on my projector. All in
all, a memorable evening.
Today was a rainy day, and I felt tired the whole day and didn’t do much. I took Grandma
Ethel home to Rockaway; talked with Gary on the phone (Eileen asked me to her party
tomorrow night); met Alex and Sherie in Kings Plaza and shopped with them (I bought two
shirts); and thought about last night. Jill, Elihu and Suzanne were noticeable by their absence,
but I suppose that’s their business and that was the point of boycotting.
Tonight we had a Mugwump meeting at Harry’s house. His parents are away, and Fern, who’s
staying with him, had a stomach virus and looked awful. Gary, Arnie, Mike, Mikey, Steve
Cooper, Mel, Mason and I bullshitted for a while and then got down to business: this election
we’re going to be the ones to fight dirty.
It was terribly foggy driving home tonight. I spoke to Mom, who was at Aunt Sydelle’s; their
flight back had been delayed by fog but they’ll be home from Cedarhurst soon.
Whew! Leon was certainly wrong: with all the friends I have, I can’t possibly be a loser.

The last day of 1971. As I write this, there are only a few hours left in the old year. It was a very
good year, despite a couple of setbacks and sorrows. I shall be sad to see it go, but I am looking
forward with hope and excitement toward 1972.
The family looked tanned and rested when I saw them last night and said they had a very good
time in Nassau. I slept late this morning and was awakened by Gisele when she came in to
clean my room. She told me that she had gotten involved with this company, “Holiday Magic,”
which would teach her how to sell things, “become a master,” and get very rich.
Gisele borrowed money and gave them a teller’s check (which can’t be stopped) for $1,000 and
is now obligated to make more monthly payments. Sensing a scam, I called the DA’s office and
now Gisele will go downtown and explain it to their fraud investigators.
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Richard Grayson
I called Gary to wish him a happy new year; he’s spending with Eileen at her house around the
corner. He told me, “Don’t get too maudlin tonight; think of the future and not the past.” And
I’m going to try to do that.
For weeks I’ve been sending myself postcards from the past: “Having wonderful time. Wish
you were here. - Richie.” Well, that’s going to stop.
I went to the college library to get out a book for my paper and I met Scott there; he said he
couldn’t handle a big New Year’s Eve party and said that if I wanted, I could join him and Avis
at his place tonight.
I stayed awhile at the current periodicals desk, talking with Ray and Carole. Then Carole
punched out and I drove her home. Though a JAP (she talks of nothing but engagements, hers
and other people’s), Carole is sweet; she kissed me and said I deserve a good new year.
Dad came home early, with news that Lennie has bought the Nemerson and Dad may go in
with him on it. In any case, when the hotel reopens this spring, we should have a lot of fun up
in the Catskills.
I took a drive at dusk along Kings Highway. The sky turned reddish and finally black, and the
moon was big and silvery. May we all be at peace in the coming year, and let me let myself be
happy.
Saturday, January 1, 1972

The new year began pretty well. I am going to keep in mind my two New Year’s resolutions: to
stop reminding myself of past unhappiness and to let myself be happy in the future. For I want
1972 to be a good year.
Last night I went over to Scott’s house, and he said to me, “Richie, I sure hope 1972 will be a
better year for you than this terrible one was.” When I protested that I felt 1971 was a good year
for me, neither he nor Avis believed me.
But life, despite its ups and downs, is generally a delightful experience. There’s so much that I
want to do in this year. I’m going to put some effort and joy into living, or try to, and we’ll see
what happens.
Last night Scott, Avis and I made our own bagels from a recipe in this magazine. Scott’s next
door neighbor Sal, a pleasant guy
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– gay, I think – came over and the four of us smoked grass and told stories and we had a nice
time.
But at 11:30, after Sal left, I could sense that Scott and Avis wanted to be alone, and though they
protested mildly, I kissed my two friends Happy New Year and left them, so in love, to see in
the New Year together. “Alone at last!” I heard Scott shout once the door was closed behind
me, and I smiled.
I was in Ray and Robin’s apartment when the clock struck midnight, feeling a bit uncomfortable
as I knew only a few people there, like Mark Friedberg. But Mark Savage and Consuelo arrived
soon after.
They’re looking well. Consuelo was as effusively affectionate as ever, and Mark said the job
was going fairly well, that he and Consuelo may be moving soon.
I came home and slept late this morning, having breakfast at noon. I drove into the city for a
bit, then to Rockaway for lunch with Grandma Sylvia. Grandpa Nat was again complaining of
chest pains. Worried, I urged him to see a doctor.
I spent the rest of the day at home, watching old movies and trying to amuse Jonny, who’s in
bed with a cold. Marc is having a small party for some friends tonight, and Mom and Dad went
out for the evening, so I just relaxed. If only I could imagine what will fill the rest of these
pages…
Sunday, January 2, 1972

A steady, cold rain fell all day. I slept restlessly but woke up feeling refreshed. I had an early
breakfast and decided I would do something a little different today. So I gassed up the car and
drove off.
Sometimes the only time I really free is when I’m driving on the parkway at a fast, steady pace.
The water in the Narrows was choppy and the skies were dark. I went through the Battery
Tunnel onto the West Side Highway, getting off at 72nd Street. I drove crosstown through
Central Park and found a parking spot on Madison Avenue.
I can’t understand why I never used to go to Manhattan before. Now it’s like a whole new
world has opened up: a magic city for me to explore and experience.
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Richard Grayson
This morning I went into the Metropolitan Museum of Art. I gave a dollar donation, and for an
hour I immersed myself in beauty: Van Gogh, Seurat, Vermeer, Picasso, Gauguin, so many
beautiful paintings. And from all the Art courses I‘ve taken, I‘ve gained a lot and I can spot and
recognize paintings and painters‘ styles so I can enjoy them more.
The most beautiful thing was the Christmas tree at the Neapolitan crèche. I left the museum
and walked in the rain for awhile and stopped for tea at a coffee shop. Then, back in the car, I
drove over the 59th Street (feelin’ groovy, Simon & Garfunkel) Bridge and decided to visit Aunt
Sydelle.
I had no trouble getting to Cedarhurst from Queens and didn’t get lost once. Uncle Monty
answered the door, and he and Sammy were watching football games in the den. So I had
lunch with Aunt Sydelle and we had a good talk; she’s really a fine person.
She said, after I told her the whole story of my relationship, that Shelli was a “monstrosity,” in
looks and everything else. She also said she was glad that Merryl and the twins are no longer
living with them even though it may bother Monty not to have his daughters in the house.
Back in Brooklyn, I spoke to Gary. Eileen’s New Year’s Eve party ended disastrously when
Kjell and Sharon and another couple left abruptly when they discovered the others smoking.
Eileen was very upset and this upset Gary.
I went to Leon’s house to pick up the projector. He was in the middle of filling out “statements
of purpose” for grad schools. I have so much work to do, as I accomplished next to nothing
during the vacation.
Monday, January 3, 1972

Getting back to the old grind can be gratifying, but it’s also pretty tiring. It’s my own fault, of
course; I did next to no work on my papers during the holidays.
So for the past six hours I’ve been at the books and the typewriter. I completed the paper for
Merritt, but Berkowitz wanted 15 pages and so far I’ve got only three. Scott said he wasn’t
handing his in until Thursday, so I’ll take my chances with him.
Today was one of those mild, sunny days that pop up in midwinter now and then. I took the
car to school and returned to LaGuardia.
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Going in to talk with Mrs. D, I met Abe Cofner and kidded him about having his photo and
comments in a Time story about his Democratic club and how he’s a hack. But Abe is an affable
guy and he’s going to go places politically if he cares to.
It’s 1972 and Presidential candidates are coming out of the woodwork every day – Ashbrook,
Muskie, Hartke – but no one catches my imagination.
Steve Cooper and Mikey said we’re going to take a group Mugwump photo for the campaign,
sort of like the Eyewitness News team, and we’re putting out a leaflet that reads “Harold
Schwartz: Wanted for Treason.”
I handed in my Poli Sci paper to Mr. Kassiola, as Vince Fuccillo wasn’t in today, and then
returned to LaGuardia and sat around with a weird combination of people: Scott and Avis,
Sherie, Gary and Leon. Dick Cioffi came in, still unemployed; he’s going to try to fight the
transit fare increase necessitated by the recent union contract.
Most everyone went to Leon’s showing of Gimme Shelter, but I headed home. On the way, I
bumped into Estelle and Bob Miller, and I wished him a good year in Georgetown Law.
After lunch, I went to see Dr. Wouk. He said he’s not worried about my finding another girl.
Neither am I, really; there will be someone, if not sooner, then later.
I now realize that everything that happened with Shelli and me was for the best. Had we gone
on, we would have destroyed each other.
Mostly I feel relief that the whole affair is over. But it was a good and necessary experience, for
Shelli as well as for me.
Tuesday, January 4, 1972

I awoke from a deep sleep feeling tired, and an aura of weariness pervaded the whole rainy
day.
This morning in English, we did Browning – I enjoy him – and I gave Prof. Merritt my paper,
which was not very good. In LaGuardia, Mikey told me that if I didn’t want to run for rep this
term, I didn’t have to because he and Mike found a whole bunch of people to run.
I didn’t have time to reply, as I hurried off to Poli Sci, where Prof. Berkowitz continued his
discussion of revolution. Most kids handed in their papers today. I have almost finished mine,
which has to be in by Thursday.
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Richard Grayson
Leaving class, Scott asked me if I wanted to take a drive with him to the Grand Army Plaza
library, but as I entered LaGuardia, I was swept up in a crowd gong to the Pub. Stacy, Steve
Cooper, Carl Karpoff, Mike and I went for a pleasant lunch of burgers and onion rings.
While I’d pretty much written Stacy off, today I again was mightily attracted to her. It may
have something to do with the miniskirt she was wearing, revealing firm legs and creamy
thighs. Or perhaps it has to do with my dreaming last night that we slept together.
But as Harry put it once, crudely but succinctly, “Does she fuck?” The answer’s no, although
she gives the impression that she’d sleep with any of the four guys lunching with her.
I hung around the lobby for awhile with Carl, Stacy, Gary (beaming because Prof. Kiraly gave
him an A on the paper) – and then Larry Farber and I decided we’d better see Peter D’Amato.
We dutifully distributed the copies of Mother, as Peter requested.
When I returned to LaGuardia, Elspeth, Shelli and Suzanne were lunching at the desk. I asked
for Stacy, and Shelli said he was downstairs in the Kingsman office. I found Stacy playing her
new song into Leroy’s tape recorder; it’s damn good and I told her so, but she said she knew it
was very good. A lack of confidence is not one of her problems.
I walked Leon to the Junction and went home to work on my paper. Dad says that Lennie’s
decided to rename the Nemerson the Paradise Inn and will open it for Easter. The doctor found
nothing wrong with Grandpa Nat’s heart; the chest pain comes from too much smoking.
Wednesday, January 5, 1972

It was a pretty good day, at least until a few minutes ago. I was walking downstairs to the
kitchen when I slipped and fell down three steps, landing smack on my ass. Nothing broken,
but I ache all over and will be black and blue by morning.
This morning, a light, wet snow was falling as I drove to school. I decided to cut my class and
headed for LaGuardia. I gave Stanley his birthday present, a book, 365 Ways to Cook Hamburger.
Shelli waddle in, all little-girl demure and cutesy, and gave Stanley the present she and Jerry
got him. If I sound nasty, I’m just tired of her immaturity – and embarrassed by it. She’s like a
child; she lisped to Laura, “I’ll mith you.”
Well, I don’t miss Shelli.
[228]
I sat around the lobby for awhile, with Jacob, Stanley, Marty, Gary and the others. At noon we
were scheduled to take a Mugwump group photo, and everyone from Mel to Sandy showed up.
Unfortunately, Juan didn’t show up to take the picture.
Stacy and I went to the delicatessen, walking there through the snow, joined by Mason and
Mikey. Stacy had an interview with the alumni for a scholarship at Leeds, so we ate quickly.
Mikey, Mike and others met with Chancellor Kibbee last night and they say he’s just another
administrator from downtown. Mason hasn’t been seeing that much of Libby lately; they’ve
been quarreling, and I know how that is.
Back in LaGuardia, I read Snake’s farewell column, which was good. He wrote about what it
was like to be a superstar in LaGuardia lobby but said “we are all superstars.”
As graduation approaches for Snake, Steve Sasanoff, Laura, Jill, Jacob, Marty and others, they
each tell me that they’re feeling a bit disoriented and frightened, especially the girls.
Downstairs, I talked with Leroy and Ronna. Seeing Ronna reminded me of Ivan, whom I
haven’t seen in weeks.
I drove home and finished my paper for Berkowitz; it’s C stuff, like all my papers this term. It
just wasn’t my semester, and I’ll do better in the spring. Finished with work, I relaxed by
reading and was about to make myself a cup of tea when I slipped and fell just now – kind of
funny, if you think about it.
Thursday, January 6, 1972

A strange day. I’ve gone through so many different emotions today, I don’t know what I’m
feeling except that my spirit is sort of burned out. I went to school today with Susan Felsher,
who says her sister Riesa has a huge crush on Marc.
In English, Prof. Merritt had a discussion on Arnold, and he gave us the topics for the final,
which will be due tomorrow. I half-finished it tonight and am going to do the rest of it in the
morning.
During my break, I went into LaGuardia and sat around with Jill, Elspeth and Amy before Scott
and I went over to Berkowitz’s final lecture of the term, and it was fantastic. But I was very
disappointed that I only got a C+ on the midterm. All the marks were low, but I didn’t expect a
C.
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Richard Grayson
I wanted to have a quiet lunch, not with a mob of people, so Gary and I went to the pub for
some good food and simple, irrelevant conversation.
Back in LaGuardia, Shelli approached me and showed me the letter she’d gotten from the
Registrar; I got the same one. We’re registered in this Ed section with some teacher and she
doesn’t know it’s the course we’re taking with Peter. I was distant with her and instead
directed most of my conversation to Mason, Mikey and Steve Cohen.
I went to give Dick Pontone the sassafras tea I’ve been promising him, then came home, paying
the new 35-cent fare on the bus. While I was walking on our block, I was witness to a horrible
car crash.
I don’t think I shall ever forget that screech. I ran to see the woman in the car; she was all right
but hysterical – “My baby! My baby!” – and I had to hold the baby next to her in my arms.
Thank God the baby seemed okay.
I was so cool during the whole thing, but later, after the cops and ambulance came, I became
very upset, unaware of the cause. I raged at Mom and Marc violently when I got home – until
finally I started talking about the accident and I broke down and realized that was what was
upsetting me, sort of a delayed reaction.
I got a call from Shelli tonight – at first I didn’t recognize her voice – and she wanted us to go
together to see this Ed teacher whose course we’re officially registered in. She asked if I was
mad at her and she said she didn’t want to lose my friendship. Doesn’t she know I don’t want
her back in my life again? She’s part of the past and it’s there she must stay.
Friday, January 7, 1972

I haven’t decided if today was a bad day or a good one; so much happened. This morning I did
my English final and then had a terrible fight with Mom which upset us both.
A wildcat strike halted most buses in Brooklyn, so I drove to school. In LaGuardia, Shelli was
cold as she gave me back my form for the Ed teacher. I handed my paper into Prof. Merritt and
then went to Prof. Fuccillo’s last class. It was the last day of the term and the last class ever for
Laura and she was a bit tearful.
She, Snake and Steve Sasanoff wrote their farewell columns in Kingsman, and I guess they mean
more to me because they’re by my friends. And a lot of my friends are graduating and the
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goodbyes were sad: a handshake from Jacob; a kiss for Lois; a “so long” to Rosie; a hug from Jill.
But I guess I’ll be seeing them again – if the accident will.
I drove Jill home and I wished her all the happiness in the “real” world – “the shooting gallery,”
as Snake put it. After lunch at home, I returned to LaGuardia, and the trio of Laura, Snake and
Steve were getting thoroughly drunk at the Pub.
I sat around the lobby with Michelle and Stanley and Leon (who got Stanley a sled that said
“Rosebud” for his birthday present). That place, the campus in general and LaGuardia lobby in
particular, has held so much of my life. And a year and a half to come. Then what?
I overheard Mikey tell Marty, “Jerry got a job.” It’s with Larry Simon, the assemblyman, and
Mikey said Jerry was leaving Sunday for Albany. And slowly the realization came: no wonder
why, all of a sudden, my friendship means so much to Shelli.
When I got home, after first dropping Elihu off at his house, I called Gary. He knew about the
phone call from Shelli because she had told him about it and (Gary said) how she was just doing
me a favor. Later I called Shelli and apologized for being rude. She said she understood and I
hung up as quickly as possible after talking briefly.
Today is Marc’s 17th birthday. Now he can legally drive. I gave him an ounce of grass for a
present and the family took him out to dinner. I’m tired and going to rest tonight.

A cold, drizzly day. Last night we had a small birthday party for Marc, just the family and
Marc’s friends Stephen and Cynthia. It was pleasant, though, and I enjoyed myself.
I awoke from my deep sleep not feeling very well; my sinuses flared up again and my head was
as tight as a drum. But did I complain? Well, a little…but I just went about my business, trying
to forget it.
I gave a lot of thought to the events of this week that concerned Shelli. Although I know it
wouldn’t be good for either of us, I occasionally still harbor thoughts of getting back with her.
But that’s only because I’m used to her and was once comfortable with her.
Deep down I know that I’ve got to strike out on my own and build a new loving relationship
from the ground floor, starting with a foundation of trust. After all that’s happened, I could
never trust Shelli, nor she me.
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Richard Grayson
And Jerry is still her boyfriend and Albany is not the moon and he’ll be back in town
frequently. So that puts an end to that chapter of the story. Besides, I’ve changed in the past
three months. For example, this morning I conquered another longstanding fear: I drove over
the Verrazano Bridge to Staten Island and back.
Yet I had no sense of triumph, I guess because I had no sense of anxiety. My anxiety attacks
have been growing less frequent and less acute, allowing me to do more and more things.
I bought a lot of herbs today and other natural foods, and I’m taking a lot of vitamins and I’m
generally pretty healthy. And it really made me feel good yesterday when Michelle noticed
how much weight I’ve lost. I’ve been doing yoga and isometrics. Though I have a long road to
hoe, I have come pretty far.
Gisele came in today, and I took little Jeanette with me to the Junction and then we went to the
BC library. I met Robert, home from grad school for the weekend.
I also accompanied Marc as he drove for the first time to Rockaway. He drives pretty well,
although he’s not sure of himself yet.
I’m going to bed early tonight because of my sinuses. I’m sure I shall survive. I feel as though I
could survive anything.

A dreary, rainy Sunday. I felt rotten upon awakening this morning with a sore throat, stuffed
sinuses and a bronchial cough. But as I wrote yesterday, I shall survive.
Perhaps, it occurs to me now, I was being overly generous in yesterday’s account of this
pilgrim’s progress. I am still quite a hypochondriac and pretty much of an alarmist and a
pessimist. I’m very dependent on some drugs: stomach remedies, tranquilizers, anti-histamines
– and I can get very dependent upon people.
To sum up, I’d say that I’m still not a very easy fellow to live with – not even to live with
myself.
After a late breakfast, I got into the car and drove off on the Belt. I was drowsy at the
beginning, but as I got into Manhattan, I perked up at the thought of performing a mitzvah and
visiting Uncle Isaac in the hospital.
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But I didn’t really feel like a hospital visit and rationalized my not going by saying I couldn’t
find a parking space. I rode all through the city today: the East Side, the West Side, the Village.
There is so much to see there, I wonder if anyone can really know Manhattan. I went into
Times Square, seeing the building where the ball came down New Year’s Eve. Times Square is
as ugly and perverse as people say. I spotted two unsavory-looking characters in the back of a
police car.
Then I went downtown and under the tunnel to New Jersey. There is not much to explore in
dreary Jersey City, a sad little place, so I came home via the Manhattan Bridge and Flatbush
Avenue.
I spoke to Gary, who was studying hard for his Psych final tomorrow. Gary also has been ill
with a severe sore throat and we commiserated for awhile.
It was raining hard for the rest of the day, so I stayed in, watching old movies and reading
Robert Heilbroner’s The Great Ascent for Poli Sci.
After finishing, I called Alice, who starts her new job at American Girl magazine tomorrow.
Next term she’ll be going to school at night. She said she’s been lonely, not having seen
Andreas in weeks, as he’s been busy sculpting. Alice is one of the world’s nicest people.

A mild, cloudy day. Not having any finals until next week, I have this whole week to study and
to relax a little. I slept late this morning, enjoying every minute of it. But after breakfast, I went
– inevitably – to school.
I had to return some overdue books to the library. Meeting Scott on the way, I lent him my
copy of The Great Ascent. In LaGuardia, I found Stanley, Elspeth, Avis and Teresa.
Elspeth was worried because she didn’t see Shelli at their Bio final. Elspeth called Shelli’s house
but her father said she’d left for school. However, when I questioned Elspeth further, she said
that the test was in Whitman Auditorium and she didn’t see Shelli there, either.
Stanley confessed that he was thinking of taking a leave of absence next term and just sit around
and write a novel. But Mikey says Stanley will be back: “He can’t leave this place.” Mason
looked awful today, very tired, and he said he was going to study in SUBO all night.
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Richard Grayson
I had lunch at home and then drove downtown to Dr. Wouk. We had a pretty good session.
Dr. Wouk suspects I’ll be hearing more from Shelli, and “it’ll be interesting to see how you
handle it.” I can hardly wait to find out how I’ll handle it myself.
At home again, I called Gary, who said the Psych final was very difficult. When Dad came
home today, he said he’d finally given in to Lennie and invested $10,000 for 10% of the hotel,
now to be called the DeVille Country Club. That should bring some excitement to our lives,
although it’s probably a bad investment.
I called Ivan, who said he’s been ill with the flu but who also said he may be at BC tomorrow.
He’s decided not to go to Boston U until September, and instead he’ll work for his father in the
spring. He was very gracious, but then Ivan always is.
Then I spoke to Brad, who told me I have a surreal life. He invited me to an all-male party but I
said I’d be uncomfortable and declined. However, I’m becoming more comfortable with Brad;
we’re able to discuss things about our relationship that we couldn’t before, and I think he’ll
always be a friend.
Uncle Isaac came home from the hospital but he’s still very weak. Grandpa Herb called, saying
that the Slack Bar will be closing this week. I guess they’re going bankrupt.

The weather continues to be quite mild, although it’s been cloudy. I got up early this morning
and drove over to Kings Plaza.
At Macy’s Ticketron I got two tickets for the Don McLean concert at Carnegie Hall on February
18. I enjoy “American Pie” very much – I brighten up each time I hear it on the car radio – and I
wanted to see him in concert.
As for the other ticket, that will hopefully be my date. I don’t want to ask anyone this far in
advance, but there are several girls I wouldn’t mind taking out: Stacy, Leslie, Ronna, Amy,
Susan.
I went to the college but found LaGuardia lobby deserted. Elihu came in and we had a few
laughs reading a Rosicrucian booklet we’d swiped from Juan’s mailbox. Mike was busy
studying for a test and I didn’t want to disturb him, so I left for lunch on my own.
[234]
When I returned, Leon and Marty were there, discussing the dozen or so Democratic
Presidential candidates (the “newest” is old Hubert Humphrey); Marty said that McCarthy’s
time has passed and Leon said, “Whose time is it?” Good question. Perhaps the next few
months will supply the answer, as the New Hampshire primary is just two months away.
I spent some time talking to Edie, who’s a nice girl, if a bit dull. She promised to give me a jar
of grape jelly that she makes herself.
At home, I loafed most of the afternoon, accomplishing little. I spoke to Gary briefly; he’s so
worried about that psych course. Later in the evening, seeking refuge from everyone at home, I
took a long drive.
I went over the Verrazano Bridge, this time on the upper level, and in the misty night rode
through Staten Island’s lonely country roads. I felt very peaceful, yet I have a feeling that whole
new Pandora’s box is about to open for me.
The hotel deal is apparently sold, As Lennie’s partner and confidante, Dad should be in on
pretty much everything. Hotels can make for pleasurable living and I’m hoping this hotel can
brighten up and add some excitement into what is often a dreary life at home.
The “Pandora’s box” I wrote about last night opened a lot sooner than I expected it to. And
tonight, after a day that was, well, difficult, I find myself not at all happy with the human being
named Richard Grayson. I am scared and I am alone, but I guess I get what I deserve.
I went to school early today and met Avis in LaGuardia. She’s been so cool to me lately. Later,
I saw her and Shelli go someplace. I sat in the lobby and talked with Jill, Steve Sasanoff and
Gary.
Shelli called Jerry from the phone booth and I surmised that he was home, ill. Later, however,
Avis mentioned “the accident” and I said, “What accident?” Shelli said that that Jerry was hit
by a car on Sunday.
Stunned, I heard her say it happened while they were crossing Kings Highway by her house at
Church Avenue. Jerry was hurt pretty badly, and they rushed him to the hospital. I can’t
remember the extent of his injuries, but Shelli said he can’t walk and she’s staying in Staten
Island taking care of him.
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I said I was sorry, but it was more than that. I feel incredibly guilty. Even last night I had a
dream in which I hurt Jerry. And I wished bad things would happen to him. I know that,
logically, wishing doesn’t make it so – Dr. Wouk, when I called him, reminded me I don’t have
magical powers – but I felt (and still feel) crappy.
I had lunch in the Pub with Leon, Mason and Jacob, but I didn’t even taste the food or hear the
conversation. I just don’t even know what I’m feeling, except I’m feeling bad. Poor Jerry. Just
as he was about to start his job, too.
I couldn’t stay around the college and I just had to talk to someone, so I went over to Scott’s
house. But he couldn’t understand the way I felt. He was upset because his father ordered him
out of the house if he didn’t cut his hair and shave his beard.
I watched Scott shave the beard off, then went back to school. The one person I talked to who
really understood what I was feeling was Susan. We ate with some others and afterwards she
was so sweet.
But I got a different reaction when I called Stacy, who hung up the phone after hearing my
name. I guess she’s mad at me, perhaps because something I said got back to her. When will I
ever grow up? I don’t know what the hell is going on, and I feel very alone and unloved.

Not an easy day. I wished that when I woke up this morning, the world would be a bright,
cheery place, with everything all right again. But when I got up from a few hours’ restless
sleep, the sky was grey and things were still the same.
Everything seems so rotten. But was everything ever all right? All right, I’m feeling sorry for
myself. But it’s just that these past two days have taken back to those weeks last fall when I was
so torn up inside.
It’s winter now, despite the spring like weather, but I’m still torn up inside. Shelli, Jerry, Stacy,
Scott, Avis, Gary, Susan – how do I cope with all these people?
Well, I decided to start with Jerry. I bought him a get-well card that said “Friendship is
forever.” But do I mean it? Have I gotten over losing Shelli yet and the hurt and the loneliness?
Can I forgive? Questions, so many questions. But I have no answers.
[236]
I took a drive to Manhattan, but I just didn’t feel like going anyplace in particular so I ended up
back at the college. In LaGuardia, Steve Cooper and Mikey were awaiting finals. Steve said
that he didn’t know why Stacy was so mad at me. But I think it’s because I was talking about
her to Mason and others, and she must have heard what I said. I suppose I’ll never learn.
Mikey said we’re taking the Mugwump photo tomorrow, and I’m apprehensive about facing
Stacy. I talked for awhile with Susan. She really can be sensitive; she writes pretty good poetry.
But she’s such a chatterbox. And anyway, why should I get close to her? I’ll only mess up her
life the way I’ve messed up everyone else’s, including my own.
Has all my soul-searching been for nothing? Am I still a selfish, self-centered, immature baby?
I tried to study the rest of the day, but I felt nauseous and nervous. I’m not at all happy with
myself. I wish I were far away, some warm and sunny place with calm blue water and lush
trees. I just don’t know where I’m heading, and that scares me.

It turned colder today. I’m remembering tonight what I said to Steve Cohen last week:
“Sometimes you have a day when you just can’t make connections with another human being.
And then – the very next day – you can get so close to people.”
Today was like that. I really felt as though I was communicating. I woke up early and went to
buy two pairs of nifty shoes on Avenue J; it was at Dad’s friend’s store, so I didn’t have to pay.
I took a drive through Prospect Park, which was still and quiet, and I did some deep thinking.
Now that Dad has actually bought 10% of the hotel, I’m beginning to get excited at the prospect
of a more glamorous life. Mom, Dad and Lennie are getting so involved; they’re going up to the
Catskills tomorrow.
At school I went to the library to study, then ran into Elihu, who wanted to show me his new
glasses. We went into LaGuardia lobby, and Dean West came over, in one of his friendly
moods.
We discussed the ambiance of the lobby, and the dean said that the Dean of Students office will
be moving into Boylan, and then LaGuardia will go back to being part of the library.
We took our Mugwump photo – with Harry, Fern, those “radical Zionists” whom I distrust,
Mike, Mason and all the other people running on our slate. Some of the girls are quite pretty,
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and as we were going to lunch, Mason said that one, Arnie Ferkauf’s sister, “has nice nuptials.”
I agree.
Leon, Mason, Mikey and I had a riotous lunch at Roma II. Everything was so pleasant, I wished
things could always be like that. As the others went to the library, Leon and I hung around for
awhile until I drove him home.
For the first time, he began revealing himself after I talked about my nervous breakdown. Back
in October, Leon said, he was getting sick and became nauseous every time he left the house.
I really talked to people today, and I even had a nice, brief chat with Shelli’s first boyfriend Saul.
This evening I called Gary, who’s been working like a dog because he’s so worried about his
Experimental Psych course.
While the folks went out to eat, Cynthia came over looking for Marc. She had asked an old
English teacher of mine, Mrs. Sanjour, about me. Mrs. Sanjour remembered me as “one of my
best pupils ever.”

A cold, crisp midwinter day. I had an unusual dream last night: I awoke with the name
“Zumwalt Omeletfreak” as memory of the dream. Weird.
Mom and Dad had already left for the country with Lennie when I got up. I made myself
breakfast, then cleaned the house, and then I got down to the business of studying Comparative
Politics.
I spent most of the day on that task and my eyes hurt and I’m kind of groggy, so I’m going to
quit early tonight and watch Truffaut’s Jules and Jim on public TV.
I spoke to Grandma Ethel, who said it looks like the Slack Bar will close this week. So Grandpa
Herb will be sort of retired. He’ll enjoy it by staying home and loafing, I guess.
One man who can’t loaf is my other grandfather. Grandpa Nat went to Allentown, Pa., today,
to check out the factory which supplies his goods. Grandma Sylvia wants to move to Florida
for the winter because of her arthritis, but Grandpa Nat won’t quit the work he loves.
[238]
Ronnie Berman came in from Maryland today, and he was over the house with Marc for most of
the day. I was disappointed to find that Prof. Merritt gave me a B in the class. This term is not
exactly my best; in fact, it’s been a minor disaster, as Leon put it.
But I’m just going to try to get C’s in the two Poli Sci finals and courses and go on to next term.
I hope the new term will be a productive and happy one, and I’m going to do my best. This
semester the breakup really messed up my concentration on school.
Scott called me about Berkowitz’s final and we decided to get together on Monday to review for
the test. Had had no inkling of the reason that Stacy was mad enough to hang up on me, and
neither did Steve Cooper. Perhaps it’ll all blow over.
But now there are other girls I’m more interested in: Susan, Edie, that beautiful blonde sister of
Arnie’s. Stacy is just too complicated for me to cope with.
Mom and Dad came back tonight and said the hotel is a bit dilapidated (“like Petticoat Junction”)
but the grounds are vast and wooded, the rooms are nice – Mom will redecorate – and they’re
enthusiastic. But Dad said he’s not sure if they can make a go of it.
When I was a kid, I used to dread Sunday nights because it meant a whole week of school
again, the end of my precious freedom for another five days. But now I relish these Sunday
evenings. They give me time to reflect on the week past and plan for the week ahead.
I feel that these first weeks of 1972 are mere prologue for a drama which will shortly begin. But
first I need to settle some things. Like my two finals I’ve been studying fairly hard for. Mom
said she’s never seen me so worried about an exam.
All I want is to get these next two days over with, and with it this last term, and then have a few
days of rest to prepare for what will hopefully be a good spring semester.
I watched Jules and Jim last night, and it was really great. I wonder if this whole thing with Jerry
and Shelli might not be similar, but it was Jules – who was in my situation – who survived. I
am, despite everything I say, a survivor, as somewhere within me there is a very strong will to
live under endless complaints and neuroses.
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It turned bitterly cold; the temperature did not rise above 15° all day. I awoke early, studied,
had breakfast, and watched an interview with Gene McCarthy. It’s hard to believe he was once
my hero; he’s so offhandedly cynical now. The other day Leon was putting him down, and
Marty said, “Just who did he let down?” “His wife, for one,” I said.
I went out for a drive to Rockaway, to visit Grandpa Nat and Grandma Sylvia. We had a
pleasant hour’s chat, about soap operas and business and such. I came home and spent the rest
of the day studying.
The Dallas Cowboys won the Super Bowl, a good thing for Dad and Lennie, who bet $1000 on
them.
Gary said on his date with Eileen last night he met Alan and Sherie, and they all went to the
movies together. Later they met Eileen’s cousin Jill Erdman, who said she knows me from P.S.
203 and the neighborhood, but I don’t remember her even though she’s the sister of Julie Budd,
the singer.
Tonight Mom and Dad discussed redoing the hotel with this gay interior decorator who came
over. The hotel is about all they are thinking about these days.

I feel very tired now, but it’s a bit nicer than the feeling of despair that I had a few hours ago.
The Poli Sci 47.1 final was a killer, and to top it off, Fuccillo gave me a C+ on my paper. I just
couldn’t bullshit on the test and wrote what I knew, finishing at 4:30.
But all around me, people were writing like mad, so I read my test over. Once. Twice. Three
times. And those fools were still scribbling like crazy. By 4:50, I said the hell with it and
handed in my test anyway.
I feel defeated and crushed. I’m going to get a C in that course. And tomorrow morning at
8 AM, I will seal my doom by getting a C in Foreign Policy.
What a bitch: two C’s in my major. But I just want to get it over with and by tomorrow
afternoon I’ll be free, with the last vestige of this disastrous term behind me.
[240]
I woke up early this morning, a little nervous about the test (justifiably nervous, it turned out).
But to relax myself, I took a short drive on the parkway, and in Macy’s Ticketron I bought two
tickets to a Kris Kristofferson concert at Lincoln Center.
The way things have been going lately, I probably won’t be able to scare up a human being
who’ll want to go with me – not that I blame them.
After lunch, I drove to the college. Laura and a couple of others in my class were in LaGuardia,
talking about the test to come, and I couldn’t hack that, so I did like Mason suggested (he also
had a test at 3 PM) and took a long walk with him.
We ran into an old familiar face: Sandy Ingber. She’s back from San Francisco but hopes to
return there in September to go to school. The SG Teacher Evaluation Booklet, put together by
Craig Kutner, did come out – but it’s so bad it’s practically worthless.
Then Mason and I went to our tests, and then – for me – disaster! Ah, but soon it will all be
over, and I can look forward to a better tomorrow. Or a better day after tomorrow.

I awoke at 6 AM for the Foreign Policy final. I didn’t sleep much last night, feeling anxious
about the test. It’s strange getting up so early while the darkness is still upon the city. It’s a
little eerie, but in a way, it’s nice, too, sort of peaceful.
I arrived on campus, finding a parking space easily, and met Scott, and together we went up for
the test. Berkowitz sent a proctor who was twenty minutes late, and the test was ridiculous: we
had to “imagine” ourselves in Henry Kissinger’s place and write position papers on several
topics.
I bullshitted like mad and left the room early. The sense of freedom didn’t descend on me right
away; I think I’m too exhausted to feel anything. I took a walk with Elihu, looking up teachers’
names; chatted with Sheila Rosenblum, and then went into LaGuardia.
Elspeth was there, packed suitcases and all; she was going to visit Peter Weber in Syracuse.
And Mason told me Steve Cohen went to Florida, and I know Susan went up to the country, to
Grossinger’s, with Timmy and a whole bunch of people.
I should get away – but where to go? Gary called me right after I got home. When I dropped
him off at his apartment, he found that in his Experimental Psych course, he got an A in lab but
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a D in lecture. The lecture grade came about because the teacher used the first test to evaluate
the grade, but he’d invalidated the first test because of cheating. Gary didn’t cheat, his mark
was low, and he’s suffering. He’s going to the department chairman tomorrow, however.
We had a fascinating visitor this afternoon: M. Jean Groen, who came to touch up the furniture.
A white-bearded Frenchman, he claimed to be 107 years old and is one of those real characters:
a philosopher, vibrant, truth-seeking, knowledge-hungry – an inventor, theologian and rebel.
M. Groen said the most important thing in life is to know yourself and to be yourself and not to
follow the crowd: “Be in the world, but not of the world.”
I feel lousy and hope I’m not falling victim to the flu epidemic.

An extraordinary spring like day. I awoke not feeling well; I think I’m coming down with
something. This morning I drove over to the college and picked up my ‘schedule of classes’
booklet. Juan said that the Spigot should be out tomorrow with teacher listings, but for most of
the courses I’m thinking of taking, I know the teachers’ names.
I found LaGuardia deserted except for Jacob, drinking tea. He was waiting to go to the library
and do his paper for Merritt. I went to the health food store, then to the public library, and
finally back home to have lunch and vegetate for a couple of hours.
By 2:30 PM, I was so bored and the 60° sunshine was so inviting, I persuaded Marc to go for a
drive with me. We rode along the Belt Parkway, coming up to the Verrazano Bridge, but we
didn’t go to Staten Island because it costs too much ($1.50 both ways).
We drove back towards Flatbush Avenue, with windows open, towards Rockaway. It was
really nice out there; we passed Ivan, who was with his friends John and Sandy. I honked, and
Ivan came over for a minute. “Someone told me to go fly a kite,” he said, so they were going to
the beach with one.
Marc and I came home and I tried to figure out some sort of schedule for next term; I register
next Monday at 4:45. Later, I went over o the Cutting Crib, this hairstyling place near Kings
Plaza where Ivan, Jill and Elspeth go, and I made an appointment for tomorrow.
I shopped in the mall for awhile and then came home, spending the greater part of the day on
the phone. Cousin Donald Crain, the rabbi, called, and we spoke for awhile; his whole family’s
getting over the flu. I called Mikey about some matter he’d asked me to check on.
[242]
Then I rang up Jill to ask her if I could switch over to the six-school system next fall. She didn’t
know but advised me to call Elihu. I couldn’t reach him or Mike, and the other Curriculum
Committee members Leon and Elspeth are out of town.
So I called Steve Cooper and we talked about teachers. I said I’d pull cards for him. I also
played two rousing games of Clue with Marc, Jonny and Dad. To my surprise, I find myself
enjoying life again.

Winter returned today, as it turned cold and brisk. I awoke feeling wonderful: calm and
confident.
Mom went into Manhattan to select some fabrics for the hotel; she’s enjoying her role as an
interior decorator. And most of Mom and Dad’s spare time is taken up with the DeVille
Country Club. We’re (we’re?) opening for Passover, just two months away.
I took a long drive on the Parkway and onto the Cross-Island and over the Throgs Neck Bridge
into the Bronx. It was the first time I’d ever driven to the Bronx, and I drove along the still-
unfinished Bruckner Boulevard and then back into Queens over the Triboro Bridge. There’s not
much to see in the Bronx, but now I have driven to each of the five boroughs.
I had lunch at Cooky’s in Kings Plaza and then went into the Cutting Crib for a hair styling.
The place is really freaky – but expensive – and I got a layer cut that looks pretty good. It took
about an hour and a half, however, and I returned home with a headache.
After picking up Jonny at P.S. 203, I went over to the college to pick up a Spigot with the teacher
listings. I got a copy in Boylan, where I met Steve Sasanoff. I wished him good luck as he heads
for the Coast and said, only half in jest, “Don’t look back, it’ll only break your heart.”
I walked into LaGuardia, chuckling at our Mugwump photo in the paper. The only one in the
lobby was Shelli, trying to figure out her schedule. She told me that Jerry really appreciated the
card a lot, that he can walk around the house now and is in good spirits.
We talked about various teachers for a while, and then were joined by Suzanne and Stanley,
who still isn’t sure if he’s coming back next term.
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It was raining, and Suzanne said she had to get home by 4:30 so I offered to drive her. I asked
Stanley too, but he declined, and I heard Shelli say she was going to her house, so I had to ask
her too.
I took Suzanne home first, then Shelli – still the same – remembered she’d left a book in
LaGuardia, so we went back to get it before I finally drove her home.
We discussed nothing but cars and roads the whole ride; it was absurd. But I think I passed the
test: Shelli does not appeal to me anymore and she can no longer hurt me. The past is finally
gone, and I’m ready for the future.

Last night I was preparing to go to bed early when I received a phone call. It was Scott and he
was very upset. “I’ve got to talk to someone,” he said. He practically started crying, and that’s
so unlike him, so I got dressed and drove over to his house.
He met me outside and we drove to Kings Plaza. He went for a haircut yesterday at Vidal
Sassoon’s, the haircut his parents forced him to get. When he returned at 8 PM last night, his
parents said that it was still too long and made remarks, and then he called me.
He was in a very depressed mood. He hadn’t eaten, so I took him to Sbarro’s, an Italian
restaurant next door to the Pants Set. We talked during dinner about how strict his parents
were and things.
He still is on the waiting list at that Kings County shrink program. Now he’s in the stage of
realizing he’s a neurotic, as he’s been reading all these psych books. We walked around the
mall for awhile and then I took him home, where he was going to get stoned and go to sleep.
I hope I helped a little; I can solve everyone’s problems but my own. I didn’t get to sleep until 2
AM and consequently I got up late this morning. Dad’s car was being fixed and he took mine to
work, so I took a bus to school.
Registration has begun, and with it all the hassles and headaches of lines, closed-out courses
and other shit. Some people were luck and registered early, like Elihu and Suzanne. Mason
was registering for Steve Cohen and Alan Karpoff for his brother and Leon.
[244]
Gary and I went around to various departments looking for courses to take, but they’ll probably
all be closed by Monday. Anyway, Gary’s also been depressed. He just doesn’t know what’s
coming off, what with the D in Experimental Psych.
The whole thing at school made me sick, so I took a cab home. As the driver pulled away, I saw
Shelli standing at the Junction. Sometimes I wonder how she feels about me now.
Yesterday she said I was “a doll” for taking her back to BC and then home. But nothing can
happen between us anymore even if Jerry did not exist. Yet I guess it’s only natural to think
about what might have been. Still, I prefer real bread to fantasy cake.

A dark, drizzly and depressing day. Perhaps it’s depressing only because I’m not feeling well
physically tonight. My head is pounding with my sinuses clogged up and I have an upset
stomach and feel generally rotten. It’s possible that I’m coming down with Hong Kong flu, in
which case I wouldn’t be alone; everyone’s got it. But perhaps it’s nothing.
I awoke last this morning feeling a bit achy. I had breakfast and then went out in the car,
driving along the Belt Parkway. The weather was kind of gloomy and so was I. Besides the
physical complaints and the sinus drip, I felt depressed.
Will this coming term be a good one? After months of being on my own, I want to share things
with someone again, but there’s no one in sight. I get pretty lonely at times.
Yes, I have friends, but not one special girl who I can call anytime and who’ll tell me she loves
me. And I as I need someone to love me, I also need someone to love.
Of course, I miss sex very much. Sometimes I think I’m never going to make love to a girl
again.
Anyway, I went to the Metropolitan Museum, parked my car in the lot and walked among the
great paintings of Rembrandt, Rubens, Gauguin and the rest, and I bought postcards of
paintings by Degas and Lichtenstein.
It was all very serene and relaxing, and afterwards I stood outside Cleopatra’s Needle, wishing
I were not alone, that there was a warm, soft body beside me.
I rode through Manhattan, went over the Brooklyn Bridge and had a hamburger and coke in
Junior’s. Then I drove down Fulton Street by the Slack Bar, which was boarded up and closed.
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Coming home, I really felt lousy and went I got into the house, I was nauseated and had a very
bad case of diarrhea. The stomach upset is probably a result of the mucus dripping down from
the sinuses, but it’s still a nuisance.
Still, it really wasn’t a bad day. Though I’ve been alone and ill, I managed to have some fun.
Tonight I feel restless, nervous. I feel as though I’m in limbo between two stages of my life.
How long will this state of limbo last?

It turned bright, sunny and mild today. I spent last night watching TV: To Be Young, Gifted and
Black, a very good portrait of the late playwright Lorraine Hansberry. I wish I could write
again; possibly I’ll register for Creative Writing this term.
I awoke late this morning feeling drugged but physically okay. I spent a leisurely morning,
having a big breakfast. Then I went down to the basement, read the Sunday papers and
watched the TV interview shows. Chancellor Kibbee was on, seemingly an idiot; he was not
very clear about his positions on issues.
George Wallace was interviewed, and he toned down his racist image and is given a good
chance of winning the Florida primary. But with each passing day, Sen. Muskie picks up more
and more endorsements and gains in the polls, and people are saying he’s got the Democratic
nomination wrapped up.
I went upstairs and was amused to find Marvin Cohen visiting Dad and wearing bush jeans
and argyle socks. Jonny and I took a ride out to Rockaway. Sometimes I feel as though I’m
missing some of the fun of watching him grow up. It’s nice once in a while to do things with
my little brother.
We visited Grandpa Herb and Grandma Ethel, who looked fine – but she may need more
surgery on her rectum. Jonny and I left after an hour and rode home with the windows open.
This has been the mildest winter I can remember.
I spent a quiet afternoon and evening at home while the rest of the family is visiting in
Cedarhurst; Sammy’s going back to Dartmouth tomorrow.
I called Alice, who said her job at the magazine has so far consisted of bimmie work, like
totaling and reading entries in a contest of how many words can be made out of “rhinoceros.”
[246]
But Alice hopes she’ll be given a chance later to do some writing, so she’ll stay on for now. She
told me Renee is getting married Thursday at City Hall to this “nebbish” grad student.
Alice thinks Renee is marrying him out of loneliness (Renee put it: “I need a cheerleader”) and
Alice tried to dissuade her, to no avail. The whole thing sounds like a mistake to me, but Renee
must do what she wants to, and all I can do is offer my congratulations.

A hectic day, but what can you expect of registration? Gary called me early this morning,
saying that things were already closing out and that he pulled a cad for me in this Sociology
course we’ll be taking.
I hurried over to school, paid my $53 consolidated fee, and went into LaGuardia, where I found
Gary, Shelli and Mikey. Shelli said that I could pick up my Creative Writing card in Boylan
right away, and so I did.
Then Mikey and I went over to Whitehead to look at which courses had closed already. He was
pretty upset and kept saying “Shit!” all day. Back in LaGuardia, Elspeth was mad at everyone
(as usual) because nobody would pull a card for her.
Amy said that she finished registering on Friday, ha ha, so I went over and started kiddingly
hitting her, and she kept playfully teasing me. I realized something at that instant – or felt it, I
guess: that I was greatly attracted physically to Amy.
We got to talking about ballet and I asked her to come with me to the Joffrey in March and she
accepted. Shelli overheard this and asked me, “Since when did you get culture?”
I heard Shelli tell Avis that Jerry went to Albany this morning. I only wish Shelli would go
away too, out of my life. Alex came around with Sherie; he’s going back to law school in Philly
soon, but it’s always nice to see him. I said I’d try to get him a job at the hotel this summer.
Stanley came in and revealed that he’s not coming back this term. I don’t know what he will do,
though.
I came home to relax. Gary came over and we watched soap operas.
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At 4:45 I went into that registration room in Roosevelt. I got closed out of several things, but I
did get others and I haven’t closed out yet; I’ll do that on Wednesday. As I walked out of
Roosevelt with Dr. Stone, we discussed how ill the whole process makes everyone. I thought
just I had diarrhea over it, but Avis and Gary said they did, too.
Scott said things are “okay” at home, but he didn’t sound too enthusiastic. The worst of
registration is behind me now – and I can’t wait for the new term to start.

I had a restless night, dreaming again and again of registration, and so I was tired when I got up
this morning. Mom went into Manhattan to pick out carpeting for the hotel. Having nothing
better to do, I went to school, but I found LaGuardia lobby basically deserted.
Harry was there, telling me of a Mugwump meeting tomorrow night in SUBO. Scott was in and
out, going back and forth to Registration at Roosevelt; he’s getting very neurotic.
Elspeth came in and she looked like she was still sulking because no one would pull cards for
her. She’s always looking for people to do things for her, and I’m getting tired of it.
I talked for awhile with Effie and Janice and with Lloyd, the Radical Zionist Mugwump. (Leon
says we should now call ourselves the Mugvumps.) Then Scott and I got into my car and
picked up Avis at her building. She announced that she got her driver’s license!
Gary had a wisdom tooth pulled this morning, so Scott suggested we visit him. We found him
looking pale; he was bleeding and lot and was in pain, but we stayed for awhile and Scott gave
Gary some grass to make him feel better. They also exchanged course cards, as Scott is going to
Virginia with Timmy and Michael tomorrow so he had to close out today.
After dropping Scott and Avis off, I came home to have lunch and waste the afternoon. I had a
4:45 PM appointment with Dr. Wouk, who had a bad cold.
He thinks the hotel thing may give me something to do – God knows it’s all I hear at home
these days. Dr. Wouk lives upstate three days a week not far from the hotel and he said he’ll
visit.
He said that I really shouldn’t feel guilty for Jerry’s accident and that if he and Shelli get
married, he’d encourage me to give a gift.
[248]
Why? Because Jerry did me a favor, enabling me to end a neurotic relationship I couldn’t have
broken off myself. And Dr. Wouk’s right about that.
He also said, echoing Steve Cohen a month ago, that I like to put on the front of being so
neurotic when I am actually pretty “together” in a lot of ways. Dr. Wouk said I’ve changed
enormously in the two and a half years of therapy with him.

Tonight I feel like a burnt-out case. It’s been a difficult day and I’ve used a lot of energy trying
to cope with life. Oh, why can’t things run smoothly all the time? But I guess that wouldn’t be
what life is. What the hell is life? Will somebody please tell me?
When I arrive in LaGuardia, I saw Scott, Avis, Shelli – and Jerry. I learned he flew in from
Albany (using Larry Simon’s credit card); we said hello but he did not say a word about the get-
well card and things were pretty strained.
I went to Roosevelt with Timmy, Scott and Gary and we all closed out – and then Timmy and
Scott said goodbye as they left for Virginia. Back in LaGuardia, I asked Avis about Stacy and
she said she hadn’t talked to her in a long time and Avis was a bit upset about Stacy’s “male
harem” (or “groupies,” as Scott calls them).
I was hurt when Jerry, Shelli and Avis went for pizza without asking me along. Mason – dear
Mason – sensed this and instead of going along with them (they invited him), he said he’d go
with me and Gary to the deli even though I sensed Mason really would have preferred pizza.
Back in LaGuardia after lunch, I sat around with Gary and Mike, Stanley and Bill and Dean
Jones, and we had a raucous, raunchy conversation. Stanley does not know what he’s going to
do and he said he knows people only like him because he’s witty and never talks about his
problems, that he has no identity outside of LaGuardia lobby.
Mike and Gary joked about Sari (remember her?) and other stuff and Mike said he couldn’t
understand what I ever saw in Shelli except perhaps that I got used to her. And I realized what
bothered me today was not that Jerry’s going with Shelli, it was that he refused my friendship.
At home, Grandpa Herb and Grandma Ethel came over with upsetting news: Grandma goes
into the hospital on Sunday and will have rectal surgery on Tuesday. I’m so very worried, but
it’s to correct her last operation and hopefully will get rid of the terrible pain she has. I will
pray for her; I love her so much.
[249]
Richard Grayson
Tonight we had a Mugwump meeting in SUBO: me, Mikey, Elspeth, Elihu, Steve, Arnie, Karen
and a few others. Maybe we have a chance this election, but I don’t care anymore. My head is
pounding; it’s been that kind of day.

I feel fine tonight after a pleasant, slow-moving day. I sort of promised myself that after
yesterday, I would take kind of a vacation from my problems today – and I did just that and I’m
feeling 100% better.
I awoke late, long after Mom, Dad and Jonny had gone to South Fallsburg to see the hotel. I
lolled in bed for an hour, then had a large, leisurely breakfast before I got into the Pontiac and
drove off.
It was quite cold today but the brisk weather made me feel vibrant and alive. I drove over the
Brooklyn Bridge; I never stop admiring the skyline of lower Manhattan, dominated by the giant
phallic towers of the World Trade Center.
I drove along the FDR Drive and then around midtown Manhattan, but the city weekday traffic
made me nervous, so I got on the West Side Highway and took the tunnel back into Brooklyn.
I bought a couple of slices of pizza for lunch, then went to the college. Ruth and Marty were
there; Marty’s looking hard for a job, with their wedding in a couple of months.
I went to the library and started looking at law and grad school catalogs; I think I’m going to
take the law boards in April. I talked for a while with Ray and Mendy, who’s now president of
the SUBO Board, then went home to exercise, watch TV and drink some papaya-leaf tea.
I bought some herbs and health foods. Everyone has noticed how much weight I’ve lost and
I’m kind of proud of myself. Dr. Wouk said that what really bothers me is that I have a lot of
love to give, but since I broke up with Shelli, I have no love-object. Perhaps I’ve been
concentrating my love on myself lately.
I had dinner at the Floridian and then went out to Rockaway with Grandma Sylvia and
Grandpa Nat. Mom, Dad and Jonny said the hotel is still run-down, but I’m really getting into
the excitement of it.
[250]
Yesterday I saw a poster for the hotel in the College Deli, and I’m beginning to think it’s really
true. Lennie has so many ideas for the hotel; he and Dad say even if it doesn’t make them any
money, “at least we’ll all have a lot of fun.”

It’s a cold, icy, lovely midwinter night. I’m listening to the radio, hoping to hear Melanie sing
this little risqué song in her cute raspy voice. I would like to go to bed with Melanie. Or any
girl. Or at least have somebody around to talk to, somebody quiet and soft and gentle, a human
being with lips and arms and breasts.
It was never really like that with Shelli; I pretty much idealized her. But something is better
than nothing. Nothing – not any thing.
Remember Glenda Jackson’s line in Sunday, Bloody Sunday?: “There are times when nothing has
to be better than anything.” She was right. I wouldn’t want to go back to a relationship like the
one I had with Shelli Sherman, but now I do want to try for a good relationship with a new girl.
And so, when the term starts, I’m going to start dating. I never really did date girls, and I think
it’s about time I went through that bit. There are many girls at school to whom I’m attracted,
but I can’t picture any of them as my girlfriend.
It snowed during the night and through the early part of the day, making for slippery roads and
a lot of shoveling and an unholy mess as the whole thing turned into grey slush.
Marc went to Maryland with Joey, who couldn’t afford the plane fare. So they had to schlep
down by bus. I spent the morning wandering around Kings Plaza; I browsed a lot but I didn’t
buy anything except the Times.
After lunch, I went over to Georgetowne to see Harold and Maude, a weird movie about the
romance of 80-year-old Ruth Gordon and 20-year-old Bud Cort. It was okay, but a bit
overdone. I did agree with the overall philosophy of the film: live life to the fullest, even if you
get hurt, “so at least you’ll have something to talk about in the locker room.”
I gabbed for an hour tonight with Gary, with whom I’ve felt closer in the past month than
anyone else. I’m not looking forward to the next couple of days: a dreary weekend, with
Grandma Ethel going into the hospital. Still, I suppose, with a little luck, things will turn out all
right. I hope so, anyway.
[251]
Richard Grayson
A chilly, brisk day. I got up early. During the night I had a dream about Stacy. Perhaps I’m
not over her yet. I went into Jonny’s room and played with him for a while, then got dressed
and ate.
The streets were a bit clearer today, so I decided to go for a drive. I drove along the Belt into
Manhattan and along the West Side Highway, which must be the world’s worst road.
But I’m getting used to driving in Manhattan, and it’s good that I’m learning my way around. I
parked on Central Park West and 80th Street and went into the Museum of Natural History.
At the door of the museum, I was surprised to meet Veronica Reilly, leading a bunch of kids.
Veronica explained that it was her job, taking these kids places, and they were just leaving. I
said I’d see her in school; she’s a nice girl but not really my type.
In the museum, I looked around at dinosaur bones, Indian relics and other things. The thing
that impressed me most was the chart showing how man figured in the time of the world. On
this long spiral, man was represented as a little red line about one-sixteenth of an inch from the
end. Wow. I guess we’re not as important as we think we are.
I drove through Central Park, which looked lovely in the snow, and went back to Brooklyn to
have lunch at the Brooklyn Museum. I walked around there for awhile, then drove down
Flatbush Avenue, stopping to visit Mark and Consuelo, but they weren’t home.
The rest of the afternoon I spent doing chores: washing the car, shopping for groceries, stuff like
that. I called Grandma Ethel and she sounded fine – for a 61-year-old woman who’s going into
the hospital for surgery anyway.
I’m so very worried about her. Yet all my four grandparents are getting old, and I have to
accept the fact that as much as I love them, they won’t be with me forever. But I never took
them for granted and I will have so many great memories.
Tonight Mom and Dad went out, and Jonny’s gone to a movie, so I’m at home alone. I’m going
to watch Renoir’s Grand Illusion, which Leon says is his favorite film.

A cold, sunny day. Last night I watched Grand Illusion, and it was truly superb. But it didn’t
answer the question of why men go to war and if they will ever learn from the experience.
[252]
I awoke this morning feeling absolutely terrible. My stomach ached, my head hurt, and I felt
generally nervous and weak. It was a pretty awful morning: I read the Sunday papers, watched
the news shows, kvetched a lot.
It’s all psychosomatic, I’m sure; I dread facing this week, as there are so many things that will
create tension. Grandma Ethel is having an operation, first of all. She entered Caledonia
Hospital this morning and will have tests done tomorrow and the surgery on Tuesday.
God, I’m so scared she’s going to die. I was so upset that I just couldn’t’ bring myself to go with
Mom and Dad to visit her in the hospital. And I am kind of angry with Marc for going to
Maryland and with Marty and Arlyne, who are on a skiing trip with the kids.
Another thing that’s got me upset is the start of the spring term. The first few classes always
make me nervous, and I know tomorrow will be very hectic. While I like school, I am nervous
about doing well this term after last semester’s fiasco.
And then there’s the SG election, with all the bother of getting petitions and writing platform
statements. And on Sunday, there’s Kjell’s wedding; these affairs make me uncomfortable.
But now that I’ve listed all my worries, they don’t seem so terrible. I’ve become stronger and I
can handle things better now, so maybe I’ll be able to take this week in my stride.
I just wish I had someone to talk to. Gary’s been working all weekend for the Cerebral Palsy
telethon, and I don’t really feel like telling my problems to Scott or Avis or Jill or Alice. I have
feeling that I’m going to need someone to lean on in the next week, though.
Tonight I feel apprehensive about the future. Is there a future? I suppose there is, but
sometimes I get so discouraged. I’m alone in the house again tonight, and I’m lonely. Life isn’t
always an easy business, is it? Or is it just that I make it difficult?

The new term seems to have begun successfully and I weathered the hectic day. But
uncertainty and worry over Grandma Ethel’s surgery tomorrow overshadowed the day at
school.
I arrived in LaGuardia at 9:30 and found Leon, Avis, Elihu and Carl, who’s back from Atlanta,
along with some others. It’s just like it always was.
[253]
Richard Grayson
My first class was Classics 1 with Ms. Fromchuck, who reminds me of Laurie, but I don’t know
if I’m going to enjoy the course. Then I had Soc 50.1 with Willie Beer, a friend of Ray’s. He’s a
radical and the course is about the individual and society. Gary, Russ, Craig and Felicia are in
the class, so it should be a lot of fun.
Back in LaGuardia, I saw Leslie and Stacy. It turns out Stacy didn’t hang up on me because she
was mad at me. It was a bad connection and she didn’t hear anything I said, so she hung up,
not knowing who it was.
Timmy told us that he got arrested in Virginia Beach for speeding and had to pay $30. Steve
Cohen was back from Florida, tanned and serene. Stanley was in LaGuardia too, even though
he’s not registered this term and has no idea what he’s going to do.
Gary and I had lunch in the deli, then went with Harry to give our Mugwump leaflet to the
printers. Back in LaGuardia, we got our petitions from Steve Cooper, who’s elections
commissioner, and then we tried to get signatures.
I kissed and hugged Renee when I saw her – or should I say Mrs. Bernard Birnbaum? She said
her honeymoon was spent in the lab working with rats.
I went with Mason and Fred to the registrar, where we looked at open sections; I may change
my program. My Creative Writing teacher, Mr. Galin, seemed hostile and aggressive but he
also seems genuinely concerned, and I like him. We only have to hand in four things anyway.
A home, Marc came home from Maryland tonight. I spoke to Grandma Ethel; she feels as
though she’s been in the hospital forever. I’m just praying that everything goes right with the
operation tomorrow. I don’t know what I’d do if anything happened to Grandma.
Let everything be okay tomorrow. At least I know the surgeon, Dr. Littman, whom I saw in
high school. He’s a good man.
Tuesday, February 1, 1972

Today’s pace was pretty hectic. Grandpa Herb was here this morning before he went to the
hospital, where he stayed all day. I went to school and first changed my program, dropping
Classics and putting in this English satire class that Scott is taking.
In LaGuardia, Scott and Avis told me that they were both mad at Stacy. Scott and she aren’t
speaking. Which is silly, because even Shelli and I spoke friendlily today, about our classes.
[254]
Stacy went to Florida over intersession with Leroy and Melvin, Scott said. Leroy called him in
Virginia, saying he couldn’t stand another day with Stacy.
I went to my 10:50 class, English 42, The Bible as Literature; Linda Schrager is in the class.
Mrs. Starling, the teacher, is a fiftyish black woman, exuberant, sweet and just a very nice
person. I’m dying to really get into the Bible.
Linda told me that Carole got a ring from Hymie and Carole’s been telling and showing the
world her 1.7 carats.
Gary and I had a quick lunch in the Pub, then we returned to campus. Gary said Kjell’s starting
to get pre-wedding diarrhea. I called home, and Marc said that Grandma Ethel was in the
recovery room and things seemed okay.
Then there was the usual LaGuardia scene of gossiping and commenting on the world. I saw
Consuelo, who’s been working at the BC day care center; she said Mark is fine.
My History 1.1 teacher, Gary Osteraas, never showed up, but he left a course outline and
assignment sheet. I took Renee to the Campus Corner, where we discussed her marriage. She
seems happier than I’ve ever seen her, so I guess it’s working out.
I handed in my petitions to Steve and drove home, where I kept calling people – Arlyne,
Grandpa Nat – to see if they had information on Grandma Ethel, but no one was home.
However, when Mom and Dad came home from the hospital at 5 PM, they said that Grandma
seems all right, that when she was awake, she spoke lucidly, so things seem okay.
But I’m worried about the spinal they gave her; I hope it doesn’t cause any side effects. It’s nice,
though, how everyone pulls together in times of trouble. Grandma Sylvia, Aunt Claire, Irene
Krasner, Great-Grandma Bessie and the rest of the family were concerned and helpful.
Wednesday, February 2, 1972
When I arose this Groundhog Day, a wet snow was falling, and it continued to fall throughout
the day. Walking to the post office on Nostrand Avenue this morning to mail Ivan his birthday
present (a 1945 Batman comic), I fell on the ice and got all bruised.
I limped into LaGuardia and talked with Avis and Elspeth. Carole called me over, saying, “You
haven’t congratulated me yet.” I kissed her as she showed me her (huge) ring. I guess Carole is
now at the pinnacle of JAP success.
[255]
Richard Grayson
I really think I’m going to enjoy English 59, The Academic Satire course with Mr. Kitch, an
earnest, youngish teacher. In Soc, Beer lectured on alienation; he’s pretty good and said that if
we want, we can use our first test mark as our course grade and then not show up.
Gary and I went back to LaGuardia, where we took another Mugwump photo. Mikey
prevailed upon Stacy, Leroy and Carl to run, and even Gary is running. We all handed in our
petitions and platform statements. Perhaps I’ll make history by being the first person to lose
three SG elections in a row.
I went to the Pub for lunch with Stacy and Leslie, and as the service was, as usual, terrible, I got
a chance to see the Feldman sisters together. They’re very alike: Leslie is Stacy, but just a little
less so, and I think she’s a bit prettier. They’re so affection and kept kissing each other like
Lillian and Dorothy Gish in Orphans in the Storm.
Carl joined us later and talked of his trip with Leon. The other day Mike said that I shouldn’t
trust Carl, but I think Mike’s way off-base in his opinion that Carl will do anything he can to get
ahead.
Back in LaGuardia, I talked with Leon and Stanley, and then came home. Mom and Marc had
been at the hospital and they said Grandma Ethel looked okay and was even walking around.
So tonight I went myself to visit her at Caledonia Hospital, on Parkside Avenue. Grandpa Herb
was also there. Grandma Ethel looked well, although she complained that she was so
nauseated she couldn’t eat.
I was relieved to see her, though, but as hospitals unnerve me, I didn’t stay very long.
Thursday, February 3, 1972

A cold, steady rain fell all day. I awoke early and went off to school. I had parked the car and
was walking toward the campus when I spotted Leslie coming off the bus. I like her very much,
but I don’t think it would ever go anyplace, any farther than my relationship with Stacy would.
In English, Mrs. Starling went over the first three chapters of Genesis - the creation story – and I
learned a lot about the Bible I had never known. The course looks interesting, because of both
the teacher and the material.
[256]
I saw Laura today. She said she’s been ill, but she thinks it’s psychological because she’s fine on
weekends when she doesn’t have to look for a job.
I went for lunch in the delicatessen with Teresa and Stanley. Teresa is in group therapy and
they’re telling her to “assert” herself. And Stanley still doesn’t know what he’s doing to do.
Everyone’s searching.
Walking to class, Amy told me she broke up with her boyfriend of three months. He’s now
dating her friend and she said she’s lonely and hurt. I sort of know how that is.
History is very good. Mr. Osteraas recognized and remembered me and the course looks like a
lot of fun. I returned to LaGuardia and read The Alignment’s first leaflet, attacking us for
postponing the election.
Our leaflets, Harry reported, couldn’t be done by Flatbush Press and Mike arranged to have
them done tonight at Juan’s printers. This is my fourth student government election and my
third as a candidate. There is less interest each time.
I stayed awhile in LaGuardia, talking with Edie, Mikey and even Shelli, although I can’t stand
her anymore. And it’s not because of what happened; I realize that I plain don’t like her, that
she’s so babyish and bitchy.
She asked Edie to help her with crocheting, but I don’t think Shelli wanted to learn that, I think
she’s just interested in starting some trouble with a girl I like. But perhaps I’m wrong.
Grandma Ethel has been suffering chest and neck pains, probably from the spinal; I hope
everything will be all right. Tonight I feel quite tired and it’s early, so I guess I’m not feeling too
well.
Friday, February 4, 1972

So much has happened today and it’s only 7 PM, but I feel worn out. In English this morning,
Mr. Kitch began talking about parody. After calls, Scott asked me if I wanted to go with him
and Avis to Radio City tonight; I told him no, that I had a date (I don’t, of course).
[257]
Richard Grayson
In Soc, Beer talked again about alienation and discovering how we can become free or
oppression. He’s tried grass and psychotherapy, but does anything really work? I said it’s
scary to face the unknown – and believe me, it is.
I voted for myself and the other Mugwumps, but didn’t little campaigning, as Harry didn’t
bring the leaflets until late afternoon. We sort of had a strategy session at noon, and Mikey gave
one of his “go get ‘em” speeches. Kingsman endorsed The Alignment, naturally, and here I go
with my third SG election loss.
Scott was with Avis but took me aside and told me, somewhat apologetically, that they were
doubling with Shelli and Jerry tonight. But he did ask me first and he gave me a brotherly hug
as he left.
He and Avis are great; still, I was surprised at how upset I was, for you’d think I’d be over it by
now. But the other day Renee said that Howie has never gotten over Alice, so maybe I will
never get over it, either.
In History, as Gary Osteraas lectured on ancient Africa, I kept noticing this girl next to me. Her
name’s Terry Katz and I like her a lot (physically anyway).
Knowing Jerry was in LaGuardia, I went to Boylan cafeteria and had tea with Willie Lefcourt.
We talked over old times; he hasn’t changed a whit since junior high.
I took Leslie to vote, then I waited around for Amy and drove her to her ballet lesson. She and
her ex-boyfriend Eli and his new girl, her friend, all belong to this co-ed house plan.
Amy told me that Eli hadn’t dated any other girls before her, but now he wants to date others.
He said Amy’s possessive and he cried and she cried and she described the sick feeling she gets
when she sees them together. She’s lost five pounds since the breakup.
I understood every word she said. Tonight Amy’s house plan is having an open house and
she’ll have to face it alone, if she goes. Just like me at Steve’s party last October.
Grandma Ethel was in a lot of pain today. Grandpa Herb had diner here with us. Gary came
over for a while; he has the Guard tomorrow. I just feel so nervous tonight. I haven’t had a bad
anxiety attack like this in a long time.
Saturday, February 5, 1972
[258]
Last night I decided to go to the open house at Kharma House. As I drove up there, I spotted
Mikey and his Rockaway friend Eric, who were also going.
I had never really been to one of these things before: a rock band (bad) and Jewish girls and
Jewish boys and black lights and stuff. Amy seemed pretty steady, but she did say she got that
sick feeling when she saw her old boyfriend with his new girlfriend.
I met Bobby Shapiro and Larry Levene (who says law school is a drag) and Barry Silverman and
Craig Kutner, Paul Lippman and even Leslie. I spent a good deal of the evening talking to these
two cute entering freshmen, Lisa and Pamela, from Mill Basin. I really liked them, but as I’m
not used to picking up girls, I got neither their last names nor their phone numbers.
But I had a good time anyway. I was all worked up over this last hectic week, didn’t get much
sleep and felt hung over this morning. I drove to Manhattan after breakfast, still feeling a bit
fuzzy.
I’ve had this idea for writing a play – about the people at school and Shelli and all, in the style
of Miller’s After the Fall.
I parked near Union Square and went to Kiehl’s drugstore, which specializes in herbs; I read
about it in Cue. After buying some eyebright, St. John’s wort and plantain, I drove into
Greenwich Village and finally found The Annotated Alice, which I need for Kitch’s course.
Back home again, I washed the car and did some shopping. Dad and Lennie may sell the hotel,
as the guy who has 50%, the old owner, is dissatisfied and wants to buy them out. Although it
would give them a 50% profit, it would be a disappointment, but the man may merely be
bluffing.
Grandma Ethel is feeling a little better and will be coming home from the hospital tomorrow;
I’m so glad. Marc and Jonny both have colds, but I’m feeling fine after an herbal bath, 40 sit-
ups, 20 pushups and a headstand.
Gary called after a rough day at the Armory and we made traveling arrangements for Kjell and
Sharon’s wedding tomorrow.
I need time to think, but maybe I don’t. There are so many girls I’m attracted to. But I haven’t
asked a single one out yet. I feel that that will be coming soon – coming naturally – and perhaps
one day I’ll follow Kjell and Sharon and get married myself.
[259]
Richard Grayson
Sunday, February 6, 1972

Today was a beautiful day, because I witnessed something beautiful. I woke up feeling
refreshed after a restful sleep, and after breakfast, I got all dressed up in my green suit with the
works: tie, cufflinks, dress shoes.
Gary came over at 11:45 AM and we drove in my car to the catering hall, Regency House, in
Jamaica. When we arrived we saw Kjell and Sharon taking photographs. They looked so
beautiful together, so right together.
I met (or re-met, I guess) Eileen Rubenfeld, who seems nice: pleasant, plain but pretty. We first
went into a room for the smorgasbord. Gary had an upset stomach so he didn’t eat much, but I
stuffed my face.
We talked with the kids there: Kjell’s friends Artie and his wife, Lou and his fiancée, Eileen,
Tommy and his girlfriend, all of whom sat at our table later.
The ceremony began at 2:00 and I sat with Mark. First Eileen and Artie came down to the aisle,
then the other attendants, the best man (Sharon’s brother), the rabbi and the cantor, Kjell with
Mr. and Mrs. Guttormsen, and finally Sharon stepped out from behind the curtain and her
parents walked her halfway down the aisle – then Kjell came and escorted her under the
canopy.
As a woman sang “Sunrise, Sunset” (“swiftly flow the years”), I got these chills and almost
began crying. Sharon was so damn beautiful, dressed in white, her light red hair covered by a
veil. And Kjell looked so handsome in his tuxedo. It’s nice to see love.
As Kjell crushed the wine glass, the wedding music played – and then we went down for
dinner. It was a great meal and I ate a lot and danced the hora and the alley cat and the waltz
and talked a lot.
When us guys went out to decorate Stan’s car with paper hearts and a “Just Married” sign, we
found it was snowing heavily. Back in the hall, we enjoyed the remaining half-hour of the
affair, then I gave Kjell their gift, kissed Sharon, Mrs. Guttormsen and Mrs. Goldman, and said
goodbye.
Gary drove the Pontiac home through the heavy snow; he got out at Eileen’s house and he later
came around the block to pick up his car in front of our house.
[260]
Later I spoke to Alice, who of course went to P.S. 203 with Kjell and me, and she said all our
friends are getting married but not her: “I‘m going to live in sin for a few years.” Alice has
decided to quit her job at the magazine and go back to Vanderveer again.
When I saw Sharon and Kjell at the altar today, I realized I want to married one day.
Monday, February 7, 1972

Late last night I got a call, but no one said anything. I heard breathing and said if the other
person didn’t say anything, I’d hang up
– but the person hung up first. It’s probably a nut, but I got the feeling it was someone I knew.
The snow, which looked pretty last night, was just a mess this morning. Mom drove me to
school. In LaGuardia, I shared these awful lettuce cigarettes I bought at the health food store
with Avis and Mike, but they smell terrible and Sheryl made me throw them away because they
were stinking up the lobby.
Mike stunned me by saying that Solly had died and they buried him on Friday. His last
intestinal operation proved one too many. Although I never had any love for Sol, I felt terrible
and wanted to punch Elihu after he laughed hatefully, saying, “He was a rotten person
anyway.” He was still just a kid.
In English 59, we listened to Nichols and May, and then David Frye. After class, Scott said he
had his first shrink appointment today. Soc was cancelled, so I did some campaigning with
Mikey, handing out leaflets, perennial candidate that I am.
I went with Leon and Mason to this jazz concert in SUBO; on the way, Gary joined us and I was
uncomfortable, as he and Leon hate each other; they’re such opposites.
But peace prevailed, and the jazz was good, and I met Pamela, the girl from Friday night. She
said she signed up for Kingsman as I suggested and we exchanged last names (hers is Charlton
and she lives in the Basin).
She has soft black hair and the cutest smile I’ve ever seen. Would it be ridiculous to even think
that I’m falling in love with her? Gary said it would when he had lunch afterward at Four
Kings.
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Richard Grayson
Back in LaGuardia, I talked for a bit with Alan Karpoff’s girlfriend Cathy, who’s freaky in the
tradition of Laurie and Jane and Sheryl. I went to creative writing with Josef Czutrin, but class
was cancelled so I leafleted with Harry and Arnie.
Then, as I was leaving campus, Carole caught up with me and bent my ear about her wedding
plans and how jealous Hymie is of any boy that talks to her.
Grandma Ethel’s home from the hospital, but she’s still in pain. Tonight Gary called, wanting
to know what I thought of Eileen. I said she seemed direct, a non-games sort of girl. He said,
“It’s three months and I don’t know where the relationship is heading.”

A long day. It turned icy cold. I was nearly frozen from the walk from my car to LaGuardia.
Leslie and Leroy were in a big discussion with this disciple of this 14-year-old maharishi, whom
the girl claimed was God.
Scott said that the session with his shrink went fairly well; he’s going twice a week, and I hope
it helps him.
In Bible, Mrs. Starling was great as we went over the archetypal stories in Genesis: the first
murder, the flood and the towers of Babel. She’s so effervescent, and I wasn’t bored for a
minute.
After class, I looked around for someone to eat with, and finally I found Teresa available. Over
lunch, she told me she’s been seeing this married guy but it’s a hassle and now she’d like to give
his younger brother a “Summer of ‘72” experience. That’s Teresa for you.
In LaGuardia, I found Susan and asked her some questions about the story she’s writing on the
new English curriculum. I could now be a major if I could somehow get by the foreign
language requirement.
We brought out our “Harold Schwartz: Wanted for Treason” leaflet and Harold protested,
calling it libel. But Steve naturally refused to go along with his fellow elections commissioner,
Avi Sternlieb, in confiscating it.
I sat through a boring History lecture by Osteraas. After class, I asked Teri out. She said no,
that she has a boyfriend. I felt rejected and went to LaGuardia, seeing Steve, Mikey and Amy
going to the coffee shop.
[262]
I joined them and heard Amy say that she likes

Eric after Mikey introduced them on Friday night. Eric came over to her house on Saturday
night, but I think he’s too experienced for someone as admittedly innocent as Amy.
And after Amy went to class, Mikey told me that on Friday night, he wanted to go to bed with
Amy. Mikey has only had about three dates and he’ll never get the courage to ask her out.
What he needs is to get away from his mother – but the only son of a widow, that’s rough.
Downtown later, Dr. Wouk said not to feel rejected by Teri’s turndown and he encouraged me
to ask other girls out. In our session we thrashed through the events of the past two weeks and
it was good to get things off my chest. He’s going to Europe next week, so I’ll see him in two
weeks.
Gary called to say he spent a nice day observing nursery school kids in Rockaway for his Child
Psych course.

It’s only 7:30 PM, but I’m tired and about to call it a day. I woke up early this morning, feeling
bright and cheerful. I drove to school and arrive in LaGuardia at 9:30 to find the usual people
there: Avis, suffering with her tonsillitis; Elihu, scowling as usual.
I’m getting kind of tired of seeing the same old faces day after day; I’d like to meet someone
new and exciting, preferably a female. What I really want is to reestablish a boyfriend-
girlfriend relationship with someone.
Mr. Kitch did not show up today, so I returned – where else? – to LaGuardia. Stacy and Melvin
were going to get some breakfast and I joined them, with Scott coming along too, since he and
Stacy are finally speaking again.
Scott talked about his shrink, whom he doesn’t like; he really would like to go into primal
therapy, but I think that’s a lot of crap, along with this “divine light” 14-year-old guru stuff and
Ontology and just about everything else.
Beer didn’t appear for class either, so I futzed around for an hour.
Dick Cioffi came in, looking for some information on the new building construction and the
rumored defects for his new job for Liberal Party Councilman Ken Haber. So I said I’d help him
and find out what I could.
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Richard Grayson
Mikey and I did some last-day campaigning and then a bunch of us went out to lunch at Roma
II: Leon, Mason, Gary, Mikey, Timmy, Carl, Steve Cooper and Steve Cohen. We had a real good
time.
I told Leon about my diary and my writings; there’s something about him that makes me want
to open up to him, like there’s a subtle kinship between us. Anyhow, the Italian food really
threw me for a loop; I became so nauseated during Creative Writing that I had to leave in the
middle of class.
Steve Cohen was making a movie today and plans to show it at a party, a la Leon. Steve seems
more together lately now that he’s student-teaching at Tech.
I went home and rested this afternoon. Tonight I got a call from Avis, who sounded very
depressed. We talked for an hour, but I asked her not to discuss “the decision” she must make
about Scott.
She asked me if I’d take her to see The Trojan Women Saturday night, and stupidly I agreed.
What am I letting myself in for?

A cool, bright day. When I arrived on campus this morning, I went straight to the Kingsman
office and found Maddy and Melvin looking over the election results. We were pretty well
schmeered; we elected six on our slate, all people I don’t know who were supported by Jewish
Student Union, all of whose other candidates won, too.
I lost, along with Elspeth, Stacy, Carl, Gary, Sandy, Harry, Fern and Arnie and his sister. Pretty
discouraging; it looks as though you have to wear a yarmulke to win an SG election at BC.
Mikey said nothing this morning, but he was in a bad mood and growled at everyone. I
escaped to Bible, where Mrs. Starling went over some more of Genesis; I really love that class.
I took a walk with Steve Cohen to move his car; he had a fight with Pauline, then made up with
her. They’re always doing that, but it’s four months and Steve thinks it’s “something solid.”
We discussed what we could do to get Mikey and Amy together but decided it’s better not to
interfere.
[264]
Back in LaGuardia, we all hashed over the election results and decided it was a dangerous
precedent for one group (JSU) to be so powerful, winning the vote with their endorsed
candidates in both parties.
Mikey and Mike decided that we’ll have to pick a presidential candidate soon, maybe next
week, and begin campaigning right away.
Stacy came in, and while Mike was comforting her on her defeat, I asked her to go with me to
the Kris Kristofferson concert on Sunday and she said yes.
Stacy went down to Kingsman, and Edie entered the lobby with a jar of homemade jelly she’d
promised me. I kissed her and asked her to go to the movies with me tomorrow. Edie said that
she had her sorority rush, but maybe we can go afterwards.
I shot the breeze awhile with Aaron and Juan, then drove home, dropping off Susan at her
house as she and I discussed romantic poetry.
Tonight was Jonny’s eleventh birthday party, just the family and Gary, who dropped by. Jonny
got $10 each from Marc and me, and lot of presents; he’s a cute kid and a great brother.
Tonight I visited Grandma Ethel, who’s looking better. The Slack Bar was finally sold, and
Grandpa Herb is now unemployed. Afterwards, I went across the street to see Grandpa Nat
and Grandma Sylvia, spending an hour talking to them in the kitchen.

An indescribably incredible day. When I walked into LaGuardia this morning, Avis told me
that she had called Scott last night; he didn’t call back and she was upset and told me to have
him call her.
In class before Mr. Kitch came in, Scott called me over and said that for all these years he’s been
doing things for others, not for himself, and he wanted to start being selfish. Scott said he was
giving up his obligations, including calling Avis every night.
I sympathized with him, as he’s going through a personal identity crisis, but Avis is going to be
very hurt. As Scott and I went down the steps in Boylan after class, I witnessed an
unbelievable, incredible sight: Scott and Avis passed within a few inches of each other, he going
down the stairs with me, she going up, but their eyes never met and they both walked on.
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Richard Grayson
It was so queer; it wasn’t as if either was ignoring each other, I could tell. They just didn’t see
the other person. I felt it symbolized their relationship.
Beer bullshitted on anomie in Soc, and the Gary and I went to LaGuardia. Fern was there for
her last day at BC, as she got accepted in September to Downstate for nursing. Fern is really
remarkable; I don’t know how she stands Harry’s fooling around. She knows he’s always
screwing other girls, but it’s first starting to bother her now. Fern is direct and sensual and
should go out with other boys, but Harry’s terribly jealous.
Mike tried to tell Fern that Harry’s no good, but she says there more to Harry than any of us in
LaGuardia see. Last Wednesday, she wanted to break up with him and he begged her to
forgive him till 2 AM.
We went to lunch: me, Gary, Fern, Amy and Mark Friedberg. I asked Friedberg what he’d been
discussing with Saul – this Divine Light stuff – and that led to an hour-long debate, mostly
between him and Fern.
Mark said that there is more to life than just living, that he has the Word, and Light, and Touch,
and Taste, and that he now knows the ultimate harmony of the universe.
Fern said that the physical world is what matters, not the spiritual, and we must do things in
the here and now. But both of them agreed on the basic unity of the world – which is
something I can’t buy.
We sat in LaGuardia and then I drove Amy to her ballet class. She says that she’ll never find
her ideal man, who’s someone just like her. But she still likes Eric and not Mikey.
When I got home, I got a message to call Avis, who sounded very down and on the verge of
tears. Scott hadn’t called her and she was frantic. I couldn’t tell her that he wasn’t going to call
her, and I was grateful when she said that Shelli had dropped by to stay with her.
I’m going to school now to see Edie.

A cool, sunny Lincoln’s Birthday. So much has happened in the past days that although it’s
only 6 PM, I’m making today’s entry and in tomorrow’s, I will write about tonight.
Life is weird. Really. So many things can happen and get fucked up and then turn right again,
and there are so many twists and turns life can take.
[266]
I went to school last night and found Edie at the rush with her sorority sisters, who are about
the ugliest group of girls I’ve ever seen. For a minute, while Edie was undoing her braid (she
was in a ridiculous Chinese outfit for some reason), she looked almost pretty – but not really.
We decided (or I did and she went along with me) to see Sunday, Bloody Sunday at Kings Plaza.
In the car there, we talked but she doesn’t seem too bright. And as I sat down next to her in the
theater, I noticed she had terrible perspiration odor. So I just concentrated on the movie and
leaned over to her to comment every ten minutes or so.
When the house lights went up, I noticed a fat girl got up five rows in front of us; it was Shelli,
with Jerry and Avis. I called to Avis, and she came over, staying that she spoke to Scott and
that “we’re finished.”
During the short, I kept thinking of how strange things have become. The three of them left and
I called over to Jerry because I didn’t want to speak to Shelli instead of him. I told him, “Be
good to Avis tonight.” Jerry just stared at me blankly.
I took Edie home and kissed her without feeling. But I was glad that Shelli saw me out with a
girl and it gave me a strange sort of satisfaction to know I can get dates.
This morning Avis called me, saying that she finally got through to Scott late yesterday. She
said he was avoiding her, as he was afraid. But they had a confrontation, and although Avis
says they’re on good terms, their relationship is through.
And so tonight, I have a date with Avis to see Trojan Women and I’m no longer just
“babysitting” with Scott’s girl, I’m going out with a girl who’s free.
Still, I’m not sure anything will come of it although I’ve always found her attractive. I just want
to help her through a difficult time.
I didn’t do very much today: shopped and bathed and read, that’s all. Gary, pissed over
Eileen’s wavering, had a date (made for him yesterday by Fern, another instigator) with Fern’s
friend Ellice last night.
I hope tonight is not a total disaster.
[267]
Richard Grayson
I picked up Avis at her apartment at 7 PM last night. She seemed in fairly good spirits. She
said she went to see Scott at the store yesterday, to bring him a letter from their Indian foster
child, and it was kind of upsetting.
We went to the Sheepshead and saw Trojan Women; it was all right, but somehow we got the
feeling that Euripides wouldn’t have wanted it that way. Then we drove over to 86th Street and
had a bite to eat at Jahn’s.
Despite her depression, Avis was very good company. I took her to Rockaway and let her drive
the car up and down the Boulevard (at one point a cop stopped us by the Neponsit Home for
the Aged and pointed out that she’d been driving on the broad sidewalk) and then we came
back to my house, sat in front of the fireplace and talked.
Avis still loves Scott so much, I think she’ll do anything to have him again. But I couldn’t see
loving her, physically, not yet anyway, even though we are going out next Friday night.
I got my eight hours sleep although there was so much to think about: the things Avis said, and
everything that’s been happening lately.
This afternoon, in a pouring rain, I picked up Stacy at her house. I saw hello to Mrs. Feldman
and to Leslie, who was in bed with a cold. We drove up to Lincoln Center (I drove the wrong
way on Columbus Avenue for one block) and had lunch at the Philharmonic Café, then went to
see the Kris Kristofferson concert.
He was pretty good, but neither Stacy nor I are much into his kind of music and Philharmonic
Hall wasn’t a good place to see him, really.
Stacy still confuses me; I can’t figure out if she’s experienced sexually. With me alone, she plays
so innocent, and I didn’t do more than kiss her (I didn’t kiss Avis).
But Stacy is interesting and it’s so nice to be with a girl and really talk. This has been some
weekend – three “dates” – and I’m tired. But it was a hell of a lot of fun.
And tonight I got a call from Shelli, who said she phoned to talk about Avis. But I think that
was just an excuse, for she said how all weekend, she’d been thinking about things and wanted
to apologize to me for a lot of shit. I said we could be friends again. We shall see.
[268]
Unhappily, Gary is in bed with a flu-like illness. He’s getting really pissed off at Eileen.
Sometimes I wonder if men and women were meant to have long-term relationships.
It’s St. Valentine’s Day, and I had no one to give me a Valentine; even worse, there was no one I
could give a Valentine to. But being alone is really not so bad, and I am content if not happy.
I had a very restless night and I felt kind of funny, as if I were coming down with something. I
found a space easily in LaGuardia, where Avis and Melvin were in the lobby.
Avis looked ill, said her stomach was upset (nerves, of course) and gave me a note to give to
Scott – about their foster child. Elspeth came in, complaining of a bad cold and upset because
she wasn’t invited to Ruth and Marty’s wedding; practically everyone else was, although I
hadn’t expected to be asked.
Before English, I gave Scott the note from Avis. He obviously was unhappy about it and looked
pretty upset. He started talking about his lousy weekend, then Kitch came in and started
lecturing.
In Soc, Beer discussed symbolic interpretation; Gary wasn’t in class, of course. I talked to him
later and he’s really sick with the flu, as is Steve Cooper and just about everyone.
In LaGuardia, Leon was in one of his “don’t-come-near-me” moods, so I sat with Avis and
Shelli. Mikey handed me a book of mine that Stacy had borrowed – The Sensuous Man – and
Shelli said, “You don’t need it.”
Maybe she had a fight with Jerry? Or perhaps she just wants to be friends. For the first time in
months we really talked together, and I do like her, I guess, as a person. She even asked me to
go with her and Avis to see Sunday again tonight, but I declined.
The first meeting of the Assembly indicated JSU’s triumph: the number of yarmulkes and chais
was astounding. And their candidate, Avi Sternlieb, a JDL member defeated Ira, who got
nominal support from the Mugwumps as well as his own Alignment party.
Well, as Harvey told me, “I’m going to do a lot of vetoing this term.” As I walked out with
Shelli, she said she might quit the Assembly; I’m pretty discouraged and angry about the
change in student government.
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Richard Grayson
I spent the rest of the day feeling fairly ill. Perhaps I’ve got the flu, too – or maybe I’ve just been
hearing too much about it. I don’t want to be sick now, though, because life is
too interesting.

I’m feeling pretty chipper tonight, but today was not an easy one. Still, it ended well: I took an
herbal bath, drank some plantain tea, washed my hair and lifted weights, and afterwards I felt
great and glad to be alive.
In LaGuardia this morning, I found Peter Rosen and Mike wearing these buttons Dick Lewis
ordered: “CUNY – Free Tuition – Open Admissions – Founded 1847 – Destroyed 197??”
Mike is pretty shrewd and a good friend, but I don’t know if I can support him for the
Mugwump nomination. I met Kjell on my way to class, and he said there was no snow for
skiing in the Poconos. “So what’d you do?” I asked, He smirked – pretty stupid question to ask
a honeymooner.
In English, Mrs. Starling went over the story of Abraham – real interesting. I’ve all but decided
to drop History; I haven’t shown up in a week.
Back in LaGuardia, I agreed to go to lunch with Elspeth and Shelli. I know I’ve lost a lot of
weight lately, and I purposely had just a salad and a sugarless tea to annoy the girls, both of
whom could use a diet much more than I ever could.
Shelli probably paid me back for the hurt. No, she didn’t mention Jerry. Instead, she said she
was at Ivan’s on Saturday night; he’s now taking acting lessons with Lee Strasberg. What
bothered me was that Ivan never acknowledged my birthday gift and Shelli probably knows
that.
And then she said Avis is dying to have an affair with Ivan – which I assume was supposed to
make me jealous of him. So, back in LaGuardia, I stayed pretty much away from her.
Soon I went home anyway, dropping Mason off at Kings Plaza. Mason told me that Carl pulled
a Jerry on him, trying to ask Libby out – but Libby naturally had the good sense to turn him
down.
[270]
Later I called Avis, who, I’m afraid, would do anything to get Scott back. I can’t help her, really,
though I’m basically her only contact with him. She wishes she could help him out of his
emotional turmoil in any way possible.
Avis said that Shelli is a little peeved that I’m so happy. Shelli asked her on Sunday, “Is he still
very broken up?” and Avis said, “Not at all; he seems fine.” Avis hinted that Shelli is having a
lot of problems these days. Is there trouble in Paradise?
I made calls to my flu-ridden friends, Gary and Steve Cooper.

Things seem to be happening quickly. I am happy, though, with the way life is working out.
Today I met a girl who seems different than any girl I’ve known. Probably nothing will come of
it, but it seems another indication that I will soon find a girl – if not this one, then another – to
love and be loved by.
When I arrived in LaGuardia this morning, Leon asked me to write out a course description of
my proposed EXCO course on herbs.
Avis was there, of course, still looking sad, and Elihu and Elspeth and Shelli. I’ve learned that
Shelli is back in therapy again and she and Avis were considering going on a skiing trip with
Steve Cooper – without Jerry.
During English, Scott seemed a bit out of it, but he was trying to pick up a girl in class. I
decided to cut Soc and went to lunch with Melvin and Stacy. On the way, I met Stanley, who’s
still doing nothing – what a waste.
At the Junction, I ran into Dick Cioffi and I gave him the information he wanted about the faulty
new construction that Councilman Haber is going to use in his investigation.
As I was about to reenter LaGuardia, Shelli cautioned me that Scott and Avis were talking there
and that we should go outside. We met Gary, who’s still a bit weak from the flu, coming out of
Soc.
The big lovers’ discussion over, Shelli went somewhere with Avis, and I sat down in the lobby
to read the Spigot and joke with Mike and Mason.
This girl sitting next to me finally got into our conversation. She’s been at BC only three weeks
and didn’t know anyone, just came to sit down.
[271]
Richard Grayson
So for two hours, we told her about the people in LaGuardia – Leon, the deans, Harvey, SG, etc.
– and surprisingly, she was not turned off. Timmy, Mike and I went with her to the deli and I
think she may come back. I hope so, anyway.
Her name’s Debbie and she’s very pretty. For some reason, I opened up to her right away and I
felt close to her. When Avis and Shelli came over to tell me they were now working at the day
care center, I could see that Shelli was jealous and Debbie couldn’t understand what I’d ever
seen in Shelli.
I also sort of brushed off Edie, and believe me, it wasn’t easy hurting her. I was going over
tonight to give Alice her birthday gift, but I was just too tired. Mom spent the day upstate at the
hotel and still has not returned.

This morning I talked to Mom, who didn’t get home from the country until very late last night.
She says the hotel is still a mess, but things are starting to pick up now.
I got to school early and brought some tea into LaGuardia, where Elihu, Suzanne, Mason and
Avis were hanging out. Saul came up behind me and started kneading my shoulders. I wonder
about him sometimes. Shelli has at least one very weird ex-boyfriend, and Avis says she can’t
take Saul anymore because he stares at her so intently and has a bad smell.
Jill sauntered in looking pleased as punch, as Hubert Humphrey would say. She got a very
good job, making $130 a week as an executive secretary to the Vice President of the J. Walter
Thompson ad agency.
Jill was hugged by everyone and seemed so pleased to be in such a “spiff” place with beautiful
people (J. Walter Thompson, not LaGuardia lobby).
Steve Cohen finally repaid my loan but he borrowed my comb and Mason’s sweater. Steve’s
birthday is Monday and I’m getting him his own comb.
At noon, Avis and I went out for pizza. She seems to be getting over Scott, but it’s still rough.
We’ve become closer friends in the past week, but friends is probably all we’ll ever be.
For one thing, I know she’s not in the least attracted to me.
Bored with school, I drove Leslie home – before today I never really noticed how pretty she is,
but she’s only 16. I futzed around at home for an hour, then returned to BC, hanging around
the Kingsman office, rapping with Dick Pontone, Robert Ross and Juan.
[272]
Then upstairs, I watched Suzanne and Shelli play chess, and when Suzanne went to her karate
class, Shelli and I went to dinner. Perhaps it’s wrong of me, but I don’t think it hurts either of
us, as we both know enough not to discuss our past. Mike says Shelli’s an idiot, but she’s just
fucked up; I feel sorry for her, but that’s all I feel.
I went to a meeting of the Ad Hoc Committee to Fight the Budget Cuts: Dick Lewis, Ralph
Greenberg, Peter Amato, Bob Lipson (Calling Card editor), Avi Sternlieb, John Caggiano and
others; they asked me to serve as committee secretary and I grudgingly said okay.
Mikey called off the Mugwump meeting scheduled for March 1 when only seven of us could
show up.
As snow fell from the sky, making the night beautiful, I drove Paul Zucker to his house and
then came home, where I found a card announcing step-cousin Merryl’s engagement to
someone named Jeffrey Alpert.

It’s only 4:30 PM, but I’m writing today’s entry now because I have to leave soon for Manhattan.
I’m going to pick up Avis at her shrink’s and from there we’ll go have dinner and then see Don
McLean at Carnegie Hall.
I don’t really want to go. I know tonight is going to be the worst evening I’ve spent in months.
First of all, a heavy snow is expected. Great, huh?
The whole shitty day has been just like that. So many things just go wrong. Right now my teeth
are clenched and I feel angry and sick and hungry and scared all at the same time.
Today was such a horrible day I can’t even stand to think about it. I overslept and didn’t have
time to take the car to school, so Mom drove me. I slept too late having a dream about making
love to Avis.
That’s a laugh, since she doesn’t care about me at all – at least not in that way. And I’m sick of
all these girls wanting to be “just friends.” I want a woman, damn it, a woman who’ll love me
and be sweet and gentle.
At school, my mind wandered through Kitch’s stupid lecture. Scott wasn’t in class, but going
by the conversations we’ve had lately, it didn’t mean much; he doesn’t really talk to me
anymore.
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Richard Grayson
And in LaGuardia, my friends – oh, they’re really great. Leon and Stanley and Mike and Mikey
sit around all day trading witticisms, wasting time, avoiding life. I just couldn’t take people
today: not Gary’s dullness or Shelli’s babyishness or Elihu’s snideness.
I suppose I’m as bad as all of them put together. So we all deserve each other.
At home, Mom had taken my car for the day without telling me. I have to do everything
myself; she has never been a mother to me. That sounds real bitter, right? Unlike the sweet,
gentle Pollyanna me that usually talks about people being good and love and shit.
Well, right now, for all I care the world can take a flying leap to hell and be damned. I wish I
were dead, too, but somehow things never manage to work out that well.

I got over yesterday’s terrible mood pretty quickly. Perhaps I was just having my period.
(Mikey says men get them, too.)
I picked up Avis at 6 PM at the Postgraduate Center, where she has her therapy. Avis looked
bright and her mood was good, as she talked to Scott yesterday and they are apparently ironing
out things. Maybe they’ll get back together, but somehow I doubt it.
We took a ride uptown and through Central Park at dusk, then went to Carnegie Hall for the
concert. Don McLean was very good; of course everyone loves “American Pie” but he wrote a
lot of other good songs. And it was a long concert.
Avis and I sat way up in the Dress Circle, so we couldn’t see him too clearly. From there, he
looked a lot like Elihu. It was snowing when we came out, so we drove right home to Brooklyn.
Avis suggested we go to my house and we had coffee and cake in my room. We really can talk
to each other; we’re good friends. But I don’t know where our relationship will go. However,
even if it stays the way it is now, I shall be happy.
I know Avis is very sensual and has had a lot of relationships with men. Somehow I think it’s
too soon after Scott, but we’ll take things naturally and see what develops.
A wet snow turned heavy tonight, dumping inches of stuff on the ground. This morning I
visited Grandma Ethel, who seems better except that she’s worried about Grandpa Herb not
having a job.
[274]
From there I went to walk around Kings Plaza, where I ran into Craig and Linda Schrager and
then Kjell, who obviously enjoys being married to Sharon.
Later in the day, I went to give Alice her birthday gift and ended up sitting for hours in her
bedroom talking. She’s still with Andreas, apparently very much in love. Mrs. Connors is
leaving Wednesday to visit Chuck in Israel, and Alice will be alone in the apartment for two
months.
Alice is a remarkable person; we’ve been friends for nearly 23 years. She thinks that Shelli is
still in love with me, but then Alice always was a Shelli fan.
I spent the rest of the day inside, protected from the storm, thinking about my life and things.

The snow made today an icy, chilly winter day. After digesting my breakfast and the Sunday
Times, however, I decided I was not in a stay-at-home mood, so I braved the streets, which were
like glass, and drove out on the Parkway towards Long Island.
I decided to go to Oceanside to visit Marty and Arlyne. Arlyne was about to take a bath when I
arrived; Marty had gone to take Wendy to the movies, but he returned shortly, and when
Arlyne had finished her bath, we all sat around the kitchen table talking.
Marty has put on weight but looks well. Arlyne is still going to Hofstra. We gossiped for
awhile and talked seriously and it was very nice. I’m sorry I haven’t seen much of my aunt and
uncle recently.
And my little godson is growing ore adorable every time I meet him; he’s the cutest three-year-
old I know, even if he can’t talk so that I can understand him.
I came home at 2 PM and did virtually nothing all day until I got a call from Avis at 5 PM. She
invited me over for dinner, as her parents were
going out, and I gladly accepted.
I got to her apartment an hour later and she made soup, fried chicken and jasmine tea. We ate
on the living room floor and it was quite cozy. Afterwards we got bored; we played cards,
watched TV, listened to Melanie, and I tried to teach her yoga.
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She showed me this sensitivity exercise, pretending that a little man was in my body, but it got
me quite horny so I stopped. That’s the problem with my relationship with Avis. I want to
sleep with her, but I’m afraid to even start making out because I fear she’ll reject me.
She said she doesn’t wanted to “get involved” with anyone now, but she says she is
“promiscuous.” It would be really ridiculous if she wanted to sleep with me, but I just don’t
know.
I suppose I could clear the whole thing up with one simple question, but I’m afraid. So she
knitted as we watched Elizabeth R and President Nixon being greeted by Chou En-Lai at Peking
Airport and I kissed her a short goodnight kiss.
Why am I such an ass? Please tell me, somebody!

Today is a holiday, the day we celebrate the birthday of George Washington, which is really
tomorrow. But three-day weekends are now what the American people want, so there we are.
As I said to Avis last night while watching the Peking airport ceremonies, it’s so freaky seeing
these Chinese soldiers, whom we’ve been taught to fear as our mortal enemies, playing “The
Star-Spangled Banner.” And Nixon met with Mao Tse-Tung today and afterwards, at a
sumptuous banquet, the President quoted the Chairman’s poetry:
“So many deeds cry out to be done, always urgently. The world rolls on. Time passes. Ten
thousand years are too long. Seize the day. Seize the hour.”
I really like that: “seize the day.” I feel that I must seize my day, too; there’s so much I want to
do, so much I have to do.
I awoke this morning from a restless sleep. During the night I thought mostly about Avis. She
said she “adored” Scott but that she was never in love with him, nor he with her, and all the
time they went out with each other they never said they loved each other.
That led me to rethink my whole concept of man/woman relationships: you don’t have to love
the other person to go with them and have sex. Perhaps that is why Avis seems to be getting
over in a week what it took me three months to get over.
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And for all my talk, I never did love Shelli. If it had been real love, something – I don’t know
quite what – would have been different.
Today I washed the car, did some health-food shopping (avoiding the traffic at sales-struck
Kings Plaza), did 75 sit-ups and not much else. But still, I enjoy these lazy, into-myself days.
I spoke to Gary, who told me he feels like a “ski widower” with Eileen gone every weekend.
Do you know in all these months she has never phoned him once at home? I think Gary is
getting a little peeved at her, and I can’t blame him.
I spoke to Avis briefly. She wanted to get back to the Mike Douglas show, as John and Yoko
Lennon were on. Though I may be unsure about the future, I’m happier than I’ve ever been
taking life day by day, living honestly, naturally. Life is good.

I received an interesting phone call at 10 PM last night: Shelli. It’s getting so I can tell what day
the State Legislature reconvenes, as I get a phone call from her the night before. Her excuse this
time was rather thin – about the grades Peter gave us last term (I don’t know how I managed to
get B’s in my Poli Sci classes and English, but I’m just lucky, I guess).
Anyway, Shelli could have called Stacy or any of the others, or just waited until I saw her later
in the week. But she went on and on, and I felt as thought I was listening to a female Jerry drop
the names of European places, art movies and painters.
Finally I got petty bored and hung up with a succinct “goodbye.” Yet I’m glad Shelli called, for
now I realize what a stupid, dull girl she is and how I’m better off without her. She is still as
untrustworthy as ever. Poor Jerry: I know the crap he has to put up with.
This morning Dean West congratulated me on my letter in the last Kingsman, attacking JSU,
blaming their domination on campus apathy and exhorting everyone to work harder. People
liked it (except JSU people, of course) and I’m proud – properly so, I think.
In English today, Mrs. Starling went over the stories of Jacob and Joseph; I’m really getting into
the Bible. In LaGuardia, I gave Steve Cohen his comb birthday present and he thanked me,
after which we went to lunch with Carl in SUBO.
Steve was in pain, since he and Pauline were fooling around wrestling this morning and she
accidentally kicked him in the neck so that it hurt terribly when he moved it. Carl and I took
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him to the medical office, where the doctor said it was just a muscle strain and that hot
compresses would help.
I saw Avis only briefly today, but I can feel myself brightening up when I see her. This
afternoon, I saw Dr. Wouk, who had a bad cold he’d caught in Europe.
He and I went over the past two weeks and thrashed out a lot of things. I’m going to tell Avis
how I feel about her, that I fear another rejection but that I’ll be happy just being friends, etc.
My relationship with Shelli, Dr. Wouk said, was full of lies and deception on both sides. I want
future relationships, with Avis or any other girl, to be, above all, honest. Besides the fact that it’s
morally correct, it’s also a hell of a lot easier in the long run.

I feel kind of down tonight; it was that kind of day. But I know that all of us have bad days and
that I’m generally content with my life. There is loneliness at times and there is pain, but
they’re a part of life. The trick is not to give way to despair, as I too often do. From now on, I’m
going to try to pick myself up and fight.
Mom and Dad went up to the hotel this morning and did not get back until late afternoon; I
have a feeling they’re going to be upstate more and more now.
In LaGuardia this morning, I gave Elspeth her birthday card and present: a bottle of essence of
sandalwood.
Elspeth is the most pathetic person I know; she dresses so pitiably, she’s gotten grossly
overweight and is always ill. Yet I can’t help feeling that if she worked at it, she could help
herself out of her position.
In English, Kitch started going over Alice. Scott didn’t seem to want to talk with me; all he said
was that his weekend trip to New Paltz was a disaster.
In Soc, Beer made a fool of himself attempting to lecture on Erikson. Gary went to an encounter
group after class, so I went over to the Assembly meeting with Dick Pontone and Sam Herman,
the HPA adviser.
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The JSU-controlled, Sternlieb-chaired Assembly is more ridiculous any other Assembly I’ve
seen. The wrangled over procedural things, elected three JSU reps to the Spigot editorial board
and froze funds for Third World Edition.
I had to get out of that den of idiots, and in LaGuardia I couldn’t find anyone to eat with, so I
had lunch by myself in Campus Corner.
Back in LaGuardia, Jacob came in – with his boyfriend. I’d always thought he was gay, but it
still was a little off-putting to see Jacob kissing and hugging another guy. He said he’s going to
California in April.
I heard Shelli tell Gary that Jerry may be at school tomorrow since he’s coming home from
Albany tonight and sleeping at Shelli’s. Can you believe that still upsets me? But nowhere near
as much as it used to.
Tonight I called Avis, who had a bad day coping with an accident at the day care center. She
said she has a date Friday night, and from her tone, I got the feeling that the possibility of
anything between us was over. Too bad. But there are other girls, and Avis and I will remain
good friends.

Four inches of snow fell during the night, making today a slushy mess. I awoke early but didn’t
really feel like going to school. However, I dragged myself over to the college, and this
morning I finally got around to dropping History, leaving myself with 12 credits.
In LaGuardia, I chatted with Peter and Gary about politics. No Democrat has yet emerged as
everyone’s favorite, and with Nixon making such a hit in China (today he toured the Great
Wall), I doubt if anyone can beat the Prez. I find myself grudgingly admiring Nixon; he seems
somehow more “Presidential” in Peking.
In English, Mrs. Starling went over the beginnings of Exodus: Moses and all that. In LaGuardia
again, I sat around the Calling Card office with its editor, Bob, and Mike and Arnie.
The Mugwumps pick a candidate next week and it’s either Mike or Mikey; I discount Harry.
I’ve been pretty loyal to Mikey, but Mike is also a good friend and is a bit shrewder. Right now
I don’t know whom I’ll support.
We looked at the Playboy centerfold, and then Mike and Elspeth had to go to a Curriculum
Committee meeting. They said want me to replace Mason on the committee.
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I had a pizza lunch with Avis and Gary. Afterwards, Avis went for a summer camp counselor
job interview, and Gary and I stopped off at the Testing Center to pick up applications for the
Law Boards and the GRE’s before heading home. I’ve got to start giving some thought to law or
grad school; sooner than I think I’ll be leaving BC.
I returned to campus later to attend an HPA Presidents’ meeting on the budget crisis with John
Caggiano, Hope Rudman and Dean Gold.
After that, Ralph, John, Bob, Avi, Bill Rothbard and Stu Goldstein and I had an Ad Hoc
Committee meeting where not much was accomplished; there’s so little time to act, with the
CUNY budget going to the Legislature in a few weeks.
I came home tired and pretty ornery; I sort of felt better after a bath, a meal and some exercise.
But I guess that’s the price one pays for getting involved.

Tonight I’m very moody. I alternately feel light and happy, then depressed and miserable.
I don’t think I’m well physically: my stomach has been upset for days with pains and nausea,
and my sinuses are killing me. I don’t know if it’s serious, but I just don’t feel right. Perhaps
it’s only my depression. It’s Friday night and I’m alone – by choice? I guess so.
Avis was staying at a friend’s house in the city, but I could have asked someone else out to the
SG movie tonight at school, a preview Bill Davis wangled out of MGM.
Mom, Dad and Jonny are on their way to the hotel in the country; my parents are not home very
much anymore.
This morning in LaGuardia, we all sat around reading Kingsman. There were a lot of replies to
the paper’s “In Cognito” anti-JSU editorial as well as my letter. A whole can of worms was
opened up, and while everyone from Ira to Craig was preparing replies, I think I’ll quit while
I’m somewhat ahead.
The only letter supporting my stand was from Shelli, though she went further and endorsed
Kingsman’s proposal to invoke the 30% rule under which the college President can invalidate SG
elections when there’s not a 30% turnout, as there wasn’t this time. I believe the rule is stupid
and should continue being ignored.
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I let Avis drive my car around after we dropped Mike off at his car; she’s getting better. As she
was about to go up to her apartment, she said we might do something tomorrow night.
I had lunch at home and then returned to the college, bullshitting for awhile with the nuts in the
basement of LaGuardia. When I went upstairs, I saw Debbie sitting with Mikey and Stanley.
I like Debbie enormously and I think she likes me – but something was wrong today; as Mikey
noted, she seemed depressed. Debbie said she’ll come to my EXCO course (Leon’s Kingsman
interview with Linda Neiman about EXCO was very Leon-like), but I should have asked Debbie
to the movie tonight.
Oh well, I’m pretty sure right now that I’ll see her again. I went with Mikey to a Finance
Committee meeting. He was looking for funds for his Downstate program, but the room was
filled with everyone from Juan to Stephen Lubarsky from YAF to Fran Weinberger of Hoa Binh,
wanting to get funds.
So I came home to do nothing for the rest of the day.

A cold drizzle fell on the city all day. I awoke this morning with sinusitis. But with my usual
(ha! ha!) stoicism, I got through the day. Gisele came in this morning to do the cleaning, so at
least Marc and I didn’t have that job.
I drove to Manhattan this morning after breakfast and I walked around the Village for awhile.
But the rain and the cold wind made it pretty hard to enjoy yourself outside, so I came home
pretty quickly.
I spoke to Gary, who is again a “ski widower” this weekend; I think he’s beginning to get
disgusted with the games Eileen has apparently been playing. We’ll find out what happens
when ski season ends.
Marc took me for a drive in his car; he handles the wheel very deftly now. Mom, Dad and
Jonny returned from the Catskills at 5:30, around the time I got a call from Avis.
She spent last night with her actor friend Rusty in his Manhattan brownstone but said she
doesn’t get along with him very well, as he’s kind of affected.
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While I was on the phone, Mom and dad took my car out to a restaurant, and when they got
back I really screamed at them for not respecting me or caring for me and for being away all the
time. They were impassive and there was a “scene” which seemed very important at the time
but not now.
I talked it all out with Avis after I picked her up and then felt better. We went to the Rugby to
see this real awful sexploitation film, Together. The worst movie I’ve ever seen, it didn’t even
excite me sexually.
I let Avis drive down Nostrand Avenue to Jahn’s, where we had coffee. She said she loves Scott
and told him so, but he felt bad because he couldn’t reciprocate. Avis said Scott’s just falling
apart and retreating from the world.
We came back to m house where we played Risk. She hit me over the head with the board as I
was about to win. It was real nice to talk with her. But I know we should only be platonic
friends, that it’s so much better that way.
After dropping her off at home, I drove by the Junction and passed the newsstand where Scott
was at work, assembling the sections of the Sunday Times. He looked so sad and pathetic that I
just wanted to get out of the car and tell him, “You dope, there are people who love you.”

Early this morning I couldn’t erase from my memory the picture of Scott, standing outside the
newsstand at the Junction, wearing a sweatshirt, and carrying in the papers as they got ready to
close the store.
I should have offered him a ride home. But would he have been receptive? Scott told Avis that
he wants to withdraw from everything; something happened last weekend and he doesn’t want
to see Timmy or Marvin anymore.
I told Avis I would call Scott today, but I didn’t; I just couldn’t think of what to say except that
I’m around if he needs me. Whatever crisis he’s doing through, I pray everything will work
out.
Avis said now she needs to concentrate on herself, too. This summer job at the camp in New
Jersey “away from everything” is a part of that.
[282]
Today was a mild, sunny day; soon it will be March and spring isn’t really very far behind. I
got through “the long, cold winter” somehow, and I did it very well.
After breakfast I went off to Rockaway and first visited Grandma Sylvia and Grandpa Nat, who
are leaving for Miami on Friday. I just hope Grandma’s arthritis improves down there; I could
see she was in a lot of pain today.
Merryl called them to thank them for their engagement gift, but everything is strained. Because
of the twins’ obstinacy, Aunt Sydelle may not even go to Merryl’s wedding.
After wishing them a good trip, I walked over in the bright sun to Grandma Ethel’s apartment.
She’s looking better and we had a nice visit. Grandpa Herb now stays home all day, and I think
he’s beginning to get on Grandma’s nerves.
Some family gossip – Great-Grandma Bessie’s moving to Manhattan Beach, Randy’s back from
Japan and just got a job in West Virginia, etc. etc. – and I took my leave.
At home, I spoke to Gary, who seemed really depressed about Eileen, about his parents and
about school. I tried to cheer him up a little. That’s me, folks: I bring cheer wherever I go.
I spent the rest of the day picking out things to submit for Creative Writing, reading the papers,
exercising and thinking. I enjoy these lazy Sundays now.
It sort of gives me time to rest up from the week’s activities and plan ahead for next week.
I feel stronger, more secure and happier than I’ve ever been in my life.
A mild, sunny day. In LaGuardia early this morning, I sat around with Avis and Ira. Before
English, I spoke to Scott, who seemed a bit more together today, and after class we met Avis on
the stairway and he chatted friendlily with her.
In Soc, Bill Beer lectured on Erikson’s stages of man; the quiz is on Wednesday. Gary had some
sort of meeting, so I went by myself to LaGuardia, looking for someone to have lunch with. But
somehow it seemed that everyone – Alan Karpoff and Cathy, Steve Cooper and Stacy – had
already eaten.
Then Avis came along and suggested we go back to her place for lunch and I gladly agreed. We
bought a game set of Risk so we could play; she really wanted to beat me.
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At her house, I met her father. Mr. Wisotsky seems like a pretty nice guy, as fathers go. Avis
made us these great fried-egg sandwiches on bagels and we drank lemonade and then played
Risk.
Avis was in some pain, as her period was coming on, but we had a good time. She got her wish
ad beat me badly, but we really enjoy our mock-arguments where she calls me a prick and I call
her a cunt. Avis is a nice person.
Back on campus, we sat around for awhile with Leon and Debbie. As I walked Debbie to class,
she said she no longer hates BC so much now that she has some friends. I’m glad if I had
anything to do with that.
In Creative Writing, the class tore apart some poor girl’s story, and afterwards I hung around
with Mikey, who’s anxious that Mike or even Harry might beat him in the caucus Wednesday.
I drove him and Mike Friedberg home to Rockaway, and Mason came back with me to my
house, where we messed around, talking. Then we went out to a pizza dinner and I took him to
his first day at a job at the new Great Eastern store.
When I returned home, I got a message that Scott called, but when I called him back, his father
said he was out. Gary then phoned with some news about his new car, a ’66 Impala.
Tonight I watched Pres. and Mrs. Nixon return to Washington after what I guess was a highly
successful trip t China. And I even managed to squeeze in some studying.
February 29, Leap Year Day: we only get one every four years. Wow. Today was an
extraordinarily mild day; the temperatures soared into the 60°s and it was sunny and smelled
like spring.
Avis called me early this morning. I thought I had left my Soc notebook at her house and she
was going to bring it in today. But she couldn’t find it, as she phoned to say. So, notebook-less,
I went to school this morning.
In LaGuardia, I spoke with Elihu, who was telling me all about the Curriculum Committee.
Meetings are on Thursdays, and the student members in addition to me are Elihu, Elspeth and
Mike.
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Mike really wants the Mugwump nomination and he may just get it. But Mikey is a really good
friend, too, and I can’t see voting for one against the other so I suppose I’ll abstain.
In English, we read the sections of Exodus dealing with the Ten Commandments. Mrs. Starling
is probably the only person alive today who still calls prostitutes “harlots.”
As I approached LaGuardia, past the Frisbee games on the quad, I noticed everyone had come
outdoors. Avis said she almost swallowed all her Darvon today. Something happened
yesterday over the phone between her and Scott.
I saw Scott this morning and he said that he just wanted to talk last evening, but I got the feeling
there was something more concrete he wanted to say to me.
Avis went to Greek; Stanley to the movies; Steve Cooper and Stacy to conspire or whatever it is
they do together; Leon and Jacob went to the Pub to get drunk; so I was left alone on the
LaGuardia steps.
But Renee came along and we went for lunch together. Apparently married life agrees with
her. Yet I wonder if she’s not just playing house.
Craig Kutner let me see his Soc notes and I walked with Gary to the library to get some books
out.
At my session with Dr. Wouk, we discussed many things, but nothing really substantial. Still, I
felt better afterwards. Driving through Prospect Park, I saw Jacob walking to his place. I
stopped for a minute and watched him. I really admire Jacob; “coming out” must take a lot of
courage.
I spent tonight with Karl Marx and Erik Erikson, preparing for tomorrow’s Soc quiz.
Wednesday, March 1, 1972

An incredibly warm first day of March: it reached 73° and felt more like June. On campus this
morning, I sat with Avis, Elihu and Elspeth.
Jacob came by, saying he’d been kind of drunk yesterday in the park. He’s leaving April 1 for a
gay commune north of San Francisco and said he’ll come to my EXCO course to learn about
herbs.
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The Spigot came out with a blistering attack on Kingsman, especially on Karen, Maddy and
Manny. I’m embarrassed to say that I ever had anything to do with the Spigot, which is now a
journalistic nightmare. They even referred to me in an article as “Richard Grayson of SVR
(Student Volunteer Resources).” Huh?
Beer’s Soc test was ridiculous, with one question having about 14 multiple choice answers (like
“a, c and e” or “b, c and e”) and even more bizarre questions and answer choices than that. He
must have been stoned when he made it up. Gary, Craig, Felicia and I wrote him nasty notes.
Outside in the summery weather, I fooled around for awhile and finally went to lunch with
Timmy. He told me the story of the weekend at New Paltz and now I understand why Marvin
and Stacy are so mad at Scott:
On the trip Scott made it with a girl Timmy had made it clear he was interested in first (the girl
later threw Scott out of bed and is now writing to Timmy), ran through the New Paltz girls’
dorm naked, committed statutory rape on a drunk girl and did many other obnoxious things.
I realize that Scott’s very sick and needs help and sympathy. Marvin told Timmy that Scott’s
promiscuity is part of his illness, but he’s still really furious).
Timmy’s story made it clear why Stacy was so pissed off at Scott, and later today I apologized
to her for telling her to shut up about Scott yesterday.
I spent the afternoon with Bill Rothbard, who’s running for Prez with JSU support, and his new
girlfriend Laurie Fischer as well as with Mike, Melvin and the rest of the usual gang of idiots. I
think Carl is interested in Avis; it’s just a hunch though.
Later I spoke to Ronna, who’s been ill, has put on weight, and doesn’t look well.
Tonight we had our Mugwump caucus, and after interviews, we took to balloting. After Harry
left the race, we were stuck with a tie until Harry and Leroy broke it by switching from Mike to
Mikey.
So Mikey is our nominee for Prez. I’ve got the feeling, I told Paul as I drove him to Kharma
House, that the Mugwump nominee is all Mikey will ever be.
Thursday, March 2, 1972
[286]
I feel weary tonight, as though I had been through a lot. It was another springlike 70° day and
just beautiful outside.
In LaGuardia this morning, I was with Peter when Susan Felsher joined us. She told me that
Marc and her sister Riesa were smoking the other night in their house; I wonder what else those
“kids” do. But Marc is a good brother and I love him a lot.
In English, we read over the Books of Joshua and Judges. I spotted Pam Wright after class; she’s
graduating and getting married soon.
When I approached LaGuardia, I saw a crowd out in front, and in the crowd was Jerry, who did
not acknowledge my greeting. I asked Avis, who was sitting on the side, to have lunch with me
and she said okay.
We had bad pizza for lunch and we got tickets for tomorrow night’s movie at school. Avis is
excited about driving her new car, but she’s pretty lonely. Yet as much as I want to help her get
through this difficult time, I’d like to have a relationship with a girl that is less platonic and
more sexual.
I hope to ask out Debbie. Both Timmy and Mike said, “She’s after your ass.” I don’t know
about that, but I do think she likes me.
My first experience on the College Curriculum Committee was interesting. The committee –
Profs. Kaye (English), Shoemaker (Classics), Eisen (Physics), Verbit (Soc), Lifshin (Geo) and
Cantwell (Ed); Elspeth, Suzanne, Mike and Elihu; the registrar, Charles Wantman – went over
some new courses in Puerto Rican Studies and Psychology.
I was so tired after the meeting that I went to LaGuardia briefly, just to give Mike his birthday
present, then came home.
It was Jerry’s birthday today too, and I noticed a bottle of Liebfraumilch on the LaGuardia
steps. (Later in the day, Gary called and told me that Jerry got very drunk and became even
louder and more obnoxious than usual.)
I see Shelli from time to time, but it’s just like seeing anybody else in LaGuardia. I know now
that I never really loved her; as Mike said (he’ll be a good shrink someday), it was only because
of my inferiority complex that I thought only an unattractive girl like Shelli could love me.
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Shelli repels me now, and I feel only a sense of a pity for her. She eats so very much, but she’s
starved emotionally – and neither Jerry nor any boyfriend can help her.
Friday, March 3, 1972

The three-day spring ended abruptly today as a cold, hard rain fell o the city. I awoke late and
got to school at 9:30. I decided not to go to Kitch’s class, as I hadn’t read the book, and Melvin
informed me that Beer wasn’t in today.
So I hung around in the lobby, reading Kingsman and trading quips with Leon, Avis, Laurie,
Elihu and Steve Cooper. The EXCO ad was in the paper; my herb course begins on Monday
and I hope to make it pretty good, not just a joke.
But you know, I’m beginning to question the value of frittering away the hours by just sitting
around LaGuardia. It’s such a closed society: the same old people day after day. I guess I feel
secure there; well, I know I do. It’s a place where I’m somebody and where people know who I
am.
We went to Campus Corner for coffee: me, Avis, Mason, Stacy and Shelli. Shelli’s now taking
opera lessons, and I guess I can see her as Brunhilde. She says she’s on a really strict diet – 900
calories a day – because she has very high blood pressure. All that excess weight she carries
around can’t help her, poor kid.
But she and Jerry may be coming to see The Damned tonight, and I don’t want to sit with them;
being with Stacy and Steve is one thing, Shelli and Jerry quite another.
Avis and I went back to her apartment, where we watched soap operas, played with her canary
and just talked a bit. I’ve grown closer to Avis than I’ve been with any girl in these past
months.
Stacy says there’s no such thing as a platonic relationship. Is she right?

Back at school, I had a very good talk with Timmy, Mike and Laurie. Mike’s going to be a
psychologist to work with psychotics because he says that neurotics can help themselves. He’s
a good shrink and a good friend.
So is Timmy, who is working to solve his problems honestly. As he said the other day, “Scott is
as unsure of his masculinity as I am, but we handle it in different ways.” I caught Debbie before
her class; I hope she comes to my course Monday.
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Mom, whose 41st birthday is today, is leaving for the country tonight with Dad, Jonny and
Jeffrey Bonchek from down the street. And I’m leaving soon to pick up Avis for the movie at
Whitman.
Saturday, March 4, 1972

It was snowing when I picked up Avis at her apartment last night. I met her mother; I gather
Avis doesn’t get along too well with her parents, but who does?
We found Stacy and Steve Cooper (thankfully Shelli and Jerry were not there) and the four of us
sat together. Snake was there with Steve Sasanoff, and I told Snake I’d come to his EXCO course
on contemporary literature this Wednesday night.
Carole was sitting in front of us with Hymie, and I could hear the gears clicking in her brain,
taking everything in as she watched the four of us behind her.
The movie, The Damned, was really good – I’d seen it before – showing moral dissolution and
perversions in Germany as Hitler rose to power.
After the movie, Stacy and Steve followed us in their car to my house, where we had had hot
chocolate and apples and sat around the living room, talking. It was a pleasant night with a lot
of nice conversation (and a lot of sexual references).
Stacy and Steve make a really nice couple; they left at 12:30 AM, and I agreed with Avis when
she said it’d be nice if they had an affair. Avis and I went upstairs and talked in my bedroom:
she about Scott, her childhood, sex; me about Shelli, my childhood, and sex.
I don’t know what she wants of our relationship, but I don’t even think she knows herself. She
still adores Scott and speaks with him, but they’re apparently not going to get back together.
I told Avis a lot of things about myself that I’ve told very few people. We lay in my bed, and I
stroked her hair, but I was hesitant about going any further. At 2 AM I took her home and
didn’t get much sleep afterwards.
Gisele woke me when she rang the doorbell at noon today. I did a lot of herb-shopping today
and I spent time reading up on the subject.
Gary told me he is already having trouble with his new car. After dinner, I went to Rockaway
and visited with Grandpa Nat and Grandma Sylvia, who were all packed for their trip to Miami
tomorrow.
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I was tired tonight so I stayed in. I didn’t want to call Avis because I’m afraid of things
happening too fast, of becoming too close, of getting hurt again.
Sunday, March 5, 1972

A cool, cloudy March Sunday. I find that I am getting more out of life day by day. Though
there are disappointments, setbacks, even tragedies, there is so much in this world that makes
life exciting. I wish there were more hours in the day so I could enjoy things more.
I awoke early, and after breakfast, drove out to Manhattan. I never tire of the drive along the
Belt Parkway; the open road makes me feel free and good and alive.
I parked on Herald Square and went to the McAlpin Hotel. Hotel lobbies are fun to hang out in
on Sunday mornings. I sat around, pretending to be a tourist. And in a way I will always be a
tourist (“Heavy,” as Shelli used to say).
Anyway, I went to the Second Annual Natural Health Food Show and took in the exhibits of
vitamins and natural cosmetics, sampled carrot juice and organic apple pie, and listened to a
lecture by Miss Finland of 1930, a 70-year-old woman who looks younger than 40, on how she
stays that way.
Leaving the show, I drove around a bit and walked through Times Square. I find the squalor of
that area almost quaintly charming.
Back home in Brooklyn, I spent the afternoon reading and working. I watched the debate of the
Democratic contenders in the New Hampshire primary. Muskie has been hailed as a shoo-in
for months, but I think McGovern may run a good second.
I called Avis, who said that Scott invited himself over this afternoon and they smoked and
played Risk. Am I jealous? A little, maybe, but if they can work out their problems, I’ll be
happy. And I’m glad about my decision not to get too close too soon. I don’t want to be tied
down to one girl at this point.
I spoke later to Alice. Living by herself is lonely, but she’s got her work (evicting people out of
Vanderveer) and night school. She’s still seeing Andreas, but since he’s busy in New Jersey a
lot, she doesn’t get to be with him too often.
[290]
We made a tentative dinner day for next Friday night and caught up on each other’s lives – The
Grayson-Connors Report, I call it. Alice is such a good friend.
Monday, March 6, 1972

Last night at 11:30, the phone rang. I answered it, but no one said anything, and after a while,
the person on the other end hung up. It was the same kind of call I got the night of Stan’s
wedding, also a Sunday night, late.
My number is listed under Marc’s name, but I get the distinct feeling that it was somebody I
know and I wonder if it could have been Shelli. If it was her both times, it makes sense, as
Sunday night is when Jerry leaves for Albany.
What is she after? The whole thing gets curiouser and curiouser.
Which brings us to English this morning, as Kitch ended our discussion of Through the Looking-
Glass. Scott sat next to me and we talked a little, but most of his attention was reserved for this
girl with whom he kept flirting.
Timmy said that it’s all because Scott is unsure of his masculinity, but when I repeated that to
Avis, she said that his masculinity is the only thing Scott is confident about. I wonder; Avis has
got a blind spot about him, but I guess that’s how it is.
Beer again cancelled class and I sat around in LaGuardia for awhile and then went with Jacob
and Gary to have lunch in the teachers’ cafeteria. I was nonplussed when one of Jacob’s gay
friends came over and kissed him; it seems almost natural.
We then walked into a classroom in Whitehead, where I was to give my “Herbal Remedies”
EXCO course. It went off surprisingly well; I talked for over an hour about herbs, tisanes,
vitamins, and I knew more about the subject than I thought I did.
But it really love my herbs and I guess that’s what counts. Still, I have new respect for teachers;
it’s very hard work, trying to talk interestingly for a period.
At least none of the 20 people walked out in the middle, and some even took notes. Gary and
Jacob were there, of course, and so were Mark Friedberg, Avis – and Shelli.
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We all went to the health food store on Flatbush and Glenwood afterwards. Somehow I got the
feeling that Shelli is interested in me once again. She keeps complimenting me on how I look
and shit like that.
Anyway, I walked Avis home, drove Gary to his place on Nostrand Avenue, then came home to
study, exercise and rest. Mom and Dad live, eat and sleep the hotel now and they’re worried it
won’t be ready to open on time.
Tuesday, March 7, 1972

A mild, sunny day. On campus early this morning, I went into the SG office and found Harvey
talking with Mike. Harvey has all but given up on student government; he’d resign, he said,
but he didn’t want to leave Sue with “this mess.”
Harvey said that Craig will probably get The Alignment nomination: “He wants it so bad he can
taste it.”
Sitting around with Pete and Elihu, I decided I wasn’t going to class, and when Avis came along
with a joint in her pocketbook, I willingly went with her t the lily pond.
We got nice and stoned, but not wrecked. The construction workers on top of Ingersoll
watched us and started singing things like “Fly Me to the Moon.”
Avis and I were joined later by Steve Cooper, who smoked with us, and Ira, who abstained. It
was a beautiful morning and we just sat and talked for awhile and everything was quite
pleasant. Ira’s a real nice guy.
I went with Avis to the Junction so she could get some ice cream, then returned to LaGuardia
after she went to class. Leon had a meeting of this committee he’s on, trying to institute a film
studies major; it sounds good and might also provide teaching jobs for Leon and Stanley.
Renee said she’ll see me on Friday night, so I guess Alice is having a real-live dinner party. I
went to lunch with Mikey and Mike, who had just come back from a meeting with Pres. Kneller.
It seems that DESU and Hoa Binh want Kneller to do something about the unrepresentative
student government, and Kneller’s idea was to form a review committee. Mikey said that he’s
asked Lisa Scher (of Women’s Lib and the Grapevine) to be his running mate, but she hasn’t yet
accepted.
[292]
As I walked to the Junction leaving school, I was annoyed by Shelli; I just can’t stand her
anymore. As I said to Dr. Wouk an hour later, she’s probably itching to play me against Jerry
again so she’ll be “pursued” by two men. Well, I’m not going to fall into her sick games.
Dr. Wouk brought up the idea of group therapy, but I’m not sure how I feel about it yet.
Muskie won the N.H. primary, but with less than 50% of the vote; McGovern got a moral
victory with 35%, with Hartke, Yorty and Mills far behind.

It was a dreary, drizzly morning, but it turned into a sunny afternoon and a very pleasant
evening. Tonight I feel as though there’s some kind of unformed promise in the air. If only it
would reveal itself...or would that take away some fun?
In English 59 this morning, Kitch showed us various examples of literary criticism that are
parodied in The Pooh Perplex. Scott sat next to me and he seems pretty together now but said he
may give up his “strict Freudian” shrink.
In Soc, we had a discussion on women’s lib during which I learned that Lisa, who’s in the class,
agreed to run for V.P. with Mikey.
Beer gave back the tests, and I got an A and so am assured of getting an A in the course. Gary
got a B and I was a bit annoyed at his grubbing for points the way he always does.
The two of us had lunch in the deli with Steve Cohen, who seems okay although he sometimes
seems to be drifting off. Steve and I went back to LaGuardia, but he left soon after when
Pauline came, so I went to talk with Steve Cooper.
He said that after today’s hearing on Third World Edition, the JSU-dominated Student
Activities Committee voted to revoke their charter. What racists these Jews are.
The campus is falling apart. The budget crisis may be the death knell of BC and all of CUNY.
And everyone is predicting some kind of riot later this term.
Cutting Creative Writing again (they were discussing my story today), I went home for the
afternoon. Grandpa Herb and Grandma Ethel came over; she’s still in a lot of pain and
Grandpa still doesn’t have a job.
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Richard Grayson
This evening I went to Snake’s “Up Against Contemporary Lit” EXCO course, which met in
Midwood High. I hadn’t been there in years, and it felt so funny as I walked through those
(bad) memory-filled halls.
Snake was coming from his job as a proofreader at Dell (Laura now works there too) and about
ten people showed up. We decided to start with Vonnegut. Snake is one of the few real
geniuses I know, and I’m proud to be his friend.
I called Kjell tonight, and we rapped for a long time, about grad schools (he hasn’t been
accepted yet), Gary’s eccentricities, and things in general. I wish I could see more of Kjell and
Sharon.
I also called Brad, but Les, friendly as always, told me Brad had gone out for the evening.
A cold but sunny day. In LaGuardia this morning, Mikey showed me a letter written,
ostensibly by Larry Simon, but actually by Jerry, telling Mikey’s Poli Sci teacher that Mikey was
working for Simon.
Mikey also told me that he had seen Debbie and she sent her apologies for missing my EXCO
course.
In English, we went over the monumental story of David; our first test is on Tuesday. I met
Kjell after class. Isn’t that funny? I hadn’t seen him in weeks, then the day after I call him... I
guess it’s always like that.
Josef said that Galin had said that my “Coping,” despite its flaws, was excellent. And I was
afraid to go to Creative Writing yesterday! Overhearing this, Shelli said I underestimate myself
and my writing talent.
Avis, Steve Cooper, Carl, Ira and I went to the deli for lunch. On the way, I kidded Avis about
being with all these guys, teasing her that she was acting like Stacy.
And she replied that she’d been over at Stacy’s last night and that Stacy had told her how
everyone had been “shitting” on her (Avis), but I guess that means Scott mostly.
I think Avis is interested in Ira – and vice versa, so it looks like we won’t see each other this
weekend. And this comes about just as I was beginning to believe that she and I might really
have something nice going. But asi es la vida.
[294]
The Curriculum Committee meeting today was devoted to theater workshop courses in the
Speech Department, and I spoke up at the meeting as I feel out the various faculty members:
Prof. Kay is pompous; Shoemaker’s a fluttery doll; Verbit’s a schmuck.
After the meeting, Mike said he’s quite about a JSU-Third World confrontation, and not just a
word-confrontation, either. I drove Bill Rothbard to the bowling alley for his Phys Ed class on
my way home. Bill said he’s been suing girls as sex-objects lately – tsk, tsk.
Driving around later, I saw Scott’s friend Marvin working on his car by his house. I pulled my
car over and introduced myself (he didn’t remember me) and we talked as he tinkered with the
engine.
Marvin said he and Timmy talked to Scott on Tuesday, but that the only way they could
reconcile would be if a long time cooled things down and if Scott’s personality changed.
Marvin seems like a really together person.

Last term Prof. Merritt gave our class Wordsworth’s definition of poetry: “emotion recollected
in tranquility.” For the past few days, my entries have been like that, but I’m afraid that this is
going to be one of my self-pitying tirades.
Things are not really bad; it’s just that a lot of little things today bothered me. It’s as though
psychic termites are boring into my mind. For one thing, my sinuses have been killing me all
day; the air pollution must be very bad today.
It was a bright, cold day. For the first time I met Donna, Mike’s girlfriend, who says she avoids
LaGuardia and its people. I’ve begun to think she has the right idea.
When I entered the lobby, Ira and Avis were off talking in the corner. I asked Avis if she
wanted to go to the hotel with me next weekend and she declined. But then Ira brought up the
idea of going to these cabins upstate near Albany for Easter and she was more than enthusiastic.
Elspeth said that she’d like to go along with the, and just as stupidly, I said I’d go, too. As I
walked to class, it struck me that Ira and Avis probably want to be alone with each other.
Maybe I’m misinterpreting, but I guess my feelings for Avis are a little stronger than I was
willing to admit.
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Richard Grayson
Before English, Scott told me about going with a girl to the ballet last night, and then a girl came
over, kissed him, and he walked away with her instead of going to class.
In English, we discussed literary criticism, and in Soc, Lisa led a discussion of women’s identity
problems. I’m warming to Lisa now, as a person and as a V.P. candidate.
I’ve been kind of annoyed at Gary lately, as he’s been so wrapped up in material things: his new
car, grades, etc. But I don’t want another rift to develop between us.
I went to lunch at Roma II with Mikey, Carl, Suzanne and Leon. The talk was fun, but the veal
cutlet made me quite nauseous.
I sat in LaGuardia lobby for awhile, listening to the gentle music coming from the guitars of
Stacy and her sister, but my stomachache didn’t go away, so I came home for an absolutely
wretched afternoon.
Mom, Dad and Jonny are going to the hotel for the weekend again, and I’m supposed to have
dinner at Alice’s tonight although I don’t really feel up to it.

It’s 8:30 PM. Marc has gone over to Cynthia’s house for the evening, and I’m in his room,
sipping licorice tea and listening to the Grateful Dead, all alone in this big house.
But I’m not lonely at all. I feel very serene tonight, just as if everything in the world seems to be
tjotjog, the Javanese term for things fitting together.
Last night was very pleasant. I arrived at Alice’s at 6:30 and found her in the kitchen with
Robert. He’s moved to a new apartment near Columbia and seems to enjoy grad school there,
although he said a lot of people there exist only as intellectuals, not as real people.
Renee arrived with her husband and I got my first look at Bernard Birnbaum. The best way I
can think of to describe him would be as a Jewish Bobby McLendon: an awkward beanpole
scientist and rather dull. He and Renee do not seem to go together – but such is life, I suppose.
Alice served veal parmigiana, which I enjoyed despite my bad experience with veal at lunch
yesterday. Alice looks a bit lonely; I don’t think she sees Andreas as often as she’d like to.
[296]
Robert mentioned that he saw Jacob in the Brooklyn Museum “with his friend, holding hands.”
Robert said Jacob “got mixed up with a bad bunch of people.” I said that to me, Jacob seems
very happy, happier than ever before. I hope he is, anyway.
After dinner, we drove over the Birnbaums’ basement apartment and admired their crushed
velvet couch, which seems incongruous surrounded by cinder blocks and other junk.
We had tea and coffee and cake and we talked. Renee showed Alice the card she’d gotten from
Howie, a name from the past; Alice didn’t react visibly to that.
I left early and come home and fell fast asleep. Thank God Gisele came in to clean up today so I
was able to go out. I drove into Manhattan and spent the afternoon at the Met.
There’s so much to see there: musical instruments, furniture, and costumes in addition to my
favorite paintings, like Seurat’s study for “Grand Jatte.”
Later, I spoke to Gary, who’s just about given up on Eileen. It seems that she’d rather go skiing
with her girlfriends than go out with him. To me, she seems very peculiar and a little too much
of a JAP. But even if they “break up,” Gary will survive.
We always do survive, you know. Grandma Sylvia writes that she’s feeling better in Miami.

A miserable rainy, cold, stormy day. I feel ugly tonight. I’ve put on weight again and I feel fat.
And if I didn’t feel lonely last night, I do now.
I woke up in the middle of last night and I desperately wanted Avis; I almost think that I love
her. But perhaps it’s more that I need her, a neurotic thing. I want to hug her and kiss her and
sleep with her and hold her in my arms and never let her go.
Just thinking about Avis makes me horny. But what’s the use? She’s never looked at me as
anything but a platonic friend; she could love Ira or Carl the way she loved Scott, but not me.
What is it that I’m lacking?
I guess I haven’t really grown up at all in these past six months despite what I’ve been telling
myself or what others (even Shelli) have been telling me.
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Richard Grayson
Well, I’m going to crack down on myself and stick to a diet, study hard, not waste time, get into
a lot of things, become more independent and try to grow up.
Living alone will help, I suppose. Except for Marc, the family will be away in the country every
weekend now and I’m learning to be self-sufficient.
This morning I cleaned up the house after breakfast, and then, to clear my heard of cobwebs, I
took a drive through Rockaway.
I saw Tiger, Ivan’s dog, bounding along Rockaway Beach Boulevard, followed by the black
maid. I wonder how Ian is, but I’m not going to call him, not after he never acknowledged my
birthday gift.
At home, I spent a couple of hours reading the mammoth Sunday Times. The Florida primary
Tuesday will be won by Wallace riding a wave of anti-busing feeling, but if Muskie doesn’t
finish a strong second (and he might not; Humphrey may), I don’t see how they can keep
calling him the “front runner.”
Gary came over and we took a drive to Manhattan Beach in his new Impala, which rides well.
Mark is pretty disgusted with Eileen by this point.
I tried to call Mark Savage, to wish him a happy birthday, but no one was at home, I spent a
good hour studying the Bible.
Mom, Dad and Jonny returned this evening from the hotel that is taking over this family’s life;
I’m getting sick of hearing about it all the time.
Monday, March 13, 1972

A cool, sunny day. I arrived on campus at 10:30 this morning, too late to go to English, and I
didn’t go to Soc, either. I sat around in LaGuardia, talking with Leon and Alan Karpoff.
Leon’s gotten accepted to several grad schools for Comp Lit, but he may not go next September
and instead might work or buy a farm.
The Assembly was supposed to do the budget today, but I didn’t go to the meeting or listen to
the discussions of Steve Cooper, Aaron or the others about it. I’m just so turned off by politics
and student government now.
[298]
Alex came in; it’s spring vacation at the University of Pennsylvania law school. Alex looks fine
and is as pragmatically ebullient as ever. Sherie came in and they went off to lunch with Steve
Cohen.
It must have been old Vice President’s Day, for I met Bruce Baltz, still on his Zionist kick.
I had lunch with Avis. I don’t really think that I love her, but I do feel very affectionately
toward her. She’s sort of seeing Scott again.
They came to my EXCO course together, along with five or six others. Today we made some
herbal teas and rapped about a lot of things; the kids in the group want to start an herb garden
on campus.
After the class, I returned to LaGuardia, where Leon, Mason, Mikey and I discussed how horny
we were. Carole gave me an invitation to her engagement party, which is in SUBO in late April.
I’ll go, just for fun. Why not?
In Creative Writing, Mr. Galin seemed to like my story; he really praised my writing. On
Wednesday we will discuss my play, all 62 pages of it.
In LaGuardia, I saw Shelli with Jerry and I smiled broadly at Jerry but got no response. I now
feel that I’m superior to them; I’ve gotten to healthy for Shelli’s sick games, or Jerry’s, for that
matter.
After a coke with Ira, I went home to study for tomorrow’s Bible test. Mark Savage called me at
9 PM to thank me for the birthday card. I met him and Consuelo at Jahn’s half an hour later,
and Mark got his free birthday sundae there.
He seems to be a bit unhappy at his job at Newsday; as h said, “I feel like I’m in limbo.” But he
really loves Consuelo, and she is a very sweet and loving person despite her eccentricities.
Tuesday, March 14, 1972

It’s almost midnight now. I’ve spent the evening watching the results of the Florida primary.
That ole racist, George Wallace, took 42% of the vote and nearly all the delegates, sweeping the
field in the anti-busing tide.
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Richard Grayson
Hubert Humphrey took second place with 18%, followed by Scoop Jackson with 14%. They
both should be helped. The so-called front runner Muskie finished a miserable fourth with 9%
and Lindsay and McGovern at about 6% each. The Democratic race is in a shambles.
But the day for me began early. I drove to school in a pouring rain and took the Bible test. It
was all right and I think I wrote a fairly good essay, comparing Jacob to David.
I had lunch afterwards with Mikey, Mike and Steve Cooper. Telling them about last night’s
dinner with Mark and Consuelo Savage, they agreed that Consuelo was weird.
But Mikey quoted Jerry as saying that marrying Consuelo was the best thing to ever happen to
Mark. So Mike said, “What does he know? Look who he’s going out with.”
Then Mikey looked at me and said to Mike, “You’re very tactful, you know?” And Mike said,
“Richie knows I think he was stupid for going with Shelli.”
I think it was put better earlier in the day by Scott when he said that a year ago Shelli and I were
“two lost souls.” Anyway, I really enjoy talking to Mikey, Mike and Steve; we’re really sort of a
family or a fraternity.
A heavy hailstorm was falling as we left the restaurant, and as I cancelled my appointment with
Dr. Wouk – I felt I needed a “vacation” from therapy – I just hung around LaGuardia.
In the lobby, I talked with Elspeth and Elihu and Laurie and Mason. The latter was really horny
today. (I was getting horny, too, especially watching Sheryl. I really enjoy looking at girls who
don’t wear bras. God, what pleasure.)
I drove Scott home. He was with Avis yesterday, but he says he has no plans to date her again,
although that might change. He said Avis is really “getting herself together,” and while he was
on the subject, he said the same thing was true of me, that I was definitely more “together” than
either Shelli or Jerry.
Jerry, Scott said, used to really put me down all the time when they double-dated. It must be
terrible to be so bitter: about Elspeth, about his mother, about me. I really feel sorry for Jerry –
and for Shelli too.
[300]
A curious day. This morning on campus, I sat with Avis and Mike and Ira, talking about
nothing as we usually do.
In English, Kitch and the class went over more styles of literary criticism. I’m finding myself
more drawn to literature and language and stuff and less drawn to politics and social science.
I cut Soc, as did Gary, and we went to the Pub for an early lunch with Leon and Alan Karpoff.
Gary doesn’t fit in too well with them, and there was a definite strain. But I enjoy variety, and I
enjoy the company of Leon and I’m going to continue being friends with him as well as with
Gary.
The Spigot came out, with more shit about JSU this and JSU that. Dean West told me they’re
being extremely obnoxious, trying to run everything, including the Brooklyn College
administration.
I decided to spend club hours, watching Tristana, the Buñuel film Leon was showing. I sat with
Mikey and Mason and tired to concentrate on the film despite the fact that the burger I had for
lunch was wreaking havoc with my stomach.
Then I looked towards the back of the screening room and I saw Jerry walk past Scott and the
girl he was with and sit down. Then I kept thinking of all the put-downs Scott said he used
about me, and that upset me.
After the film, I quickly left for LaGuardia, where I met Debbie, who came with me to my
Creative Writing class and listened to the class’s criticism (mostly good) of my play. It’s funny;
they found things in it that I didn’t know I had written.
Anyway, Mr. Galin called me over after class to stay late. He said parts of the play were
“wonderful” and that I had “a lot of talent.” Debbie and I made plans to meet tomorrow and I
felt jubilant as I entered LaGuardia.
Bubbling over, I chatted with Shelli until Jerry came and took her away without a glance at me.
But I saw her unexpectedly again tonight, at Snake’s EXCO course in SUBO.
Snake’s going to be a great teacher. I really got a lot of our discussion of Vonnegut’s Cat’s
Cradle, which I had Shelli read when we were going together.
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Richard Grayson
Anyway, at the end of Snake’s class, Shelli called me aside and said she felt strangely ill and
asked me about my anxiety attacks and if they were similar. She looked awful, and sucker that
I am, I drove her home.
But was she really ill or was it something else?

It started raining tonight, lighting and thunder, a real storm. It makes me feel secure to be in
the house, looking out the window at the rain.
I woke up late and got to school at 10:30. I read Peter’s newspaper until time came to go to
class. In English, Mrs. Starling gave me back the book of Yiddish plays I’d lent her and we did
Hebrew poetry in the Bible.
There is real beauty in those poems. The exquisite parallelism makes you think about it a lot,
and isn’t that what poetry should do? Of course, Mrs. Starling’s a little eccentric – she’s
optimistic and cheerful to the point of obnoxiousness – but she’s a dear old lady.
I walked back to LaGuardia with Sue and waited for Mike to come out of lab so we could have
lunch together. After Mike got the money Bob owed him, we went to the deli and had a good
talk, sitting across from Dean Archie and Bob Grossman, Kneller’s legal adviser.
Mike is sort of a surrogate shrink to me, and when I told him about what happened last night at
Snake’s EXCO course, he said, “I think Shelli is turning off Jerry and wants you back.”
“But of course,” he continued, “that’s the last thing you want.” He told me how his girlfriend
said that she and everyone else in Shelli’s Psych 25 class laughed at her because she’s so fat and
stupid.
Back on campus, I sat around with some of the gang. Debbie’s been reading my play and she
likes it. I think she likes me, too, but I haven’t as yet decided how I feel about her other than
that she’s a nice girl.
Marie said she and her fellow sportswriter, Eloise, are going to Italy next week. I wish I could
go.
Mikey was waiting to be interviewed by a leftist third world kind of group, led by Pablo Cruz,
the only Puerto Rican in the Assembly.
[302]
I saw Shelli as I was leaving and she said sweetly, “Thank you for last night!” I mumbled back,
“You’re welcome” and immediately left for home to exercise and watch soaps.
This evening I got a call from Shelli, wanting to know what book Snake was doing next week,
that she had “nothing to do tonight” and wanted to buy it; I told her I’d give her my extra copy
of Slaughterhouse-Five tomorrow.
Ironically, it’s the very book I offered to Jerry when he came to my house last fall, the book he
accused me of trying to “buy his friendship” with. Things are getting interesting, but I will not
get emotionally involved with Shelli again.

I’m home all alone, spending a quiet evening by myself – but I’m not bored and I’m not even
lonely. The rest of the family went to the country for the weekend, so I’m holding down the fort
here for the next couple of days.
This morning it was drizzling slightly when I arrived at school, sat down in the lobby and read
Kingsman. The Student Activity Fee Review Committee was the main story; half-faculty and
half-student, it will supposedly review the way the Assembly has allocated funds.
Prof. Kitch did not show up this morning, so I returned to LaGuardia, sitting down between
Leon and Timmy. Shelli came in, with Jerry; as soon as he saw me, he put his arm around her.
He does that whenever I’m in their presence: on Wednesday, on Monday, at Sunday, Bloody
Sunday. It’s sort of an act of possession, to prove to everyone and me (and maybe even
himself?) that Shelli is his.
I no longer get any kind of sick feeling when I see them together. I feel a lot more “together,” to
use Scott’s term, than either of them.
I gave Shelli Slaughterhouse-Five, and as I left for Scot, she flirtingly cooed, “Poo-tee-weet” (the
final word in the book) after me. I turned around and gave her a quick, false smile.
Beer said he’d give me, Gary, Felicia and Craig A’s in the course, so we left. Gary was upset
because he was a weekend in Westchester on Reserve duty. We had lunch with Alan Karpoff,
Mikey and Mike. The latter pair were discouraged by the meeting yesterday because they don’t
think they’ll get that third world group’s support.
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Richard Grayson
Mikey is being urged by Jerry and Leon to chuck running for SG President and instead take up
an offer to run as a McGovern delegate to Miami in our congressional district.
I learned that Mikey was with Jerry at a political meeting last night. That helps explain things.
Avis asked me up to her apartment this afternoon and we talked and had a real good time,
discussing how sick everyone in LaGuardia is. I overheard her on the phone that she was going
out with Shelli and Jerry tonight.
Anyway, after dinner, I drove into Manhattan, but I evidently I just managed to miss Avis at the
Postgraduate Center. I drove around in the city rain and even called up Brad to see if I could
come up, but he was busy.
So I came home and her I remain, relaxing and reading, blissfully alone.

It’s 6 PM now on this clear, breezy day and I’ve just finished dinner: a hamburger made by
yours truly. Avis called about an hour ago and we decided to do something together tonight.
There were no good movies playing that at least one of us hadn’t already seen, so Avis said
we’d just spend a quiet evening at my house, watching TV or smoking or whatever. She’s
bringing her car over here in about an hour, so I don’t have any driving to do.
I slept very well all by myself in this big house. I had pleasant dreams of going places, to
Boston and to Chicago. I fixed myself breakfast and decided that I would take a little excursion
to celebrate being alive on a sunny, almost-spring day.
I got on the Belt and went over the Verrazano Bridge, which no longer seems very awesome. I
drove through Richmond along the road leading to New Jersey. It doesn’t take long to cross
Staten Island and I was feeling good, driving 60, 65, 70 miles an hour.
I crossed the Goethals Bridge and emerged in New Jersey – Elizabeth, to be exact. I found it a
dreary place and full of smokestacks and cables, so I turned around and went back to Staten
Island, getting off the expressway at Todt Hill Road and rambling up winding countrified roads
for awhile.
[304]
I like Staten Island – the parts that are quaint and old-fashioned, anyway. I got myself back to
Brooklyn without getting lost once, a major accomplishment.
Back home, I made lunch and then was off again, to the Georgetowne Theater, to see The Last
Picture Show. I’m glad I finally caught it, for it’s as good as everyone says it is.
The film is filled with so many great scenes that showed the loneliness, sterility and emptiness
of a small Texas town in the early 1950s. I really enjoyed it.
I’m going to try to write a screenplay of my own soon, as I’ve fallen in love with “the cinema,”
as it’s pompously called by Stanley.
After I shopped in Hill’s for some food and came home, Dad called, saying they’d be back
tomorrow and that things at the hotel are going well.
Soon Avis will be here and I’ve got to get ready. I’ve got this funny feeling that tonight is going
to be a major disaster.

The family came home tonight after I had dinner by myself at the Floridian. They said that the
hotel is a mess – and it’s supposed to open for Passover in only ten days.
Last evening Avis came over at about 7 PM. We went for a drive in her car to Kings Highway,
where we bought a pound of walnuts to munch on during the evening.
It was a quiet, relaxing night. We went downstairs and sat in chairs next to each other, covered
by blankets, as it was kind of chilly in the basement.
Avis brought out a joint and we smoked it, getting pleasantly stoned and then giggling
hysterically at things that seemed terribly funny at the time. After watching a movie on
television, we came upstairs again and talked and listened to records.
Avis is a gentle person, almost like one of those mid-60s “flower children” – and I think that’s
her problem. She’s so sweet and never argues or raises her voice, so people take advantage of
her.
For instance, Shelli stood her up Friday night. And Scott used to walk all over her. She still
seems to be in love with him; they’re seeing each other but not going out.
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Richard Grayson
I gave her a short kiss as she got into her car; I guess this is going to be a platonic friendship
after all.
Soon after I awakened this morning, I received a phone call from Grandpa Nat, so I drove over
to Rockaway immediately after breakfast. He and Grandma Sylvia got back from Florida last
night and they look tanned.
But the big news was that they bought a condominium in North Miami. So now I have a place
to stay down there – a luxurious one, at that, so far as they describe it.
I guess Grandma Sylvia wants to live down there, but Grandpa Nat isn’t quite so sure. He
walked me over to the Sarretts’ apartment and told Grandma Ethel and Grandpa Herb that he
hadn’t slept for three nights before putting down the down payment.
Then he left and I had lunch with Grandma Ethel and Grandpa Herb, and afterwards the three
of us took a walk on the boardwalk enjoying the mild weather on this Passion Sunday, the very
last day of winter.
But so much of the beach has eroded away, leaving the bottom steps of the boardwalk stairs
hovering two feet above the sand. There may not be any beach this summer, but Grandpa Herb
says the Army Corps of Engineers may replenish the sand by piping it from the bay this spring.
I hope so.
[306]
Spring in Brooklyn
March – June 1975
Tuesday, April 1, 1975

It’s after midnight, so the first day of the cruelest month is over, and it was quite a good spring
day. It was sunny and in the 60°s. Before dinner I could sit out on the porch and read the
newspaper.
I saw Mrs. Ehrlich tonight at 7:15 p.m. The first thing I noticed was that the stairs of the Atlantic
Avenue loft building had been painted and the wooden stairs repaired. Mrs. E looked much the
same, and it was great to sit in my swivel chair facing her once again.
I recounted much of the last six months. I told her about my jobs at Alexander’s, at the Village
Voice, at the Flatbush public library and how I came to have the teaching job at LIU. I spoke of
my successful breakup with Ronna and my adjustment to not having a girlfriend.
I never really put it into words before tonight, but I found myself saying that I don’t really want
another girlfriend. I just don’t want to devote the time and emotional energy required in the
kind of intense relationships I had with Shelli and with Ronna.
Mrs. E felt that maybe that’s a sign that I’ve grown past the adolescent stage of always needing
someone around. I’m too jealous of my time alone now to give hours over to another person.
Right now my writing and my reading and my exercising are the most important things in my
life – especially my writing. I told Mrs. E about selling my first story and said frankly that I was
the most talented person in the MFA program.
She was pleased that I’m so sure of my ability. It’s not immodest to be honest about one’s
capabilities. Today I wrote another six pages of “Coping” and dashed off a slight humorous
piece called “The Virtues of Jethro.”
I await the mailman eagerly each day, but since January there have been no more acceptance
notices; perhaps I should send more stuff out.
[307]
Richard Grayson
I explained my encounter with Shelli and Jerry and their lifestyle, with Jerry having come out,
to Mrs. E. She seemed to think that my anger towards them may indeed be gone, especially
after I told her that Shelli and Jerry were “irrelevant” to my present life.
I mentioned how I coped with a stolen car and how good finding it in Brownsville by myself
made me feel. All in all, I’m more of a grownup, we agreed.
She wanted to know why I’d made the appointment, six months after I quit therapy. I told her
there were several reasons and in part, I wanted to show her that I could endure without
therapy.
Also, I admitted that I want her approval and her feedback about my present life. And I just
plain missed her and was thinking about her.
I told Mrs. E of my dream about not wanting to see her on a social level. I guess I don’t think
her as a goddess and me as a scared child anymore; we’re almost on the same level.
The dream seemed like a primitive taboo; now that I see myself as her equal, I recognize more
clearly the sexual undercurrent that always has been present in our relationship. And tonight I
recognized – no, I felt – that I wanted to go to bed with Mrs. E.
She said that if there’s ever anything specific that I want to work on, I could call her. “It’s good
to come home for the holidays,” I said to her. “Maybe I’ll have good things to tell you me about
me next time I see you.”
“It’s not necessary to tell me good things about yourself,” she replied.
“No,” I said. “I know you’ll accept me just as I am.” I felt sad to leave her but happy to know
that she’s still there if I need her as a therapist.
Perhaps that was another reason I came. After my experiences with Bob and Roz Wouk, I
wanted to make sure that Mrs. E is still around and hasn’t left the city.
Tonight I got a call from Steve Cooper, and we talked for an hour. Yesterday was the session in
Small Claims Court. Elihu came with his father and was all dressed up to make a good
impression.
[308]
But when they came before the arbitrator, Steve was well-prepared with notes and documents
stating he was at work in his office or in Florida at his parents’ house at the times the
international phone calls were made.
Elihu started off on the wrong foot with the arbitrator, Steve said, when the man asked both of
them what they did. Steve said he was a secretary at Columbia and Elihu stated he was a grad
student and tutored part-time at LIU. “So Daddy pays the bills,” the arbitrator said.
Elihu and his father lost the case and Steve was awarded $110, not everything he wanted, but he
felt it was a moral victory. Dr. Eisenstadt has to shell out the money and he must be angry with
Elihu. But I think Steve is right when he said he thought Shelli and Jerry were the ones who
made the phone calls and that Elihu was covering for them.
Wednesday, April 2, 1975

8 PM. I was just staring at this pleasant-looking fellow in the mirror, a young man with nice
hair and glasses that keep sliding down his nose and sprinkling of acne at the corner of his
mouth, a fellow with hazel eyes and what was once described by a girlfriend as a “Catholic
nose” and very little chin.
I asked him why he was living as he does. His reply was a shrug of his shoulders. But
seriously folks, as they say in the Borscht Belt (and we know from the Borscht Belt), what the
hell am I doing with my life?
Why have I turned myself into a recluse, a writing machine?
Why do I continue to exert myself every morning with my RCAF exercises (I invariably end up
in a pool of sweat, gasping for air) and in the afternoon with the Tensolator?
In hopes of finally looking like the guys with the big muscles on the inside covers of comic
books long thrown away? Because I remember Truman Capote once saying that writers need
physical exercise to create? Because Ronna used to quote Oscar Wilde saying much the same
thing? Because I want to acquire discipline?
Well, then, why do I trek out to public libraries, the way I did today, to come back with arms
full of T.S. Eliot, Freud, Jung, Borges and Peter DeVries? Because writers should read? Because
I want to be on the alert constantly for new material?
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Richard Grayson
And why do I fill notebook after notebooks with scrawls of half-remembered dreams and
snatches of phone conversations with friends and ideas for stories that will never get written?
Why do I write stories at all?
I finished “Coping” today, and I’m not sure it’s any good but I went out to have the story
xeroxed, spending five dollars. Why? How come I mail out stories to magazines I’ve never
heard of, and why am I so damn impatient until the mailman comes each day? I never get
acceptance notices.
Deep down, I’ve begun to wonder whether selling “Rampant Burping” to New Writers wasn’t a
fluke. After all, all they publish is writing from college programs, and maybe the editors just
wanted to get in good with Baumbach by publishing one of his students.
Why, why do I continue to live this weird, second-hand, once-removed kind of existence when I
know that “there’s no market for quality/experimental/counterculture/weird fiction by
new/unknown/obnoxiously know-it-all writers?
That, my friends, is the $64,000 Question. And the answer, my friends, is not blowing in any
wind but is relatively simple:
I want to do this. At least for now.
Right now I can’t stop writing, even though the rewards are not much evidence: a good word
from people in my program or a “nice” rejection letter from some little magazine editor.
My eyesight is going, slowly but surely, and typing gives me headaches, and I’m neurotic about
losing some of my precious manuscripts. Right at this moment, I’m disgusted, but I know that
by tomorrow morning I’ll be back at it again.
And I suppose that for this spring, at least, I’ll continue to live this way. The teaching job will
sustain me and I can always go over to BC or elsewhere to bullshit with Mason or Mavis or
Mikey when I need the sound and feel of another human being.
Josh was over today. He came on his bicycle, and he and I rode around for awhile. See, to me,
Josh isn’t a writer. I think he has talent and could develop it, but he’s not willing to make the
sacrifice. I don’t blame him for that.
[310]
God, I sound so smug and superior, just like the martyr Leon implied I was when he wrote on
my Safari Awards invitation, “Good for one trip on the Dallas Motorcade ride at Disneyland.”
Well, you know, Leon is in Madison, hanging out in that home for retarded people, soon to be
joined by the bankrupt (financially, that is, although Steve insists they’re morally bankrupt too)
Jerry and Shelli.
I do agree with Steve, though: I think Elihu’s trying to get out of paying the phone bill, Leon’s
sneaking off in the middle of the night to avoid paying four months’ back rent, Shelli and Jerry’s
misuse of Mastercharge – these are not things to be proud of and they can’t be seen as political
acts “against the system.”
Kara called this morning and said she was too busy to do anything; actually, I was relieved.
Unaccountably, I’ve been missing Avis a lot lately.
Thursday, April 3, 1975

If, as Marianne Moore states, the cure for loneliness is solitude, then the cure for depression is
action. And I finally took the action of handing in a master’s thesis at Richmond College.
The other night I dreamed that Prof. Cullen and others were making me feel uncomfortable for
not handing in my thesis. And I’m aware, consciously, that I’ve been nervous about the
possibility of Dr. Eisenstadt discovering that I really don’t have my M.A. at all yet. So today I
crept into action.
I had a difficult time getting to sleep last night; it’s been a problem lately. But I’ve been having
pleasant dreams of good times shared with friends. One night I dreamed of attending a joint
engagement party for Avis and Mavis, who were both getting married, and Phyllis and Mason
were seated at my table.
Last night I dreamed I went out for an evening with Steve, Libby and Bob.
A very heavy rain was falling when I awoke this morning. Gary called, saying he’d become
quite ill last night with a fainting spell, heart palpitations and a queer tingling in his extremities.
His parents revived him with smelling salts and rushed him to the doctor, who found
everything normal – heartbeat OK, blood pressure strong – and wrote out a prescription for
Valium.
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Richard Grayson
Even Gary admits that it was probably an anxiety attack, but he’s not sure what the cause of the
anxiety is. He’s under pressure in his department at Columbia, but no more so than usual.
Gary did have a big fight with his Aunt Estelle at last week’s seder, but he didn’t think that
could upset him enough to cause such an attack.
Also, Gray’s been involved in the middle of the hassle between Joel and Aviva, Kathy’s good
friends (it was through Joel and Aviva that Gary met Kathy).
It seems Joel is very attached to his domineering mother, who’s already been the cause of one
broken engagement, and now the woman has Joel wavering on his commitment to marry Aviva
this year – something Aviva has been expecting and planning on.
Anyway, I didn’t feel it was my place to suggest psychotherapy to Gary although I think it
would help him.
I went to Richmond College at about 2 PM today and to my surprise, their vacation was over
and classes were in session. I just managed to avoid Prof. Ebel, who was walking out from a
class; I was too embarrassed to see him after a year.
But then, in the lobby I picked up a copy of the school paper and read an article, “On Being
Human,” by Prof. Ebel. It seems that he’s married again, to one of his students, and she’s
expecting a baby any day now. In January of 1973, Prof. Ebel, “alone and by accident,”
experienced a “primal”:
”My soul seemed to be leaving my body, and in my panic I wanted to pull it back. Then an
inner voice, for which I will always be grateful, whispered not to worry, that everything will be
all right. . . My head lay loosely across my bare chest, and as I began to rock, it became the
caressing hand of the mother I never had and I said in my life’s highest ecstasy and in my native
tongue, ‘Act, Mami, das ist so schön.’”
Then his life changed; he continually drains himself of pain, hate and cowardice. He writes that
he no longer has any use for the unfeeling places we call universities: “the classroom is an all-
too-perfect vehicle for the life-denying emotions”:
“I feel more and more when I leave my home, my wife and my desk and come to Richmond – I
feel more and more that it is a symbolic suicide.”
[312]
Right then and there I realized Ebel was the kind of man I could open myself up to, so I rushed
home, collected all my stories in a binder, and returned to Richmond.
I met him after his 4:30 PM class – he remembered my name – I told him I was handing in a
creative project as an M.A. thesis in lieu of the essay; he said he’d read it and pass it on to Profs.
Cullen and Leibowitz.
So at least, coming home over the Verrazano in the terrible wind, I felt that I made a step
forward.
Friday, April 4, 1975

8 PM. The wind is howling outside with great intensity; it’s been like that ever since yesterday.
I’m planning an evening of TV-watching and reading, not that I have much choice.
I’ve regressed to the point where I won’t fall asleep until 2 AM or so and consequently wake up
the next day until 11 AM. I don’t really appreciate the habit, but it’s probably my normal
biorhythm pattern.
I went with Dad last evening to the airport, to see Grandma Sylvia and Grandpa Nat come in
from Florida. I thought I spotted his Uncle Harry as we passed the Eastern Airlines terminal,
but Dad said it couldn’t have been him.
Yet when we got into the terminal, my long-distance impression proved correct, for Uncle
Harry was indeed talking with Aunt Sydelle and Uncle Monty. Uncle Harry, it seems, was
there to pick up his girlfriend and her children, whom he had sent to Orlando for a week.
As everyone came off the Orlando flight, we were all waiting to see what Harry’s girlfriend
looked like. She’s not pretty but she’s very young (she looks a couple of years older than me
but must be about 30) and she towers over Uncle Harry. So does her oldest daughter.
They all had souvenirs from Disney World; I’m amazed that the kids weren’t embarrassed to
kiss Uncle Harry. But as I said to Dad and Sydelle afterwards, “I guess this woman knows a
good thing when she sees it and your uncle’s money is a good thing.”
Uncle Harry never did divorce crazy Aunt Rhoda, the kleptomaniac, so this young woman
doesn’t have to endure the humiliation of being married to him.
[313]
Richard Grayson
The flight from Miami landed some minutes later, and as I saw the passengers coming off, I
walked over to where they were coming from and in the distance saw Grandma Sylvia walking
with her cane, being supported by Grandpa Nat.
I was amazed to see her looking so well, and I rushed over and gave her a big hug. An ace
bandage on her arm was the only visible sign of her terrible accident. I had expected her to be
in very bad shape and be carried off on a wheelchair, but Grandma Sylvia looked tanned and
said the flight was wonderful and how glad she was to be back in New York after the
oppressive 90° heat of Miami.
In some sense I am surprised when Grandma Sylvia returns from Florida each spring, for every
year a part of me doesn’t expect her back. But she’s been near death so many times and always
comes back. I’m convinced she has some extraordinary resiliency and strength.
Grandma Sylvia joked about her bad luck as Aunt Sydelle and I sat down with her as the others
went to look for the luggage. She said how much like a country club the convalescent home
was and how much Grandpa Nat enjoyed himself playing cards every day. (He denied it,
because he doesn’t want Dad to think he could actually enjoy himself away from The Place.)
She compared injuries with some college lacrosse player nearby – he cracked his shoulder – and
was pleased that Robin had stopped seeing a black man and that I was teaching at LIU. We got
her and Grandpa Nat into Monty’s car and said goodbye; it’s good to have my father’s parents
home again.
Steve phoned last night with some great news: he got accepted at Columbia’s School of
Architecture and got a $1500 grant to boot! I’m really happy for him; now he can stay in New
York in his apartment and neighborhood and get an M.S. in Urban Planning.
Last night I dreamed of talking a walk to Bergen Beach when I came across Ronna, also
walking; she told me she’d been upset by her boyfriend. Lately I’ve had similar dreams about
Ronna, and I guess seeing her again reawakened my dormant affection for her.
Today I decided to try something new, so I took the subway to Atlantic Avenue and went on
the Long Island Railroad, taking the 2:10 to Far Rockaway. It was a nice experience: the seats
were comfortable and we passed Valley Stream and each of the Five Towns.
I noticed the first buds of spring on trees near the Hewlett station. I had lunch in Far Rock, then
took the Green bus to Neponsit, where I waited in the wind at Beach 147th Street and got the bus
[314]
back to Brooklyn. I’m glad I made the excursion, as I’ve become so dependent upon my car that
I forget sometimes that I can rely on public transportation to get me places, too.
Saturday, April 5, 1975

“Act, Mami, das ist so schön.” I’ve thought a lot about what Prof. Ebel wrote in the Richmond
Times. I even included it at the end of a piece of writing, all full of puns, portmanteau words
and free association. (I titled it “The Psychopathology of Everyday Life,” after Freud’s book,
which I was reading the other night.)
It’s another night, a Saturday night, alone at home (actually, Mom and Dad and Jonny are here
but that makes it worse) ad this time I’m really feeling lonely and depressed.
I was going stir-crazy last night. One can read only so much, and TV is full of junk. I’ve got to
admit to myself that I’ve been deeply disappointed and somewhat hurt by Kara’s casual
indifference.
I’m disappointed that we couldn’t get together, but what really bothers me was that she wasn’t
honest with me. Of all the people I know, I thought Kara would be the most open and up front.
If she didn’t feel like seeing me, why not just come out and say so, instead of making plans with
me and then backing out.
Even a week ago Wednesday: the only reason she showed up Sugar Bowl was because she
couldn’t reach me in time to cancel the appointment. (Was needing to be home to help with the
seder just an excuse, I wonder). No, that might not be true – at least at the time I had no reason
to think so.
But when I called her last Sunday, she said to call her on Wednesday; on Wednesday morning
she called me to say that she was sorry but that she was busy; when I called her this morning,
she said she’d call me back but never did. I feel foolish and angry, and frankly, very surprised.
Perhaps I am not the great judge of character and observer of human nature that I picture
myself to be. Of course, if Kara isn’t above-board, then I guess we would have not had a good
relationship even if she had been madly attracted to me.
Naturally, if she just said she wasn’t interested, my ego would have taken a beating, but it
would have been much less painful had she just leveled with me. I can understand her not
wanting to hurt someone, but now I am left feeling more alone than ever, and what’s worse,
becoming cynical.
[315]
Richard Grayson
At least Ronna was always honest with me. I want to cry in somebody’s arms, but there’s no
one and I feel silly (yes, even now) crying for myself, so instead I cry at the plight of the
Vietnamese orphans and refugees as their country finally falls to the Communists.
I’d love to adopt a Vietnamese orphan, but I’d be doing it for the wrong reasons, and that isn’t
realistic or honest, either.
I got a silent phone call at midnight last night, just when I was feeling my loneliest. It was
probably a crank or for Marc, but it made me feel good to fantasize that someone is trying to
reach out to me.
I was glad when Scott called this morning to say that he was in from D.C. this weekend, and I
told him I’d come right over. Scott’s latest reincarnation is liberal law student; he was dressed
in a corduroy sports jacket and has a mustache now (a beard would be too much, I guess).
He made the law review at GW but turned it down (because of lack of time), so he’s doing very
well academically. He’s still living at the big house in Chevy Chase, dating rich JAPs who go to
American (“I made it with the daughter of the doctor who cut off Betty Ford’s tit” – I don’t
think I could ever top that).
Scott’s on welfare and food stamps and is living on his grandfather’s inheritance. He asked
about Avis and I gave him her address in Stuttgart. Scott offered me a Rolaids, but I told him I
don’t touch the stuff anymore.
I guess studying six to ten hours a day does that to you; thank God I never went to law school.
Miranda’s apartment was broken into; the robbers axed down the door and stole a lot of stuff,
including all of Scott’s letters to her.
Scott went off to see Nancy the nurse, and I went over to visit Gary. He’s had a couple of
recurrences of the hyperventilation; yesterday he had a complete physical at the internist’s and
today he went for some blood tests.
So far the doctor has found nothing wrong with him, so both he and Gary himself are
convinced it’s due to stress. I didn’t want to say anything, but I just hope it’s not the beginning
of a long string of anxiety attacks.
I shudder when I remember my bouts with anxiety attacks in high school and college.
[316]
Sunday, April 6, 1975

3 PM on a bright, blustery Sunday. A little while ago I had an anxiety attack, the first one I’d
had in a long time. But I cut it short by allowing myself to feel my feelings rather than
experience them neurotically.
It didn’t last long – only three minutes – and there was but a hint of the old terror. Still, when it
began, I felt that long-dead but still-familiar feeling of anxiety welling up inside me; it came out
as an onrushing wave of nausea as I finished my lunch.
I was reading an article in the Sunday Times Magazine about how Jews in America view the non-
Jewish population as far more anti-Semitic than they actually are.
That may have had some tangential effect upon me. “You’re healthier than you realize” is how
I translated that into personal terms. And it’s true: with all my teaching, writing, exercising,
etc., I have been functioning at a high level. And it frightened me, so I had an anxiety attack to
“prove” I’m still an emotional cripple.
Various things may have contributed to it, too, especially Gary’s hyperventilation attacks;
listening to his symptoms brought me back to those painful days when I was so ill.
And when I spoke to Kara on Wednesday she said she had been having periods of nausea and
vomiting which she thought were psychosomatic.
Also, my seeing Mrs. Ehrlich may have triggered a desire to be in therapy again and have all its
protection and comforts. Getting sick again would be a way of opening the door to therapy
again.
Lastly, I’ve been wanting to write about the hell of my past anxiety attacks but I’ve repressed
the memories of that suffering.
I also have to look at my own feelings of the moment: I feel terribly lonely, terribly empty and
very frightened: the closer I get to adulthood (and I am almost there), the more I feel scared.
I’m a college instructor, a writer; this week I took the step of handing in my thesis, hopefully my
final step in getting my Master of Arts degree. Will all this mean that I will have to leave home
soon?
[317]
Richard Grayson
And my subtle rejection by Kara brings back other painful memories of Shelli and Ronna. For
the first time now, I see that stomach virus I had in November from an emotional standpoint. It
was then that I knew that Ronna and I were breaking up, and the nausea and the diarrhea were
my reaction to that.
Ronna was in New Jersey with Susan that weekend, and I had no way of getting in touch with
her; it was the symbolic death of our relationship. Indeed, the very next weekend we decided
to break up, but by then I had weathered the nausea and diarrhea, so the event itself was almost
anticlimactic.
So, totaling everything up, there were many good reasons for me to have an anxiety attack
today. Hopefully, if there is a next time, I’ll be wise enough to permit myself to understand its
cause.
I was at Alice’s for a couple of hours earlier. She and Andreas have been going together for four
years, but I think they’re going nowhere. Andreas seems so tight-laced: he never wants to
discuss any problems they have, telling her that talking about it just stirs up trouble.
Andreas likes reading only Saroyan and the Reader’s Digest and he spends so much time
working that Alice continually complains she doesn’t see enough of him. But she’s not willing
to risk losing him, despite Andreas encouraging her to find someone who can better fulfill her
needs.
Alice handed me back my copy of I’m OK – You’re OK, saying she thought it was all nonsense.
Robert had told her about transactional analysis, but Alice is closed to these things, and in that
respect, she and Andreas agree.
She doesn’t want to be single all her life, she wants to have children, but she goes with a man
who wants neither marriage nor children. I could never point out this inconsistency to her and
remain Alice’s friend; that’s why she doesn’t speak to Jean anymore. And of course Alice is still
hopeful that Kara and I can make a go of it together.
Monday, April 7, 1975

It’s late morning. It seems spring doesn’t want to come this year; it’s so cold outside. And my
spring vacation is already over. I have to write that paper on Kafka and Mann, the one that was
due three weeks ago, and I must reread Machado de Assis for tonight’s Comp Lit course.
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I have mark my class’s papers and plan what to do in class this week. Of course I didn’t lift a
finger during my vacation. Now that it’s over, I feel the same sense of “Where did the time
go?” that I used to as a kid returning to public school.
I was explaining to Gary last night what Prof. Galin said once: how we’re always waiting for
something. We set these goals: getting a master’s, getting a good job, getting married, having
children, buying a home, getting promoted – but we never enjoy the moment.
To me, that’s the saddest thing in life: it is too short to be little, but for most people, life is little.
Sometimes you only appreciate things after they’re no longer around. I feel that way about my
undergraduate days, the $40-a-week allowance Dad used to give me . . . and Ronna.
I see Ronna’s good qualities in sharper focus now. I was feeling pretty sorry for myself
yesterday until I took a ride about 6 PM, when it was still light out.
For the first time I noticed that you can see the Verrazano Bridge from the corner of our block.
How could I have missed that these past ten years?
I picked up a young woman hitchhiker near Canarsie Pier – she was nice – and then I had a
burger at the McDonald’s on Clarendon Road.
When I arrived home, Dad was back from his menswear show. All the manufacturers are
complaining how bad business is. Even a giant like Ivan’s family’s company is rumored to be
in trouble. (I’m very ashamed to say that that give me some satisfaction.)
Gary called at 8 PM and he was in very bad shape, crying and sounding downcast. It was
painful for me to hear how depressed he was. It just came over him all day, Gary said, a terrible
feeling of depression.
He’s gone through so many changes since Wednesday and the first hyperventilation episode;
now he feels that the physical is giving way to the emotional, but he doesn’t know what he’s
depressed about.
We talked about his anger with his Aunt Estelle and how it seemed insignificant but could be a
“cover” for other feelings. I felt helpless to deal with Gary’s psychic pain, but I began talking
about my own fears, my experience with nausea and vomiting and he probably wouldn’t black
out (which is what he fears most) during hyperventilation just as I never threw up during all
my nausea attacks.
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(Was that why I had that episode of nausea yesterday? To prepare me for helping Gary?)
I tried to be a Mrs. Ehrlich, and I gave him Mrs. E’s number. I realized what hard work it is to
be a therapist – what pain they must suffer along with their clients.
We did have one of those breakthroughs, though, that happen in therapy. I was telling him
about my days in public school, where I was a well-behaved angel; I explained that the minute I
came home from school, I began screaming and terrorizing my family.
Gary identified with that experience and said, “Well, I guess you had to ventilate your feelings
somehow.” We were both silent for a moment – in therapy, those moments seem divine – as
we thought about his choice of words; Gary understood it to be significant.
We talked some more and he said he was feeling much better, which made me happy. And I
was feeling better too, as could be seen in my Freudian slip when I intended to joke that I’d
send him my bill for therapy services rendered. Instead of bill, I said, “I’ll send you my check in
the mail.” I guess I really felt I got something out of our “session,” maybe more than Gary did.
Ronna called right after that. I had phoned her earlier but her sister said she was out in Cold
Spring Harbor. I figured she went there with a boyfriend, but Ronna told me she had gone
alone on the Long Island Railroad because she wanted to try it out for the first time. I laughed
and told her how just on Friday I had taken a ride on the LIRR. She was tired and couldn’t
speak for very long, but we had a good talk.

11 AM. I’m writing in the morning again, just after breakfast. It’s a quiet time and it’s good for
me to try to write at different times of the day. I don’t think this is the time most conducive to
good writing, though. It doesn’t have the peacefulness of twilight or late night.
I have my Fiction Workshop today, and I’m teaching at LIU tonight, and I’ve got to prepare. I
marked my class’s paragraphs, but the whole thing is so arbitrary; I hate to give marks.
Not because I’m afraid that they won’t like me if I give them a bad grade, but because the
process is so subjective. Why is one paper with good ideas but in poor style inferior or superior
to a well-crafted but deadly dull paper?
Last night in Comp Lit, Colchie handed back our papers (I’d put mine in his mailbox earlier); he
didn’t keep the grades for his records and just wanted to know what we were into.
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Naturally Colchie loved Simon’s paper because they’re both into structure and form. It makes
me so angry when content is ignored. I know that’s “what’s happening” in literature (an in all
art) and in part I’m sympathetic to it, but it appears to me that all this emphasis on form is
sometimes an excuse for no content, no ideas.
Baumbach and Spielberg are into the same bag. Yet in the end they only end up talking to
themselves, which further reinforces the sense that what they are doing is right.
Today in class we’ll be doing another one of Simon’s two-page prose poems. It’s well-crafted
and moving in spots, but I can’t help feeling that there’s less here than meets the eye.
Maybe it’s just jealousy. I write and write and write, and then Simon turns out a couple of
paragraphs a term and Baumbach goes wild over it. Maybe I’m the one who’s “wrong.” But I
feel I’m observing people and I’m communicating ideas and creating situations – why is that no
longer a valid form of expression?
Gary phoned last evening to say that he felt he was returning to “normalcy.” He said he owed a
lot to me for getting him out of Sunday’s depression. Gary called his aunt and thrashed things
out with her, and in the morning he felt moderate anxiety, took a Valium and went to school.
I didn’t want to say anything, but I think Gary

may be overly optimistic; I wonder if such excruciating anxiety can appear just because of “a
bad week” or whatever. Gary doesn’t plan on seeking professional help and that seems to me
just sweeping things under the carpet.
That’s a fine art, as Bergman noted in Scenes from a Marriage, and certainly I’ve grown up in that
atmosphere. Dad has had a lump by the side of his face for a year and yet will not see a doctor.
I’m certain Dad has a tumor of the parotid gland (although I guess watching Medical Center
doesn’t qualify me as a pathologist)
and it’s probably benign, but Dad prefers
being an ostrich to finding out the truth.
I sympathize with him, yet I feel revolted by his whole attitude – just as it makes me terribly
angry when I hear Mrs. Connors tell Alice, “What have you got to be depressed about? You’re
a teacher!” These shoulds and oughts are worse tyranny than any totalitarian government
could impose.
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A letter from Avis arrived yesterday, I am happy to say. I miss her terribly. She had a busy
March, working at her mother’s helper job. They had a pleasant Easter holiday, and Helmut’s
mother came over with chocolate and wine-flavored eggs.
They built two boxes for Helmut’s stereo recorder, and all seems to be working out well. She
took her two brats to a carnival the other day; it exhausted her, but as she writes, “Everything is
a new experience, and if I think about it that way, I don’t get too depressed.”
Teresa, Avis reports, has moved to Palo Alto to live with Mario, who will soon be divorced.
Avis says that California and a man who she wanted to live with were Teresa’s two dreams for
a long time.
She gave me Teresa’s address and I’ll write to her as well as write back to Avis. But it’s so
frustrating to communicate that way, even for a writer. I miss the verbal and visual in Avis and
other people.
She thinks Glen is having a sort of breakdown and she inquired about Scott. Avis will be
hearing from Scott soon, I guess.

7 PM. Only now am I coming out of a blue funk that lasted all of yesterday and most of today.
I was beginning to think I could do nothing right.
In workshop yesterday the antagonism between Simon and me was evident. I even
volunteered to read his story and afterwards he objected to my reading, saying it was terrible,
and Spielberg agreed.
Before class, Josh and Simon were together and I know they were talking about me. Earlier in
the day I was abrupt with Josh on the phone because I was busy and I’m sure he took it
personally and told Simon, “He didn’t want to have anything to do with me” – because that’s
how he talks about Simon to me.
I’m just annoyed at everyone in the writing class with the exception of the women. And my
class at LIU was deadly dull last night.
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Going over the grammar was so boring for them and for me, and I fumfered and was so unsure
of myself. After class, people kept coming up to me to complain about their marks – and how
could I argue with them? It’s so subjective, I felt like a total ass.
I came home feeling down and called Gary; I was hoping that by helping him, I’d feel better.
But Gary was doing just fine. He got a very substantial settlement from his lawsuit over the
auto accident, over $1200, and he was out of his depression.
I watched the Oscars (I was glad Art Carney won for Harry and Tonto) and felt all keyed up. I
couldn’t get to sleep for the life of me; it was so terribly frustrating.
Oh yes – before class, I called Ronna from my office. I was hoping to see her tonight but she
said she had to tape something at the college TV center for someone (I know it was for Hank, so
why couldn’t she say so?). She said that Bonnie sent her an engagement announcement, that
she’s marrying that guy Marc.
Anyway, Ronna said we could do something on Friday night. Yesterday I bought her a
birthday card (how I used to love to remember everyone’s birthday – and what a chore it’s
become for me now!) and Peter DeVries’ Forever Panting as a present (in paperback, of course,
since neither she nor I would like it if I spent a lot of money).
So anyway, I lay tossing and turning all night, finally at 6 AM feeling myself dozing off. (What
I crave is not so much sleep but dreams.) I had wanted to catch Joseph Heller’s lecture at noon
in SUBO, but I slept through it, waking up at 1 PM feeling cruddy: my RCAF exercises made me
nauseated, my hair was dirty, my face full of pimples.
After a horribly late breakfast, I went to the supermarket for Mom; I cannot stand those places.
Then I lay down, inert and immobile. I wish it would get warm already; I miss being out in the
sun.
But I decided to force myself to go over to the college and walk around. I know few people
now and can’t really relate to freshmen and sophomores, even though most of them look older
than I. (I guess I’m still upset about Kara.)
Luckily, at 5 PM, I met Libby, who had just gotten home from Florida. She went down to St.
Augustine with Mason and his parents for Easter. The Winnebago broke down several times on
the way home (once, at South of the Border, where they’d gone to buy Eric things and to get
cigarettes for Stefanie). Time-consuming and costly repairs delayed their return until yesterday.
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Libby and I found Mason about to get on the Rockaway bus and persuaded him to come to
Sugar Bowl with us for a soda and french fries. (Guys kept handing out pregnancy-test cards to
all the girls that passed; as one handed a card to Libby, I said toughly, “What kinda girl ya think
she is?”).
Mason and Libby are both student-teaching, with Libby doing Art with sixth graders. Mason is
particularly dedicated and offered me suggestions on how to spice up my lessons. But even
though his kids at South Shore are amused by grammar lessons using Mick Jagger, I don’t think
my evening students at LIU – many of whom are older than I am – would appreciate it.
It was good to see Libby and Mason together again. I couldn’t believe Mason will graduate in
June. Carole gave me a wave on the way home as I drove past her. A good supper and a
shower have helped me a lot.

3 PM. There’s a slight breeze coming from my open window; perhaps there will be a spring this
year after all.
My moods this week have gone up and down like a roller-coaster ride. Maybe the thing is, like
a roller coaster, I always end up in the same place. Where am I going? I’ve had all these
reverses lately.
I think of Alice’s mother berating her: “What have you got to be depressed about? You’re a
teacher!”
I’m a college instructor but I’m dull; I’m a writer but I don’t get any positive feedback (another
magazine sent back “Garibaldi in Exile” today and later on today everyone in the class will blast
my “Summoning Alice Keppel” to smithereens); I feel very unsure of myself in my roles as
teacher and writer.
And of course Kara helped to disintegrate any image I might have had as a person worthy of
love and attraction. I feel calm, but it’s that kind of feeble humbleness I used to feel when I felt,
years ago, that I was worthy of nothing and no one.
I slept too much last night; my sinuses were so clogged, I entered a labyrinth of complicated
dreams. I don’t know where I’m heading; I’m adrift and slightly seasick. There seems nothing
to look forward to any longer.
[324]
Perhaps a lot of this is because I’ve been involved in Gary’s problems. He phoned me this
morning and said he’s decided to see a psychiatrist at Columbia today.
I wish I were in therapy again, but I wouldn’t be the same patient/client I was. Although now
that I think about it, one of the reasons it took so long for me to get anywhere was that I was
always aware of the subtle tyranny of the therapist.
I’ve been reading Games Therapists Play by Martin Shepard, an unconventional psychiatrist
whom I find more to my liking than anyone else in the field. Through his books, I was better
able to recognize how my therapists played games with me.
Dr. Lippmann would write on a pad with a scratchy pen and keep interjecting “Hmmmm” to
deny his guilt over his fees and justify what he was charging me (I am certain that he once fell
asleep on me).
Dr. Bob Wouk would try to deny his boredom by asking leading questions like, “What do you
suppose would happen if . . .?” and “How would you feel if . . .?”
Dr. Roz Wouk would deny her feelings of superiority by stating indirectly that “There’s no
difference between us” and telling me how much she learned from her patients.
Mrs. Ehrlich would play “professional” to deny her affection for me and she’d keep turning the
sessions over to the subject of my sexual fantasies about her (naturally I began to have them
after she kept insisting that the girl in my dreams was really her) because she may have been
overly concerned with her own attractiveness.
I was helped enormously in therapy, gut it’s in spite of, not because, of these games. And you
can’t win with them because the game is rigged; everything is turned around to you.
They don’t tell you that the Oedipus complex was put forth by Freud because he was
dominated and overprotected by his mother, or that shrinks use couches, not really to let the
patient’s verbal productions go free but because Freud couldn’t stand people staring at him!
I’m thinking of writing a piece about my therapists called “The Four Faces of Freud.” The
dilemma is that I still don’t know a better way to feel better emotionally.
That’s why I applauded Gary’s decision to seek professional help, though he still denies the
possibility of the problem being a long-term one and says, “I’ve been stable for 24 years, until
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last week.” Now he’s a mass of anxiety, given to hyperventilation, trembling, insomnia and
nervousness.
It’s something which is a puzzle – a therapist would say I was “ambivalent” about therapy. It’s
a maze of conflicting feelings; perhaps I can somehow work it out in my fiction.

4 PM. It’s not warm out, but it is sunny and pleasant. I guess spring is something well worth
waiting for. The apple blossoms are beginning to bloom, and I feel good about things.
Fridays are such nice days, and I love Thursday nights, after my class, when I can look forward
to Friday and the weekend.
I’m starting to look forward to things again, which is a good sign. I haven’t made any plans for
the summer as yet, but I want to be in the sun again.
Things did not go badly yesterday. At BC I ran into Davy, who’s let his hair grow long. He’s
such a nice guy, and if he wasn’t rushing to the Rockaway bus, I would have told him about my
RCAF exercises. Maybe this summer I could try running on the beach mornings like Davy: I
think I’d enjoy that.
I saw Susan Schaeffer and arranged a tutorial session for April 22. And the Fiction Workshop
was a surprise. After Josh read “Summoning Alice Keppel” aloud, Simon commented first.
He said that he felt I had stolen the fictional essay idea from Borges and really criticized the
story. Josh said it was a mediocre Monty Python sketch, and at that point I said, “All right, it
was just an experiment; I want to try some new things and I’m prepared to fail.”
Peter Spielberg said, “Whoa! Don’t get so defensive.” Karen caught the basic idea of my story
and Barbara understood it best. Denis was, as usual, annoyed at my references to things he
never heard of; Anna said, “You hadda be really smart to get this.”
Finally Peter said he found the story delightful and compared it to Barthelme and felt it was
entirely successful. Then I went through all the veiled references to Dean Acheson, Cardinal
Spellman (Spielberg caught that), Virginia Woolf and Proust; it was a real trip for me.
I have to admit that I was glad to see Simon put in his place, so to speak, by Spielberg.
Afterwards I was inclined to be much more charitable with him when we went to the Pub with
Todd.
[326]
Simon asked Karen for date, and she was friendly but mentioned that she had a boyfriend. I
figured she did.
I left at 6:45 and drove downtown. I tried to call Ronna from my office but both her lines were
busy. Class went okay; at least I wasn’t boring. Probably because Tuesday had been so bad, a
lot of people were absent.
But I read aloud from the reader and Ebel’s article, trying to get them to write personally and
meaningfully. I assigned a paragraph defining one of six things: joy, depression, honesty,
anxiety, rejection and liberation. I let them out early because I ran out of things to say and
rather than keep the discussion going until the clock said it was 8:30, I stopped while most
people seemed interested.
Then I went to my office and spoke to Ronna. Earlier, she said, the line had been busy because
Ivan had phoned her. “He talked for an hour about himself,” she said.
Ivan’s doing well with his job; he sold an article on computers to some publication and he
bought land upstate. I’ve got to keep reminding myself that Ivan and I are no longer in
competition with each other (not that we ever really were; that was something I cooked up by
myself).
I asked Ronna how her taping at the TV center went; casually I asked it if was for Hank. It
wasn’t, but Hank was on the show with her. I’ve got to stop thinking of Ronna as my girlfriend;
if I don’t, tonight will be a disaster.
I’m supposed to pick up Ronna at her office in an hour, which was what we arranged on the
phone last night.
Gary saw the psychiatrist at Columbia yesterday and he feels it helped somewhat, but he’s still
very unsure of himself. He’s worried about a lot of real factors: whether to continue with the
doctoral program or get a job, for one thing.
And Gary’s father retires from the post office this summer, the family’s lease is up in July, so
Gary’s unsure what’s coming off for him. Perhaps his trip to Europe will bring him relaxation;
a change of scene does sometimes help.
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Richard Grayson
It’s a beautiful afternoon, and I’m feeling happier, more full of joy, than I have in many weeks.
I’ve felt like this only a few times in the past six months: that day in November when I drove
out to Hempstead Lake Park and one Friday afternoon in January when I was working as a
messenger for the Voice.
The very air is suffused sweetness, and tears are welling up in my eyes as I write this. These are
the moments when I understand what I’m doing on this planet. “Act, Mami, das ist so schön.”
Ronna was in front of her building, wearing a navy blue shirt and blue tights, when I picked her
up at 5:30 yesterday. When she got into the car, I kissed her on cheek and noticed she was
carrying Keats’ complete poems.
We drove up to 34th Street, having decided to see Alice Doesn’t Live Here Anymore, and had
dinner at this nice coffee shop, Leon’s, on Second Avenue. Ronna had been there with Susan
once and ordered a chopped liver sandwich (she used to do that all the time for her anemia)
while I had a hamburger.
We talked about my teaching and her job; she booked that model author on a Washington talk
show today. But Ronna feels that she wants to leave ARCO although I bet it will be hard for her
to. Cathy, her boss, and Gwen, the Filipino girl she works with, are very fond of her; she
showed me the heart-shaped thing on a chain that they bought her for her birthday.
It was the most pleasant meal I’ve had in quite some time. It was still light out when we walked
into the theater. The film was very good, and Ellen Burstyn deserved the Best Actress Oscar.
It’s so good to share things with someone again. We drove back into Brooklyn and had Carvel
ice-cream sodas on Nostrand Avenue, laughing at our own belching. We talked about Howie
getting married, and Bruce getting married, and Felicia’s August wedding and Bonnie’s
engagement.
Bonnie’s wedding won’t be for a year; she went out with Marc right after Eddie, then they broke
up but eventually got back together again. I guess both Ronna and I appreciated the irony in
that, but we didn’t say anything.
Back in my room, I gave her her birthday card and present; she said she’d been looking all over
for Forever Panting; earlier in the evening, she’d asked if she could borrow my copy, so I knew it
was the perfect gift. The title comes from Keats, which made it seem even more appropriate.
[328]
We sat on my bed, with a basketball game on TV, and started at each other. I kept getting this
fluttery feeling in my stomach, wanting to reach out to her.
I said, “You’re making me a little nervous” and giggled stupidly. She said she felt the same
way. So we decided to play Scrabble, which was fun. She said she’s been playing a lot with
Hank and she always beats him, but tonight I won.
I took her home at midnight, for she and Susan were to buy their bridesmaids’ gowns this
morning. At her house, I shut off the engine and kissed her once, then again; then I hugged her
tightly and told her to have a very happy birthday.
It felt so good to hold Ronna. She got out of the car, opened the gate, hesitated and came back.
I opened the window and said, “What’s the matter?”
“I just wanted to kiss you goodnight again,” she said. So we did, somewhat awkwardly,
through the window. It was the nicest kiss of my life. I went home to bed and had the most
pleasant dreams.
Today I went out to Rockaway and stopped in at the Sarretts’. Grandma Ethel left to play cards,
so Grandpa Herb and I talked about his two years in Manila when he was in the army in the
1920s.
Then the Philippines was an American protectorate, ruled by Gen. Leonard Wood from Baguio.
Grandpa Herb told me about his buddy Tom Moore from Omaha (they ran card games
together) and an earthquake he woke up to one morning and how he had to guard a corporal
who’d killed a sergeant in a fight and about the tortuous ride up to Baguio and how cold it was
there and about the Walled City outside the Pasig River and the natives’ mummies.
It all sounds so exotic and extraordinary. As I walked along the boardwalk later, I decided
there must be a story somewhere in all that.

I woke up relatively early this morning, and after breakfast took a ride out to the Nassau
County Museum and Field Preserve at Garvies Point.
I just love being out there, where I feel close to something – maybe it’s the truth that I feel close
to. I keep looking at the exhibits about the dig and the geologic history of Long Island, of the
glaciers and the Late Archaic Indians.
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I guess what it is, is that I feel in touch with past there, both the human history of the era and
the physical history of the area. I walked along a different trail this time; there are so many
there that I want to save new experiences for the future.
Walking through the woods, I felt peaceful and serene. I thought of Ronna celebrating her 22nd
birthday today; I’ve been thinking of her since Friday night. I have to admit that I love her now
as much as I ever did. So is it just memories of the past or is it something real in the present?
I never stopped feeling warm affection towards her. It’s funny: we can talk about anything
now, anything but our feelings toward each other. We can never go back to what we had, and
neither of us wants to, but can we have a new kind of intimate relationship?
I look at the example of Mason and Libby rather than that of Bonnie and her fiancé. I guess
we’ll just take it slow, take it naturally (Friday night’s goodnight kisses were natural) as we
always did.
But whatever happens, I’m glad of one thing: I’ve discovered that the love Ronna and I had for
one another was real; otherwise we could not have come out of the last six months feeling the
way we do.
I stood on the cliff overlooking Hempstead Harbor and I felt good; I felt loved. I wished Ronna
were there so I could share it with her. But just three weeks ago I thought I was falling in love
with Kara. Now I realize I feel an image I’d created – through our letters – of Kara, who
probably did the same with me.
Still, I wouldn’t want to become close to Ronna again just because I’ve been rejected in my first
real attempt to find love somewhere else. And I know I can live my life with Ronna if I have to.
Shelli has moved to Madison now, with her husband, and I’ll probably never run into her again,
and that doesn’t matter, not anymore.
Yesterday I drove back to Rockaway in late afternoon and ran into Mikey on Beach 116th Street,
where he was picking up a few things for his mother. I went back to his house with him, where
Mrs. Moss complained of being tired because she’s returned to a job she had five years ago,
working 9-to-5 in a data processing firm in Manhattan.
[330]
Mikey told me he didn’t particularly care for “Go Not to Lethe,” my LaGuardia Hall story – but
neither did I. His thesis will be probably not be finished this term; it’s almost impossible to
carry out all the research and the drafts by May.
Mikey said the interview with the Manhattan DA’s office hasn’t resulted in a job offer as yet.
Mike, Mikey said, is still trying to finish his Incompletes; now the teachers are screwing him the
way used to screw them, setting up exams for him and then not showing up. Mandy got a
high-paying job with an insurance company.
Other news: Mikey heard that Joel Shearson got engaged and has a job lined up with a judge;
Bob Miller’s unhappy with his job; Alan and Sherie are moving out of WASPy Arlington and
into the more Jewish Maryland suburbs.
Mikey said that a few weeks ago he, Larry, Mason, Libby, Mike and Mandy were on the beach
in their winter jackets when they saw Davy swimming by shirtless.
“You know, Mikey,” I said as I left, “either Davy’s nuts or else the rest of us are all crazy and
he’s the only sane one.”
I then dropped in on Grandma Sylvia and Grandpa Nat, who gave me some dinner. Grandma
Sylvia can move her right hand – at one point they thought she might lose the use of it – but the
pin near the elbow causes her intense pain.
Grandpa Nat asked about my teaching and Grandma and I discussed soap operas. She’s glad
Robin broke up with Jason and said that Robin and little Michael were over last week.
Grandma Sylvia said Michael looks just like Jonathan (which is exactly the same thing that
Grandpa Herb had said in the morning).
When I left Rockaway at 7 PM, the sky was a pastel blue and pink. It’s been a good weekend.

April is nearly half over, and yet every morning when I wake up, the temperature is still in the
thirties. I need the warmth of the sun. I want to get tan again and put my snorkel jacket away
for good.
I phoned Ronna last evening in the middle of her birthday festivities. She wanted to know if
she could call me back, but I told her I just wanted to wish her a happy birthday.
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I had two callers myself last night. First Libby phoned to ask me a question about intransitive
verbs; Mason had told her to call me because he wasn’t sure. I hope I didn’t lead Libby astray
with my answers and explanations.
I’m so fond of Libby and her delightful who-the-hell-cares attitude about life; she plunges
headlong into things.
Then Gary called; if anyone is Libby’s opposite, it has to be Gary. Yesterday he went to an
unveiling with Kathy. Although he didn’t even know the person, h felt it was his “obligation”
to go because of his “status as Kathy’s boyfriend” (Gary’s words).
He’s better now, but for how long? Now that I think about it, one can almost sense the rigidity
in Gary. His gestures and the way he holds himself are so stiff and formal. Now I could never
see Libby having an anxiety attack because she’s so in touch with her feelings.
“In touch”: she’s always touching people, which is so nice. I have to admire Libby in that she
considers her needs first. In Sugar Bowl on Wednesday, her boyfriend Nicky came over, and
watching them, I can see that Libby is never cruel and not wantonly promiscuous but just seems
to know how to get pleasure.
She’d laugh at Gary’s talk of his “boyfriend status,” as she isn’t anything to Mason, Melvin,
Nicky, Gore, etc. – she just does and feels.
Sometimes I try to shock Gary out of his concern with the shoulds, but I’m afraid he’ll never get
to even the point where I am – which is certainly far from total liberation. I may never get to be
like Libby, but I’d like to move in that direction. Will I ever be the person I want to be?
I wrote Avis a long letter, but it’s so frustrating communicating with her in that way. I miss her
long black hair, her face, her skinny body, the way she talks – writing is no substitute for face-
to-face contact. You can’t hug anybody in a letter.
I lay awake a long time last night, thinking back on my life. I’m so glad I’m not afraid of the
truth anymore. Mom, and especially Dad, would rather be ostriches than human beings, and
unfortunately both Marc and Jonny seem to subscribe to their way of life.
The quality I’m most grateful for is my inability to accept the obvious, my curiosity. If I die
tonight, I’ve already had a full life, a rich life. I have two imperfect but loving parents, four
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grandparents and to brothers. I have had many friends and I’ve been in love and people have
loved me.
I’ve learned a lot and seen a lot of beautiful things. There are times when I feel that I’m very
“together,” that I understand myself, that I’m no longer so scared.
Today I sent to see Susan Schaeffer give a lecture in SUBO. I really admire her, for she seems to
be “together.” She says her dream is to stay in the Neponsit Home for the Aged for a few weeks
and to be waited on and not have to do anything, as she’s been teaching full-time since she was
23.
Susan appears to be such a “regular” person despite her recent success. “You go to another city
and people make a fuss over you like you were something special,” she said. “And then you go
home and your family still thinks you’re lazy and your kids think you’re stupid or whatever.”
I wonder how I’d cope with success, although I don’t think it’s something I’ll have to worry
about for some time. Another rejection notice today: California Quarterly sent back “New
Haven,” saying that the idea was good but nothing happened in the end. Which is a valid
criticism.
Tonight I have Comp Lit, so I’d better get ready to return to the college.

Today has been an ideal day. Not a perfect one, but like life in general, it was all the more ideal
because of its imperfections. If every day could be like today, I wouldn’t mind – except that
after a while it would get boring. I look at myself now, at 9:30 PM, and I like what I see: a
productive writer, a good teacher, a man not afraid to face his fear.
It was a dark cool day, and even though I am a sun worshipper, I have always loved this kind
of day. It’s as if one can hide and do outrageous things. Comp Lit was canceled yesterday and
the Fiction Workshop was canceled today, so I had a lot of free time.
At noon, I decided to take a drive to Connecticut. To ride in my car is to be free. Going places
is a tonic for me, and even the simple matt3er of crossing the state line and being in New
England somehow seems a minor triumph for a former agoraphobic. I enjoy traveling short
distances, anyway.
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I arrived in Greenwich after 1 PM and found a place called Indian Something, where there was
a pond with pigeons and ducks and mallards and seagulls. I parked nearby on the spaces
marked “Greenwich Residents Only,” but I didn’t stay out long because I am still a bit scared of
birds. (When I was little, I would dream of them and run into my parents’ bed at night.)
Then I found this Victorian mansion on a hill; it was the Bruce Museum. I walked around the
hill for a while, to the solitary picnic table on top, where I looked down at Greenwich. Then I
entered the museum, which is the oddest place; a Russian woman, a young girl and a man said I
could go right in, that I just had to wipe my feet.
They had an exhibit of paintings – somewhat pastel-ly and impressionistic – by a local woman,
and a bust of Hermes by Praxiteles and numerous stuffed moose, beavers, foxes and so many
birds it made me slightly queasy.
It seemed to be a potpourri museum, with even a tiny zoo featuring a monkey, and a little
planetarium where I touched a meteorite that had fallen in Arizona and tried to comprehend
that it had once been hurtling through black space.
After half an hour, I drove back to New York, stopping to get my first look at Orchard Beach in
the Bronx. Over the Bronx-Whitestone Bridge and into Queens, I decided I would drive down
Northern Boulevard until I found the Jack-in-the-Box where I had the accident in May 1973, that
night at the printers with Ronna and Maddy, Peter, Ian and Sid.
Going there has something to do with what I call “confronting my past.” It all started
accidentally, with my meeting Shelli and Jerry and going with them to Sugar Bowl. Then I saw
Ronna again and returned to Richmond College to hand in my thesis.
Now I want to put myself face to face with painful associations, to get them out of my system. I
examined the pole that I once rammed into, which I still believe is dangerous and not easily
visible. So I shouldn’t blame myself for the accident.
I had lunch in the new Mark Twain Diner that popped up next to the Jack-in-the-Box; it was
over a hamburger that I began feeling creative. On the long drive home, I fee-associated images
of today and my recent past and when I came home, I wrote, at lightning speed, six pages into a
notebook.
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It’s a sort of poem-like story much on the order of “Rampant Burping.” I was so worked up, I
had to take a Librium to get me out of that manic mood I feel when my creative juices are
flowing.
I gobbled down my dinner and I was very nervous about teaching as I drove downtown to LIU
in a pouring rain. I had terrible diarrhea and spent half an hour in the bathroom (I have a
faculty bathroom key).
I was terrified I would get sick and I thought of saying that I had a meeting tonight and just
collect the class’s papers. But after awhile, I felt much better, as the diarrhea seemed to get
everything out of my system, to liberate me.
And damned if I wasn’t a great teacher tonight! We had a delightful lesson: we laughed, we
communicated, we had good discussions. The whole thing just left me feeling so high.

8 PM. It’s amazing how quickly my spirits can plummet and then just as quickly be restored
again. An hour ago, I was completely drained, somewhat frustrated and rather depressed.
But eating a Jamoca Almond Fudge cone from Baskin-Robbins as I watched a mild spring day
turn into night worked wonders. Today was the most mild day of the year; hopefully, warmer
weather will soon be here.
(As an English teacher, I’m aware of my misuse of hopefully, but now I’m just little Richie
Grayson in my jeans and sneakers and I say, “Who gives a fuck?”)
I revised yesterday’s jumble of writing and typed out a story today. It’s surprising how
unconsciously I scatter images and concerns throughout a piece without any intent to do so.
I titled the ten-page story “The Bridge Beyond the Pleasure Principle”; it’s another “Roman
Buildings” accumulation of the driftwood of my psyche. I wrote about so many things: my
breakup with Ronna, my meeting with Shelli and Jerry, the drive to Greenwich and the Bruce
Museum, my concern about Dad’s not seeing a doctor about his neck. I included so many little
details of my recent life and used Prof. Ebel’s article, which has been haunting me, in the story.
Objectively, though, I see the story’s overriding concern with death and frustration, just as
separation and loss dominated “Roman Buildings”: there are images of cars and highways
throughout the piece.
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But this kind of very personal fiction (in my mind it is closest to poetry) is very taxing for me.
Like some forms of psychotherapy, it tears off, scrapes away layer after layer of accumulated
defenses and poses and it leaves me feeling raw and exposed.
I have to get it out of me – I do not want to give it up – and it is very painful afterwards. Tolstoy
talked about leaving a little of one’s flesh in the inkpot: that is how I feel.
And yet where am I, relatively speaking? Tomorrow I must mark the class’s papers and figure
out what I’m going to do in class. I have no money although I hardly spend anything, but with
the prices of parking, meals, vitamins, xerox and postage so high (also highway tolls), I never
can keep a buck.
I’m certainly not extravagant. Except for a sweatshirt, I haven’t bought clothes in months. I
can’t see as many movies as I used to. Putting a car in a Manhattan parking lot or eating out at
an expensive restaurant is now unthinkable.
Still, I feel rich: I have my writing (another rejection notice today, but not really; the editor of
Spectrum said they can’t accept material from outside the Amherst community) and my friends.
I saw Bill Rothbard today after two years. He has a beard now but was still wearing a corduroy
sports jacket, and he asked about everyone. Bill’s been in medical school in the Philippines for
two years but has decided to transfer to Cornell.
I walked with Bill around the campus for awhile, and then we stopped in the SG office to visit
Mrs. DeSouza, who’s the only person besides Eddie that I still know there. As we parted, I
wished Bill good luck.
I called Steve, who was in the middle of making an orange chiffon cake; Mitchell had given him
the recipe. Steve reported that Elihu’s father sent him the check for the phone bill promptly and
that he’s been busy with this paper he’s writing on the West Village Houses project.
Tonight Gary phoned before going to a lecture on Transcendental Meditation, to see if maybe
that can help him. Yesterday Kathy called him with “crushing news.” They’d been talking
about marriage, Gary said, and he is sure of his feelings for her, but yesterday out f the blue,
Kathy told him she is going to Houston this summer with her friend Joan (Joel Kaplowitz’s now
ex-girlfriend) to “think things through.”
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She wants time away to decide whether she loves Gary enough to marry him, and she wants the
option of seeing other guys. Gary was devastated by the news, but he said Kathy is troubled by
her parents’ unhappy marriage and that “she has some growing up to do.” Still, it came as a
shock to him.

10 PM. I’m flying so high tonight after really getting off on teaching. Making contact with my
class, having them get an idea or laugh at a joke or just be open with me – it’s the best feeling in
the world, next to creating something.
I am a teacher now, their teacher, and I am honest with them and don’t pretend to be something
I am not. In a way I feel great love for my students: for Ms. Mackey, the sparkplug of the class,
who always has something to say; for Mr. Anaso, a smiling West Indian businessman with
terrible handwriting; for Ms. Marryshow, silent and shy, who wrote about the anxiety she felt
during an operation on her son’s scrotum (how that moved me, those incoherent but deeply felt
sentences); for Mr. Carey, who seems to be judging me as a young punk – but I saw him
interested tonight and think I’ve won him over.
Teaching is better than therapy – and they pay me! (although not much and not often). All I
know is that driving home down Flatbush Avenue tonight I felt whole, I left loved and I felt
fulfilled.
Also, the weather helped, as today was a real spring day. Just last night I lay in bed thinking
that I was becoming asexual, neuter, a sublimating machine. But the warmth of the sun made
me feel loose and free.
When I arrived on the BC campus at 4 PM, the quadrangle was filled with squatters and frisbee
players and marijuana smokers. I smiled to Hank, who was sitting with two girls, as I joined
Denis and some other people in a circle (most of them I knew only by sight). Denis and I caught
a glimpse of one pretty girl in a skirt whose thighs and more were exposed by a passing breeze.
I’m now open about my homosexual feelings, too, hiding them only from my family, not hiding
them from anyone else or myself. I feel open to so many things now.
I like Denis a lot although we’ve never really gotten along; we’re such opposites. But he’s very
engaging and charming, and in the end I think he’s real.
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Class is so much fun. We’re like a big, raucous family, and I love the chatter and the
playfulness, which is the only thing left that reminds me of the old LaGuardia days.
We did Anna’s story today. She writes about high-school-girl things, but somehow she’s a
natural; her words have a flow that is almost hypnotic. At one point I started to laugh, and
Peter said it was not sincere laughter and Simon said, “You should hear his other laugh.”
I turned to Josh and repeated a phrase from last week’s Monty Python: “Well, I certainly didn’t
expect the Spanish Inquisition.” Barbara brought me a present, and I was touched, even though
it was only a book she got from her sister Joanne, who works in a publishing house.
Incidentally, Joanne knew who Alice Keppel was. The book was on T.S. Eliot, whom Barbara
hates but she knows I like.
After class, Denis, Todd, Anna, Sharon and I went to Sugar Bowl and had a great old time; I
truly love all of them.
Anna is precious and I like t tease her; I told her she should fix me up with her sister who’s my
age. Anna said she described me to her in such flattering terms that her sister said, “He sounds
like he’s six feet tall.” Us shrimps like to hear that sort of thing.
I respect Sharon too, ever since I realized she’s not as much as a Jewish-American princess as I’d
originally thought. Simon can be difficult to get along with, but he also can be very pleasant as
well.
Baumbach, Spielberg announced today, has said he’s willing to sublet his house to us this
summer for a nominal fee. It’s an idea worth considering, I guess.
On my way to my car, I ran into Melvin riding a bicycle. He said he’s still going to BC and
working. Mel’s attempting to grow a beard, but it isn’t growing in evenly and it makes him
look so cutely childish. I wish I now could see more of Melvin and the other old friends.
Last night I had a beautiful dream about Kara. In it, she called me and said she wanted to
apologize, that she would come over to my house. We met Leon coming off a plane at the
airport and went home together. Too bad it was only a dream.
But reality is lovely, too.
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4 PM. A light drizzle has just begun to fall, but Jonny and his friends have not been deterred
from playing ball outside, beneath my window. I’ve just taken a shower and I feel clean. Mom
has this scented talc that smells like roses, a smell I love.
This has been a wonderful week, filled with good things. Fridays are the nicest, though, in
some way: I get to do anything I want, all day.
Ronna phoned last night, and it was good to talk to her and to hear her voice. If I were a more
positive fellow, I could say with certainty I still love her very, very much.
I had called her Sunday to wish her a happy birthday (she couldn’t talk because the family
party was in progress and she was all choked up after receiving a beautiful set of earrings from
her sister) and then again on Tuesday, when she was out.
Ronna said last evening that she’d just been on the phone for hours – first with Hank (who
mentioned that I too had been relaxing on the quadrangle, leading Ronna to say that she was
envious of us) and then Susan, and then she had to phone her cousin to see about going tonight
to the free movie at Brooklyn College.
Ronna asked if she made a fool of herself last week. I said, “You mean when were playing
Scrabble and you didn’t know what chimera meant?”
“No,” Ronna said, laughing, “and anyway, Susan that’s not an English word.”
I disputed this and then asked: “Do you mean about coming back to the car?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, no, Ronna – that was one of the nicest things I that can remember.”
“I sort of thought so too,” she said, “but I didn’t know how you felt.”
We talked about our jobs and I told her about my trip to the Bruce Museum on Tuesday – and
now I must admit to myself that while I stood outside the place, on that hill overlooking
downtown Greenwich, I was wishing that Ronna had been there to share it with me.
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She asked, “Can I see you next weekend?” and I responded affirmatively; I’d been so afraid to
ask her out. She said she’s pretty busy this weekend, so we’ll make it next Saturday or Sunday.
Last night Jonny left me a message that Alice had called, so I tried to phone her all evening but
the line was busy. I had this feeling that something was wrong, so I persisted and finally
reached her at about midnight.
She had been very depressed about something, Alice said, but she talked it over with a friend
from her old school. Alice said she was going to bed and would call me in the morning.
I said I’d pick her up tonight and we could talk over dinner, and she suggested that afterwards
we could see the free movie at school. (I’d feel funny about seeing Ronna there – yet I want to
see her, to touch her). I wondered why Alice wasn’t seeing Andreas this weekend, and she told
me he’s in Germany – on business, I suppose.
I got my check from LIU today for half the semester, or the part of it since I took over the class.
The check – for $230.19, pretty good – more than compounds the satisfaction I get from the job
itself. I went to Kings Plaza and started a savings account at the Dime with it. As they say, it’s
good to have money in the bank again.
I washed the car and picked up Marc at the Kings Highway station. He had to lug around this
radio he’s making. Marc got so embarrassed when I decided to celebrate the bicentennial of
Paul Revere’s ride by opening the car window and shouting, “The British are coming! The
British are coming!”
“You have to be stoned for that sort of thing,” Marc said. I don’t know; perhaps I’m nuts, but I
feel very uninhibited with strangers and like doing absurd things and observing people’s
reactions. It’s so great to go out in a sweatshirt, blue jeans and sneakers and feel a cool breeze,
not a cold, blustery wind.
I’m having a lot of trouble with the exercises on the top of Chart 4 of the RCAF plan; I just can’t
manage forty pushups in a minute. But I’m so near to goal that I want to keep pushing,
although I have to make myself do the exercises every day.
Cambodia has fallen to the Communists after the five year war. The Khmer Rouge were
greeted by cheering crowds in Phnom Penh.
[340]

11 PM and I’m sleepy after a pleasant Saturday night at home. Jonny and I managed to have a
nice time just watching TV and having snacks (though Jonny’s so skinny now that the snacks
don’t affect him as they do me).
Gary today asked me if I get lonely. Of course I do, I told him, but I feel that loneliness is a state
of remembering what Aunt Arlyne’s brother Kamen wrote in my sixth grade autograph book:
“Life is rich, warm and beautiful.”
I know I came across as a bore to Gary (a switch) when I tried to describe the way I feel – it
doesn’t come out right at all sometimes. But I am so excited by the enormous possibilities
ahead and the potentialities within me.
I am grateful for my life, which has been so very good. I guess there’s nobody who would
believe what a closet optimist I am. I see other people’s lives and I’m glad I feel differently than
they do.
Take Gary. He’s still upset over Kathy’s – I don’t know what to call it – her resistance, I guess.
On the phone Gary confided that he’d been planning an engagement to coincide with her
graduation from Queens College this June.
He feels she “has a lot of growing up to do” because of her hesitations.
But I look her upon Kathy’s searching as a positive thing; she seems to have seen so little at life.
Naturally I can’t tell Gary that I view the whole thing is a blessing in disguise; neither can I
question why he would want to marry a woman whom he admits is “immature.” (I don’t
believe in “maturity” anyway.)
Or take Alice. We were together for seven hours yesterday and I saw Alice more closely than I
ever had before. She’s in a real quandary about school; she hates teaching, there are monsters in
her sixth grade class, the parents are all against her, she dreads going to P.S. 197 every day of
the week.
Alice wants to write and teaching interferes with that. The $60 a day doesn’t make up for the
torture she feels she’s going through. She would like to quit, but if she quits her first teaching
job, how will that look on her record?
Alice has always had what Renee once described as “a low shit tolerance” and she, like me, has
run away from things before.
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Last evening Alice and I went out for dinner at this Mandarin restaurant on Flatlands Avenue
where the food was terrible. She and I seemed to have different ideas of what kind of an
evening it was going to be: I was dressed like a slob and she was sort of done up.
Also, I’m not used to spending as much money on dinner as Alice is; at first she wanted to go
someplace like Reno Sweeney’s, but I informed her I had only six dollars. She was desperate to
pick up a guy, and when we went to SUBO for the movie, she kept looking men over.
She talks about flirtations she has with a gym teacher at her school and various others:
suggestive repartee and writing notes to each other. To me, it all sounds so junior-high-
schoolish and desperate.
Alice distrusts psychology and would never let herself open up to therapy or new ideas. She
reads Dale Carnegie and Norman Vincent Peale and seems to believe that if someone is just
positive or pushy enough, they’ll make it, and that’s the way she is about her writing.
We sat in my car near SUBO for an hour, talking about her teaching. I can understand that the
pain she’s going through over it is very, very real – but I feel powerless to help her besides just
listening to her troubles.
We saw The Way We Were at SUBO, and I’m glad I didn’t see Ronna there; after watching
Streisand and Redford in front of the Plaza at the end of the film, it would have been sort of
weird to see Ronna. (Would she have smoothed my hair?)
Alice and I met Melvin’s brother Morris outside SUBO, disappointed because he was waiting
for a girl who never showed up.
But a girl in one of Morris’s classes came by. She was waiting for her parents to pick her up,
and it turned out that her sister, in the family car, is one of Alice’s students (one of the nicer
ones, apparently; earlier, while driving to BC, we spotted two of the boys in her class and Alice
really freaked out).
Morris doesn’t wear a yarmulke anymore, and he was out on a Friday night. We had a few
laughs with him, and then he went to sleep at Melvin’s place while Alice and I went to the
Floridian for a bite to eat.
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Today was a warm, muggy, cloudy, windy day. It seems as though this long winter is
irrevocably behind us.

6 PM. I’ve just been trying to read The Wings of the Dove, if for no other reason than because I
feel I’ve been getting intellectually flabby.
About this time every year, I resolve to read all those books that I’ve always imagined I should
read. But I’ve always had great difficulty with James; my mind wanders through those
meandering sentences of his.
I was in Kings Plaza yesterday and came upon Craig in Macy’s, where he was shopping and
visiting his old co-workers (I, on the other hand, will not set foot in Alexander’s).
Craig looked much the same and said he’s working for a furniture manufacturing firm in their
market research division. He said he has a lot of applications in for federal jobs in Washington.
I told him about seeing his old running-mate this week (Bill was wearing a Kutner-Rothbard
button on the lapel of his corduroy sports jacket) and he said he knew Rothbard was in, that
Linda had spotted him.
Mark referred to Linda by her maiden name and said he was seeing her that night, and when he
talked about her for a bit, he never mentioned Harvey. I’ve grown too discreet to be asking
embarrassing questions, but I wonder if Harvey and Linda’s marriage is still in working order.
Maddy once mentioned Linda’s not wearing her wedding ring.
Craig says the only people from school he sees are Hank, Linda and Maddy. He inquired if I
knew anything about Elspeth, Scott, Elihu and the others in my crowd, and he told me that Ira
is married and at Cornell and that Karen lives in the Village, possibly with a man who may be
her husband.
He also started to tell me that Felicia is getting married and then stopped and said, “Oh, of
course you knew that.” I wonder how much Craig knows about Ronna and me; after all, Hank
is his best friend, and didn’t he and Hank paint Ronna’s room for her?
We joked about Carole and Hymie. He didn’t go to the wedding, telling them he had to be out
of town but ended up being spotted in Brooklyn that weekend by Barbara Dweck, a bridesmaid
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(and his ex-girlfriend; he mentioned that Howie had once caused trouble between them). Craig
and I parted with a handshake.
This morning I called Elihu, who’s been busy with four papers (all on the Anti-Masonic
movement: “When you have four papers to do, you maximize your research”) and had a bad
cold.
We keep our discussions to very impersonal subjects. I would never think of bringing up
Steve’s name, or Jerry and Shelli, and Elihu wouldn’t discuss them with me, either. He did
mention that Ellen is in Vermont now, looking for a place where she and Wade can settle after
the marriage.
The conversation dragged on for awhile and ended after we ran out of neutral topics of
conversation. I feel uncomfortable about Elihu possibly reporting back to his father, my
department chairman, about my teaching.
Josh phoned today, and I was pleased he called and said so. I’d been afraid that Josh had been
annoyed with me because of the way I’ve been doing in class; Spielberg likes my stuff and hates
Josh’s. But Josh is apparently too big to take an envious attitude, nor is there any reason for him
to be jealous of me.
(I just remembered a dream I had last night, about selling two stories and getting the
acceptances in the mail – from my unconscious to God’s reality.)
Josh thinks he’s getting an ulcer because he’s been having terrible pains in his stomach. On
Thursday he and Barry went to Columbia to see Allen Ginsberg, but it was so crowded that
they couldn’t get in.
Josh desperately needed a bathroom, so he went to Steve Cooper’s apartment on 120th. Steve
was in class when he showed up, but Drew was there, half-dressed, with a guy in the bathroom
who looked like the fencer from the party.
Josh made drew fix him a bicarbonate of soda and then left, saying, “Every time I come here,
Cooper isn’t here. What is he, hiding in the closet?”
Drew smiled and said, “I could take that two ways you know,” and then Josh and Barry left
Drew and the bathrobe guy to their fried chicken and watermelon.
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I wanted to do something tonight, but Josh says he has a chance to get laid and of course that
takes precedence. Oh well, back to Wings of the Dove. I wonder if Henry James had nights like
this.

3 PM. I should have stayed in bed this morning, as my dreams were deliciously pleasant. But
the mailman brought two of my self-addressed stamped envelopes back to me, containing
stories rejected by the Georgia Review and Fiction Magazine. There wasn’t
any rejection notice in one, and just a mimeographed form in the other. I felt so despondent
and discouraged.
Sometimes – last night, for instance – I feel sure I am a brilliant writer who will one day be held
in esteem. I have this great well of creativity to dip into, and such good ideas and the discipline
to carry them through.
But then today rolls around and it seems as if no one at these magazines appreciates my talent.
Is there any talent there? Yes, I’m practically sure of it. Was selling the story to New Writers just
a fluke? I hope not.
I think what I’ll do from now on is just submit one story to one magazine at a time. That way
(ha, ha) I won’t ever have to worry about two magazines accepting the same story. I felt shitty
after the mailman came and just wanted to forget about writing and go out for a while.
Luckily, I found Mason walking up Avenue H, from his student-teaching at South Shore to the
college, and I gave him a lift. I went to xerox a page of my students’ compositions I had typed
up, for use in my class tomorrow evening.
I have more free time now, and I don’t have to write any more this term, as Spielberg will not let
me hand in anything else to the Fiction Workshop – which is understandable, as the others
haven’t yet handed in their required three stories and the term will be over in a month.
In Comp Lit, I just have to take a final and read the books. So I don’t have much to do but
prepare my lessons for LIU. And I want to hang out with friends for awhile, just the way I used
to when I was an undergraduate – so I did just that today.
Mason and I stood on the quadrangle, listening to the playing of a rock band, courtesy of
student government. They were loud but not all that bad; the lead singer was pretty energetic
and seemed to think he was Janis Joplin.
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Then Mason and I went to meet Libby at SUBO; she had also just finished her student-teaching.
We had our lunch outside of Whitehead, by the rock garden. I always enjoy being with Libby
and Mason.
Afterwards we went to visit Fred, Melvin’s roommate, whom I just learned about last Friday
from Morris. Apparently Melvin and Leroy went upstate with two girls and haven’t come back.
Actually, it turned out that I’ve known Fred by sight and he knew me by name.
Fred is a very nice guy, and we all sat around talking while Libby made a cube for her sixth-
grade students. It was like old times for me, hanging out at a friend’s house, talking about
school and music and books.
Fred’s in the Open Road Club, and this Friday they’re having a square dance thing. I think I’d
prefer to go to the Dance Department’s recital, though, as they’re performing a new work with
music by Mike’s brother Adam, and Carl Karpoff will be in it.
Fred was supposed to go climbing up in New Paltz today with Alan Karpoff, but neither of
them was able to get up at 6 AM. Mason told us he’s probably going to the Fresh Air Fund
camp again this summer, and that made me wonder what I should do.
I’d like to make some real money this summer, although I don’t relish the idea of a 9-to-5 job in
a Manhattan office. I wonder if there even are any jobs like that to be had in this economy. Still,
I can’t just do nothing.
I think I could get into traveling for the first time, but I don’t have any money. I better just
concentrate right now on getting through the next five weeks.
I called Ronna last night but her mother said she had gone into Manhattan with her cousin and
wouldn’t be back until late. Billy came on the extension to shout that all his fish had died, so
they decided to get a mouse instead. Now Billy has a dog, a mouse and a snake, and Ronna’s
mother said she felt that was enough pets for Billy for now.

1 PM. For as long as I live, I shall probably never cease to reexamine and pick apart my life,
wondering just why the hell I am the way I am. My depression of yesterday deepened as the
day wore on. I went to the Sheepshead Bay library, where I ran into Sharon and got a headache.
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Sitting at the counter of the Foursome Diner, I felt so bad that I wanted to cry, but I couldn’t do
it very well, managing to squeeze out just one tear from my constipated eye.
Perhaps, I thought, I depend too much on my writing for my self-esteem, that I let rejections of
my work as a writer destroy my whole self-image, and conversely, I become too elated when I
get favorable reaction to my writing. But I don’t know how to stop feeling like this.
I dragged myself to class last evening – seeing Gary on the way – and I was glad I did. For we
discussed Borges and perhaps I talked too much (like Borges, I show off my knowledge too
much), but I needed to do it to regain some sense of myself.
I am in my element in the world of books, literary theory and criticism and such. But is that
enough to base a life on? Graham Greene said that writers only lead “a sort of life” because
they spend so many hours at the typewriter with imaginary characters and events.
I find I am giving up my Royal Canadian Air Force exercises. I couldn’t get past the top of
Chart 4, which is the Physical Capacity level for men aged 25-29. That’s probably the best I can
do, given my body type and genetic makeup.
And, sadly, I have discovered that all my exercising did not really get rid of my paunch; only
dieting can do that, and I don’t yet have the discipline to give up cookies, pies and sugar.
Alice called last night, very elated. In her excitement, the problems at school were forgotten.
Jonathan Schwartz called her up and they made a date.
He had read her letter and thought about his behavior when Alice brought the clams to the
studio. (Alice’s letter must have been beautiful, alternately winsome, sarcastic and real; like me,
Alice can manipulate words in letters to play on people’s emotions.)
Jonathan Schwartz told Alice that she should come by WNEW at 9 PM a week from this
Saturday. His program ends at 10 PM and then they’ll go out for a drink. Alice is so excited,
I’m worried about her being let down when this finally comes off. She had forgotten about him
after all these weeks and now she’s ready to run away with him.
“Oh, I hope he falls in love with me,” Alice said. “Do you think he won’t?” She’s planning to
bring along her diaphragm. I tried to calm her down, saying, “Suppose he’s a cold-hearted
bastard?”
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But Alice replied, “Wow, that would just make it even better.” By then I knew that I wasn’t
going to get through to her. She’s already saying “Andreas who?” As a friend, I could only
wish her luck. Perhaps Alice is not immature; after all, she knows what she wants and she goes
after it.
I had beautiful, intricate dreams again last night. I dreamed of Brad, whom I haven’t thought
about in years. And I woke up at
6 AM, listening to Dad get ready for work.
He referred to the people at Steve’s party as “queers; at Dr. Lippmann’s, he once said how
people have to repress things; he once called Cousin Robin a slut. How Dad loves to judge and
label things and how I hate that.
But deep down, I pity him; he will die having spent his whole life running away from the truth,
from feelings, from himself.
Mom does it too, by her obsessive cleaning, cleaning, cleaning. On Sunday even Grandpa Herb
and Grandma Ethel admitted that it was a “sickness.” I pity my mother, too: how she endlessly
tries to block out every spark of life by trying to impose order on the world.
Neither of my parents can ever really win, because the feelings will always pop up. Or is it just
that I cannot repress as well as they can? For the first time, I thought today about my name
change: I was born Richard Ginsberg, but I am now Richard Grayson – because my parents
thought “Ginsberg” wouldn’t make as good an impression on people.

I can’t sleep; my mind is whirling with ideas, thoughts, recriminations. So I figured I’d write
today’s entry now, as I will probably be half-dead all day Wednesday.
It’s a restless house, at this hour. Marc awoke a little while ago and I hear him now having
trouble breathing, trying to get relief with tissues and nasal spray. His allergies have been bad
recently.
The light is on in the master bedroom, too. Mom, having done all her scrubbing and shining, is
now either plucking her eyebrows or reading one of her books on Jewish history and culture.
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I’ve just finished the first volume of Leon Edel’s biography of Henry James, which is very
readable and quite interesting. The thing that sticks in my mind most is a comment that mind-
fucker Simon made yesterday while we were having pizza after class.
Simon’s so into “telling it like it is” and leveling with a person, but I see it as a form of pseudo-
liberated hostility. (Why is it that, when someone says, “Now I’m going to tell you what I
honestly think of you . . .” whatever follows invariably negative, never a positive statement?
Simon and I are envious of another now, but it’s something brought about by him. I can see
that he’s outraged because Spielberg likes my work more than his; in Baumbach’s class last
term, Simon was unquestioned top dog.
(I wonder if his anger has something to do with his ill-concealed rage at his mother for
“preferring” – Simon’s term – his stepbrothers to him. That’s why he left home.)
Anyway, Simon said I’m “not a serious writer.” That got me angry, especially after he said
Todd and Sharon were. I suppose the fact that my output is more than theirs put together
doesn’t make a difference, nor does the fact that I risk rejection by sending things out constantly
while Simon is still afraid to chance it.
He says he “knew he was going to be a writer” last year, but I’ve known it since I was ten or
eleven years old. Plainly he was trying to hurt me – he even added something about Baumbach
telling him that I wasn’t very talented – in the guise of “complete honesty.”
I’ve changed some of my ideas about that; maybe Simon’s therapy hasn’t reached the point
where he can differentiate between hostility and truth.
Anyway, enough about that. Susan Schaeffer liked “Alice Keppel” a lot, the other stories less
so. She said I should send it out and not worry about rejection notices; she’s gotten as many as
300 a year. She let Prof. Mayer read the story and he thought it was good.
Susan seems to be really interested in me as a writer; usually, she’s really tight with just the
Poetry people. And she doesn’t seem spoiled by her success and didn’t seem perturbed about
not winning the National Book Award, but of course she’s had a week to regain composure –
although I doubt that she needed to.
The hour tutorial went so fast; it’s a pity we have only more tutorial left, for she’s taking a leave
of absence next year.
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In the Workshop, we did one of Denis’ less well-written stories. Afterwards Denis said how we
base our critiques of one another’s stories on personality and that some people won’t attack
other people’s work – which led to Simon’s whole rap in the pizzeria. The only person in the
class I really dislike is Simon.
My class at LIU went fairly well. We had a nice discussion on some of the paragraphs people
wrote and afterwards I talked with a few students. Most of them are surprisingly dedicated to
getting an education.
I realize that I’m a whole different person in front of that desk now: Mr. Grayson the English
teacher is gaining confidence and poise. Surely teaching English 11EKL at LIU is one of the best
experiences of my life.
I called Ronna to make arrangements for seeing one another this weekend, and she said I’ve
definitely changed. The other day Mason said I even walk differently now, as though I’m
important.
Poor Ronna is unhappy with her job. But the Times called her, saying they liked a press release
she wrote so much that they want to do an article on the book she was publicizing. I’m afraid I
didn’t let Ronna talk too much. It seems that I’m an inexhaustible stream of words lately.

1 PM. I’ve just come back from Rockaway. It was dark and cool on the boardwalk, and the salt
air was, as always, intoxicating. The Army Corps of Engineers is pumping sand onto the beach
from the bay near my grandparents’ houses; it’s good that there will be a beach this summer.
But I like the beach best on days like today when I feel alone, when there’s just a few elderly
people and dog walkers around. It started raining as I drove home; we’ve been having
thunderstorms lately. I feel at peace.
Yesterday I got my hair cut at Telepathy, always a special treat and a little luxury. Talking with
Joe is pleasure, as I feel that he really cares.
I was driving up East 56th Street at 4:30 PM or so when I saw Harry riding his bicycle up
Avenue K. I honked and he stopped. When I got out of the car, he gave me one of those bone-
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crushing handshakes. It’s good to know Harry’s still the same; I’d forgotten how much I missed
seeing him.
He had a law book in his bike basket. He’s finishing up his second year at law school, which he
doesn’t enjoy but which he has to go through to become a lawyer. He still dresses in sweatshirt,
T-shirt, torn denim and ripped sneakers, and I’m glad he hasn’t sacrificed his own style to
convention.
He asked how Ronna was, and I told him, and I talked about my teaching and writing. Harry
still writes his poetry. He’s living in his parents’ house now that they’ve moved to Canarsie.
“Who are you living with?” I asked, not sure if he’s still with Fern.
“With my wife,” he said.
I was surprised and said, “The same one?” and he laughed. I didn’t know they’d gotten
married and didn’t want to let him know that because it seemed as if I was supposed to know it.
I took Harry’s number. He said Ronna and I should come over to have dinner with Fern and
him sometime. We shook hands again and parted. At the Junction I bought a birthday card for
Teresa and then walked over to LaGuardia and wrote her a letter at what used to be the
Grapevine table.
Alex walked by and wondered aloud if I was not up to my usual know-it-all self; he expected to
know about Bonnie’s engagement before he did. Eddie passed by and gave me a Rockefeller
“Hiya fella” wave and grin – but after all, he is SG president now.
Dean Jones passed by and reminded me about the Alumni Board of Directors meeting that
night, which I had forgotten about. I wrote to Teresa about myself and I included the latest
gossip.
I really hope Teresa is happy is happy in California. Alex said that Helen’s coming back from
the Coast in June, but only for a visit; I owe her a letter too.
I arrived in SUBO at 8 PM as the Executive Board was just getting out of their dinner meeting; I
called to Ivan’s brother-in-law Dave, who looks well, and also said hello to Ben Baranoff and the
other board members.
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I’m the only male at these meetings who doesn’t wear a tie and jacket – but I don’t feel
uncomfortable because I’m me.
The meeting began with Dean Dunn (who’s always been friendly to me although he really
doesn’t know me) speaking about the BC admissions policy. The board members are upset
because they think standards are falling.
Then Hilary Gold discussed last week’s takeover of the Registrar’s office by Puerto Rican
students and faculty demanding the ouster of Kneller’s hand-picked chairwoman of Puerto
Rican Studies.
There was an all-night negotiating session with Justice Department observers, Hilary, Bob
Gross, Eddie, etc., and finally a compromise was reached and the offices were vacated.
At the meeting I sat next to Dean Donald Hue, the BC Alumni historian. It’s a great place to
pick up material for fiction. Ira Harkavy shocked me by announcing “the death of our fellow
Board member, Lorraine Nussbaum, today.” I had wondered why neither Maddy nor her
mother was there.
Elaine Taibi told me that Mrs. Nussbaum had cancer. I feel so bad for Maddy and her brother,
both of whose parents are now dead. When I got home from the meeting, I called Ronna to tell
her, but her sister said that she was out on a date.
I am ashamed to say I am so petty as to be angry and jealous. Perhaps Ronna and I can go over
to Mrs. Nussbaum’s mother’s house, where the family is sitting shiva. At midnight I finally
decided to write Kara. I wanted to resolve things, if only on my part.

3 PM on a gloomy, muggy afternoon. I’m feeling depressed over the events of yesterday and
today. After the Fiction Workshop, Denis drove me and Josh back Josh’s house, where I had
parked my car.
It was 6 PM and on the car radio I heard about a subway fire that resulted in the Transit
Authority stopping all IRT service from Atlantic Avenue to Flatbush and New Lots. Until I
passed Eastern Parkway, though, it didn’t occur to me how it would affect things.
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There was a monumental traffic jam, with literally hundreds, maybe a thousand people,
standing at the corner of Atlantic and Flatbush Avenues. I stood in the same spot for fifteen
minutes; the rain wasn’t helping, either.
I had a rushed dinner at Junior’s and then got to my classroom at 7:30 only to find three people
had showed up. Several more straggled in and we decided what to do.
Some people wanted to hold class, but of course most of them wanted to go home. I had
planned a lesson leading to an assignment – a paragraph of classification – and I figured I’d
only have to give it again anyway for the other half of the class.
My indecisiveness was evident as we kept wavering; I suppose I should have acted strong and
made a decision. Anyway, finally we all went home, and it appeared that other classes were
doing the same thing.
I figured that some people would have trouble getting home, and I guess I did the right thing.
But I felt really disappointed about not getting to teach the lesson I’d prepared, and I felt lousy
about my “weakness” and indecision.
But I still think it’s better for a teacher not to be a dictator. The students wanted to put me in
the role of a leader, and when I refused to accept sole responsibility, there was confusion.
Yet I still don’t believe in making all the decisions for the class and think nondirective teaching
is valuable. Or is that all a cop-out?
I didn’t sleep well knowing I’d have to get up early today for Lorraine Nussbaum’s funeral; I’m
used to snoozing till at least 10 AM now. I put on a tie and jacket and started driving vaguely in
the direction of the chapel in Boro Park.
At a stop light, I noticed the car next to me had Craig driving and Ronna sitting next to him. I
should have called Ronna again to make sure she’d heard the news, but I guess I’d been trying
to “punish” her for being out on a date Wednesday night when she “should” have been home.
My petty jealousy makes me ashamed. (Was that why I finally wrote Kara the other night? I
hope not. I just wanted to clear up the hurt and confusion I was feeling toward Kara.)
Craig and Ronna said they were going to pick up Linda, but I got lost in Boro Park and the three
of them arrived at the chapel before me.
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Maddy looked as though she were taking it well; she’s gotten thinner and looked composed. I
extended my sympathies to Jay and his wife, a pretty girl, and his mother-in-law.
Karen came with her sister and mother, and Artie and other friends of Jay were there, and
Elaine Taibi, and Maddy’s friends Toby and Joyce. Maddy’s grandmother was very upset and
crying.
The services were brief, as is the style today. Mrs. Nussbaum was a very nice woman. It was
just a few months ago that she was telling me at a Board meeting how she was going for her
Ph.D. She must have been very ill then, but she didn’t give the appearance of it.
I sat next to Linda during the services. Ronna and Craig were on the other side, and it was so
strange to see Ronna there, looking very mature in her dress, her hands clasped.
She was with other people and I had come by myself – and I’m seeing her tonight. Why I did I
feel almost guilty when I told her I’d pick her up at work at 5:30 tonight? It was as though we
were having an illicit affair. I kissed Maddy as they went off to the cemetery and said goodbye
to the others.
After changing clothes, I went over to Josh’s and we had lunch at the Pub. I’m so glad Josh and
I are still friends; somehow I feel Simon will try to wreck our friendship, but I’m not going to let
that happen. Josh went to see Prof. Goodman and I came home to rest.

9 PM. I’ve just finished a book, Conversations with Jorge Luis Borges, which Simon lent me. I
suppose I’ve been too hard on Simon, although he’s capable of great cruelty. Yet I also must
face my own jealousy relative to Simon – and also the difference in the way we perceive what
we write.
Anyway, I’m grateful to Simon for the book. Borges is fantastic, opening me up to so many new
possibilities. Reading him spurs my imagination.
I’ve just come back from Rockaway, where I went over this evening to visit Grandma Sylvia
and Grandpa Nat. When I arrived, Grandma Ethel and Grandpa were visiting, so I got to see all
four grandparents in one shot.
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The Sarretts didn’t stay long since they went home to have dinner. Grandma Sylvia fixed me a
cold platter for supper. She showed me a three-inch-long nail or post that the doctor took out of
her elbow. The pain has somewhat lessened since its removal.
Uncle Monty has been in the hospital for two weeks. He was coughing up blood, they took
tests and discovered a spot on his lung; they’re operating on Monday. Grandma Sylvia and
Grandpa Nat are quite worried.
Uncle Harry came to visit and didn’t stop alluding to his wealth, talking about his new Cadillac
Coupe de Ville and the restaurants he goes to. He showed off the new blue suede jacket he got
for a steal at $50 (it was like a dungaree jacket and is much too young for him). I left there an
hour ago.
Mom and Dad are away for the weekend, staying at Connie and Annette’s house in Sag Harbor.
Marc and his friends are downstairs, and Jonathan is watching the Marx Brothers in his room.
It was raining heavily all evening yesterday, beginning when I picked up Ronna at work. She
asked if we could eat in Brooklyn because she wasn’t hungry right away and her stomach was
upset by a Szechuan lunch she and Gwen went out for.
The hour-long rush hour drive wasn’t so bad with Ronna for company. She explained
something the rabbi said at the funeral, about not going by the rabbi’s manual and doing
something illegal: marrying the same couple twice. Mrs. Nussbaum was very ill in the hospital
and Jay was married there in her room; that ceremony was the legal one and the other one was
for all the family and friends.
Mrs. Nussbaum, Ronna said, knew she was dying, as what had been breast cancer spread
through her body, but she didn’t let anyone outside the family know; she joked to Maddy about
not wanting certain people at the funeral. One feels that there was great courage in the woman
and that she died in peace.
Ronna and I went to Jahn’s for dinner and then to BC to see a dance recital in Gershwin. It was
very enjoyable; even though I don’t understand modern dance, I enjoy watching it.
Carl was in two of the pieces and he was quite good. His twin Alan was there, with Davy, and
Alan came over to talk to us. Alan’s in Special Ed now and likes it; he finally wrote to Avis in
Germany and he asked me if I’d seen Leon. Alan is terribly nice; I like him more and more.
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Richard Grayson
One of the dances had original music by Mike’s brother Adam, and it was very good; Adam
took a bow onstage. I think it’s great that people we know are so talented.
Back at my house, after tea, Ronna and I were in my room, sitting on my bed, both attracted to
each other, both afraid to act. I told her about my feelings toward her, how I never stopped
liking her, how her body still turned me on.
She said she felt the same way, but she did not want things to go back to the way they were last
October. “Neither do I,” I said. Ronna was really miserable then; we fought over petty things
and then I wouldn’t go with her to family functions and I liked weird movies and was selfish.
But now, she says, she feels we can never be boyfriend and girlfriend again. Yet if we’re not, it
doesn’t matter that she doesn’t agree with me about Buñuel or Open Marriage or anything.
We’re separate individuals now, and we don’t have to incorporate each other’s personality into
our own. That doesn’t mean, we decided, that when we see each other from time to time that
we can’t express our affection physically.
I love Ronna and I want her to be happy, to see other people, to develop herself (I want those
things for myself). We kissed and hugged and held each other until midnight. It was good to
hold a person again; it was truly great to hold Ronna again.

It’s 7 PM on a cool yet sunny Sunday. The trees are leafy now, and it’s about time, too since this
is the last week of April and the first third of 1975 will be gone.
I slept exceedingly well last night; how often I dream of acceptance and rejection notices now.
Yesterday I got a polite rejection from Jesture. But, determined, I spent my last paycheck from
the library on xeroxing stories.
I’ve sent out to the “big” magazines. Susan Schaeffer said to try them first, and I guess I might
as well, but I don’t have very high hopes of being accepted by Esquire, the Chicago Review,
Playboy, Mademoiselle or Redbook.
Today, in the Village, I bought The Directory of Little Magazines at the Eighth Street Bookshop,
and when these pieces start coming back, I’ll set my sights a little lower. Susan says the only
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way to get experienced is to start sending out and getting the feel of these things – but she
started in poetry, which is probably more easily published than fiction.
At least, though, I’ll have a head start on people like Simon, who are afraid to send out stuff. If
I’m one-tenth as pushy as Alice, I should get somewhere.
This morning I did something I used to do in college: I took myself to a noon Sunday movie in
Manhattan. It was a French film called Don’t Cry with Your Mouth Full, and it was superb; I’m
sure that only a few lucky people will get to see it.
It was a beautiful, lyrical study of a teenage French provincial girl coping with her impending
womanhood. The lead actress, a girl of 16 or 17, was gorgeous; at least she was my type, nubile
with big breasts and baby fat on her thighs and stomach. She reminded me of Ronna (and of
Kara) and I guess I loved the movie because she was so beguiling.
It’s good for me to treat myself to movies in Manhattan on Sunday; I feel like I’m doing
something special. After walking out of the Paris Theatre at 2 PM, I strolled around the Plaza
and the GM Building and past the horse-drawn carriages to watch the Hare Krishna people
singing and dancing.
Since I quit my job at the Voice, I’ve hardly been in Manhattan and I’d forgotten how magical it
can be. I drove down to the Village and walked through Washington Square Park. It’s been
pretty seedy the past few years, but today it looked alive again.
There’s a new children’s playground, there are still the ever-present fiddlers and guitarists, the
frisbee players, the people sitting at the fountain. For a minute it seemed like the summer of
1969 again when I was there with Joe Spitz or Brad Miller. For all that I’ve changed since I first
reentered the world following my withdrawal into my room, at times I feel that the same raw
material is there.
I know I’m not expressing myself very well. It’s just good to know that my well-being doesn’t
depend solely on externals like having a job or a girlfriend or even a therapist.
As I said, I went into the Eighth Street Bookshop (Laura wasn’t there) and then came home at
about 4 PM. I spoke to Gary, who’s been depressed over an Incomplete given him by some
Columbia professor. Kathy gave him a framed graduation photo of herself, and he took that as
a good sign. My God, it seems like they don’t communicate at all.
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I later told Ronna about it and she said a few years ago it probably wasn’t Wendy who wanted
the lockets and the joint bank account with Gary, and I think she’s right. Gary is probably now
clinging to Kathy as he did to Wendy, and Kathy wants some room to breathe, which is why
she’s going to Houston.
On Friday night Ronna called Bonnie from my house to make plans to go shopping, and she put
me on the line. I offered Bonnie my best wishes; she’s a nice girl. Everyone’s getting married.
Susan tells Ronna she feels Felicia’s marriage to Michael won’t last because they fight constantly
over little things, and even Felicia tells Ronna she’s going into it with the option of divorce in
the back, and maybe the front, of her mind.
Linda’s marriage to Harvey is very odd. When people ask her, as they did at the funeral,
“How’s Harvey?” she says “Fine” so perfunctorily that one suspects something is amiss. With
all the vibrations I get from Linda, I’ve always been abashed to inquire about Harvey.
Well, at least one person will end up a Henry Jamesian old bachelor.

10 PM. Alice called last evening, wanting to know if we had some album of Frank Sinatra’s so
that she could bring it to Jonathan Schwartz when they see each other this Saturday night.
When I said that I didn’t, Alice replied that she was willing to pay $25 for it somewhere.
Alice and Andreas have taken Renee’s old apartment. Renee is moving to a bigger place, and
the rent was so reasonable -- $100 a month – that they decided it would be worth it to have their
rendezvous in on the weekends. It’s cheaper than going to motels and it’s within walking
distance of Alice’s house.
I asked Alice if she told Andreas about her date with Jonathan Schwartz; she did, and Andreas
wasn’t too thrilled.
I awoke today with a stiff neck from driving with the window open all day yesterday. Another
of my stories came back; the editor wrote me that his magazine had run out of funds.
I went to the college early this afternoon, but I couldn’t find anyone I knew and sort of
wandered from the quadrangle to the lily pond to Whitman Auditorium. People seem freer
now that spring is here, and I’m definitely restless sexually.
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On Friday Ronna said that I was the best lay in the world, and while I’m sure that’s only true
because of the deep feeling we shared for each other, it was still a boost for my ego. I think I’ve
been concentrating too much on being a writer and not enough on being a man.
Today at school, and yesterday at Washington Square, I was aware of people’s bodies – males
and females – and aware that my enjoyment of watching them is heightened and any old guilt
has been lessened. I wasn’t meant to be some sort of Henry James celibate; I don’t want to shut
any doors.
We got bad news today about Uncle Monty. The doctors opened him up and found a massive
malignancy around his heart; there was nothing they could do, so they just closed him up again.
Aunt Sydelle was, of course, hysterical. Merryl and the twins were at the hospital and they
called Dad to try to calm her down. The doctors are going to try to treat Monty with
chemotherapy, but I guess things don’t look too good.
Dad managed to calm his sister down somewhat. She’s always said that everything happens to
her; only now it seems to be coming true. First Uncle Bill was so ill before he died and now
Monty.
Dad is pretty good in these situations, though; it’s surprising how well he handles things, and I
admire that.
I had dinner in Campus Corner this evening – a grilled cheese sandwich and grapefruit juice for
a change – and the refugee woman at the counter asked me where I’ve been lately. I saw Leroy
with some girl by LaGuardia, and then I ran into Marie, who’s been running around like a
chicken without her head. Marie is working 9-to-5, taking 12 credits and running for GSO
President.
She had her comprehensive exams on Saturday, and she’s certain she failed the one in Field IV
(American Lit) only because she thought the test was three hours, not two; when Prof. Beckson
took her test away, she was shocked, especially since she knew she did well on the rest of the
exam. Now she thinks she has to take the comps again in December.
We went to the GSO office to talk with Fred Perlman, who was typing up the candidates’
statements. No one filed to run for Vice President, and Marie and Fred urged me to run.
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It’s an interesting offer, and the prestige of being the V.P. of graduate students would be nice.
But I’m not very interested in the day-to-day, nuts-and-bolts workings of student government.
Still, I told Fred I’d think about it and speak with him later.
I ran into Morris downstairs in LaGuardia. I like him so much and wish I had more time to
spend with him, but it was nice that he walked me to class. In Comp Lit we compared Borges
and Cortázar; I am more and more impressed with Borges as a writer.
Gary called tonight, upset over Prof. Cole’s refusal to turn his Incomplete into an R grade (a
class taken for no credit and no grade) without Gary doing his thesis. But he always wants
people to extend themselves for him. If they don’t, he labels them selfish – and from Gary,
that’s not a compliment.

2 PM. I feel so depressed. This whole thing kind of sneaked up on me while I wasn’t looking. I
don’t know why it happened, but maybe if I write it out, I will find some answers.
I had anxiety dreams last night, and I awoke at 4 AM thinking about my class at LIU. There are
only six sessions left, and according to the outline Dr. Eisenstadt gave me, the class is supposed
to do one more paragraph and three full-length themes.
I feel guilty because we’re so far behind; I can’t ask the class to do all that in just three weeks. I
had told them that I would eliminate one of the full-length themes and that they didn’t have to do
the final theme on the last day of class. But I called Dr. Eisenstadt this morning and he said they
must do the final theme in class on May 15.
Now I have to go back on my word, and I’m afraid the class will be angry with me. I realize
that I seek their approval too much, but that’s how I’ve always been. Dr. Eisenstadt said I have
to hand in all the class themes to the Department at the end of the term.
I should have been keeping folders with each student’s work. I just hope that most of them can
find their themes to hand in to me. And I’m worried about Dr. Eisenstadt finding my grading of
the class and/or my correction of the papers unsatisfactory.
Oh, hell – what the whole thing boils down to is that I’m afraid of being judged. I never
thought that teachers, college instructors, could feel this way. But then again, I never thought
[360]
that college teachers could have acne or would masturbate or be scared when they get into a
classroom.
I feel like such a phony, such a charlatan! I’m not fit to judge other people; I don’t know my ass
from my elbow. I get so many rejection notices, I’m not even sure I’m any kind of a writer
anymore.
There is this aching dark ball inside of me and I’m so ashamed of it and I want to give it up but
am afraid it would be too painful. Once I thought it was related entirely to guilt over
homosexual feelings. If only it was that simple; how I wish it were.
In a little over a month, I’ll be 24. But this isn’t what I pictured being 24 would be like as a kid.
I figured I’d be married, with a high-paying job and maybe a child, even – in a nice house, with
respect in the community, what the hell ever.
But I’m still a child, play-acting at being an adult. I’m still in my father’s house, being cared for
by an overprotective mother, being judged by surrogate fathers like Dr. Eisenstadt, engaging in
sibling rivalry with a 14-year-old.
And there’s Mrs. Nussbaum’s death, and the real prospect of Uncle Monty’s death. I hardly
knew Mrs. Nussbaum, but the prospect of losing both my parents the way Maddy and
Jay have, seems too horrible to think about. (And yet there is the wish, the dream . . . that
maybe that would make me an adult.)
While I was never close with Monty, his critical illness does strike very close to home; I guess I
keep worrying about Dad. It all seems so pointless, so disturbing. I want to scream. (I sound
like one of my students’ essays on depression.)
It’s so dark now. Shouldn’t it be warm and sunny at the end of April? Perhaps I just put my
finger on the central issue. I have all these expectations that don’t appear in reality. I’ve been
fed a lot of it by my parents, by society in general.
But now I know I’ll feel this way (at times) whether I’m a college president or a Nobel Prize-
winning novelist. My skin, my body, is aging – but inside I’ll always be a child.
I’ve got to learn to accept myself; I’ve been the best Richard Grayson I could be, haven’t I? Or is
that a rationalization? Whether I have material success or high status or people who love me,
I’ll still be me.
[361]
Richard Grayson
Now, of course, I feel guilty about feeling guilty. I think of suicide fleetingly, but I suppose I
shall muddle through the years that are left to me, as best I can, treating myself firmly but
gently. At least I hope so.

Agony, however painful, always ends. It was that way with my depression of yesterday.
It was that way with the long, tortuous war in Vietnam, which ended yesterday.
Big Minh, the third president of South Vietnam in a week, surrendered unconditionally to the
Communists, and U.S. Marines got the last of our countrymen out of Saigon. Today the Viet
Cong is in complete control and Saigon has been renamed Ho Chi Minh City.
Getting back to my depression, it ended without warning. I forced myself to take a drive over
to the Queens Center because I could not bring myself to go to the Fiction Workshop.
In Orbach’s and in A&S, I looked at men’s clothes, just feeling the fabrics and looking at the
beautiful shirts and pants. Most of them were beyond my means, but I did find a lovely black
knit shirt reduced for clearance to $2.99 and I bought it.
Suddenly I realized that the tight mass somewhere in my gut had disappeared. I had supper at
home and went to LIU, where I filled my class in on what we’d be doing for the next three
weeks.
I was a bit dull last night, but just the fact of getting up in front of fifteen people, most of whom
are older than me, and being a teacher was good enough for me to feel somewhat triumphant.
Libby called me when I got home. She’s going on a canoeing trip this weekend and asked if I
could type up a paper for her. She offered to pay me, but that isn’t necessary – anything to feel
useful.
Steve called, too. He’s been busy working on an Architecture paper and “partying” at Le Jardin
and Hollywood and other places like that.
I slept poorly, anxious about teaching again tomorrow (but I only have five more classes left)
and filled with sexual tension with nowhere to go. I really need to make love twice a night. All
this garbage about being asexual and sublimating is just that: garbage.
[362]
I need to release myself physically more. That cropped up in a long letter I received from
Professor Ebel this morning. He wrote it on Sunday, after finishing my stories.
He says he plans to give me Honors for the thesis, providing Prof. Leibowitz agrees. Henry
writes that he likes my writing, “which ranges from brilliantly inventive to no lower than a high
plod.” He commented on my stories separately.
He liked “Garibaldi,” which I’d deliberately put first – but the rest of the collection couldn’t
match it he never quite got over the disappointment. He liked “Reflections,” “New Haven,”
and “Jethro.”
Of “The Facts” and “Roman Buildings,” he wrote, “This is inventiveness of a high order . . .
what I like in YOUR writing is the underlying poignancy: sort of grin-and-bear-it detachment –
with suicide-as-an-ever-present-possibility-but-what-else-is-possible-in-this-particular-zeitgeist-
when-you’re-well-mannered-middle-class-and-articulate, if that’s an adequate description of
what you’re doing.”
He called “Peacock Room” “ambitious and unimpeachably successful” but found “The Jet,”
Change of Pace,” “Early Warnings” and “Talking to a Stranger” weak. The last story,
“Coping,” he liked almost as much as “Peacock Room,” but he did state that suspects I stack the
better pieces up front. (He’s right.)
His last paragraphs: “Maybe you could get this book published under a title like The Limits of
Detachment. But the fact is that detachment does have its limits. There were points even in
reading ‘The Peacock Room’ at which I found myself unable to CARE very much about people
with such reduced libido, oomph, pizzazz, and even when you’re in a Marx Brothers frenzy,
you compensate for the danger this obviously poses to you by zipping in and out between your
asterisks, not risking the possibility of sticking with one thing too long. . .
“So maybe you need an infusion of karma from somewhere or you run the serious risk of
ending up like old Salinger – and at least he can console himself with his millions. I mean, holy
shit, fella, this all-the-world’s-a-middle-class-Jewish-stage bit is just an updated Buchenwald of
the emotions.
“There is in your writing a notable absence of physicality. No physicality, no deep feeling.

That’s the way it is. So DO SOMETHING with yourself. It’s never too early to start moving on
as a writer/person, and it’s always too early to stop.”
[363]
Richard Grayson
Thursday, May 1, 1975

3 PM on a drizzly, cool first of May. I’ve been thinking a lot about Ebel’s letter. I believe the
criticism he makes is valid. The only (gay) sexual encounter in all of my stories, he states, is
“significantly bowdlerized.”
But then I have to consider who is giving the criticism. Knowing Henry Ebel from the article in
the Richmond Times, I know him to be a man whose main concerns are emotional, and even
more than that, physical.
At this point in my life, I don’t think I’m capable of describing sex graphically without being
awkward, and that is the main reason I avoid it. Perhaps in the future, as I open myself to new
experiences (and I intend to do so), this will come naturally in my writing.
Ebel’s P.S. said, “But I do admire your sophistication, which wasn’t available to me at your age,
and which cost most of my peers (if they ever did achieve it) an exaggerated price.”
Yesterday I tried to call Ronna at her office, to find out if she’d be interested in having dinner,
but Gwen said she was out sick. I called Ronna’s house, but she was sleeping and I didn’t want
to disturb her.
Restless, I drove to the Junction, hoping to meet up with a familiar face. I found two: Mason
and Stacy, who were waiting at the Rockaway bus stop. I offered them a ride home and they
accepted.
I had interrupted a discussion, though. Stacy was trying to interest Mason in sharing an
apartment around Ocean Avenue. (Stupidly, I wondered what it would be like if I shared an
apartment with Stacy. . .)
Stacy said she had seen me at Susan Schaeffer’s lecture but couldn’t get to me to say hello.
She’ll be going for her Ph.D. at the Graduate Center next fall, in their Personality program.
I was telling her about my stories, especially “The Peacock Room” (thanks to Susan Schaeffer
and Henry Ebel, I have new confidence in it), and when I said it was about bisexuality, she
expressed an interest in reading it, so I told her I’d drop off a copy at her office.
Mason was quiet most of the ride, and Stacy mentioned this; I hope he didn’t resent my horning
in. I told him to tell Libby not to pay me any money for typing a paper, that a hug would
suffice.
[364]
When I dropped Stacy off, she and Mason kissed and she told him, “Think about it.” He told
me he’s going back to the Fresh Air Fund camp this summer after graduation; he can’t wait
until his student teaching is over.
I dropped in on Grandma Ethel’s for dinner. I should have called first, but I know she’s not
resentful of having to prepare a meal for me. Grandpa Herb and I watched the last Americans
being helicoptered out of Vietnam on the news.
Grandma Ethel said that on Monday she was with Grandma Sylvia, who kept calling The Place
and the hospital and finally they told her everything was okay with Monty. Grandma Ethel
expressed the view that they’re right not to tell Grandma Sylvia the bad news: “How much
more can she take?”
Another sad bit of news came: Great-Grandma Bessie’s sister Etta died of cancer today. It is
ironic because last fall Grandma Bessie was so ill and when I went to visit her in the hospital, I
saw Etta, who looked fine.
Back home again, I finally spoke to Ronna. She developed a cold on Monday night following a
shiva call on Maddy; she went with Craig. Billy has scarlatina and perhaps he was somewhat
contagious.
Ronna sounded awful, and she said she’d stay out the rest of the week. She was bored,
although Hank visited her. “He’s crazy,” she said, “with Billy and me so contagious.” She
didn’t mean it as a contrast with me, but we both know I wouldn’t come to see her. Perhaps
Hank, who seems so uncomplicated – a literal Boy Scout – is better for Ronna than I was or Ivan
was.
I read her Ebel’s letter and we discussed it. She said, “Does he know you’re not physical
because you went out with me for two years? Hmmm?” She’s so funny and self-deprecating.
But we had a good discussion about sexuality. Now we’re friends who also have a physical
relationship. But can that work?
Friday, May 2, 1975

8 PM. I’m lounging around this evening, having successfully resisted efforts by Josh and Steve
to have me stir from the house. But I wanted an evening at home and time to myself.
[365]
Richard Grayson
It’s so chilly and gloomy for May; it seems like spring will never come, much less summer. I’m
anxious for the warmth of the sun. I long to go out in shorts, to bicycle around, and to go to the
beach. But there will be time later.
The Fiction Workshop went nicely yesterday. Josh’s story got a generally favorable review for a
change. Simon was unhappy with what he considered negative criticism of his stories on
Tuesday, when I wasn’t there. Peter Spielberg is actually such a nice, gentle man; how wrong I
was about him.
Barbara hasn’t handed in a story since the beginning of the term, and Peter said he’d give her an
Incomplete if she didn’t produce – which only seems fair.
I drove downtown and had dinner at Junior’s, though I was greatly annoyed with what I
thought were obnoxious mannerisms of the two guys sitting next to me at the counter – until I
realized they were both blind.
Then, of course, I felt ashamed. But after awhile, I realized that blind people can be obnoxious,
too.
I received teacher evaluation forms in my mailbox, but I’m not going to be a masochist and read
what my students think of me. We had another boring class on subject-verb agreement; I
couldn’t figure out a way to make it interesting.
I still don’t feel like a teacher. When Mr. Schecterman brings me his Reserve orders to leave in
two weeks on Sunday or when Mrs. Sclafani brings me a note from the head nurse in the
hospital to say she missed the last two classes because of extra duty, I feel like saying, “It
doesn’t matter.”
Mr. Carretti is driving me crazy because he attaches himself to me at the end of every class and
asks questions and makes comments. Also, I was embarrassed because I called one woman by
the wrong name; it’s hard for me to differentiate between the three black women. I know they
don’t all look like, so I suppose it’s some sort of latent racism on my part.
Marc came into my room late last night. His TV repair course at TCI ends in August, and he’s
considering going back to college, perhaps to study engineering part-time.
[366]
I told him Staten Island Community College would probably be best for that and said I’d send
away for a bulletin. It pleased me that Marc would confide in me, as he never has before.
Aunt Sydelle is still very upset about Monty, of course, but she’s glad that Cousin Scott is
graduating magna cum laude and Phi Beta Kappa, just like his cousin Richard.
Last night I dreamed about Stacy. I wonder if we can have any sort of honest relationship. Her
beloved shrink Betsy O’Hanlon teaches Psych at LIU and has the office above mine.
I met Libby in front of her Painting class this afternoon, and she gave me her Education paper
on Aesthetic Criticism to type. Libby-like, she hadn’t quite finished it and wrote the conclusion
as she sat on the floor of the Boylan corridor.
She gave me a batch of homemade oatmeal cookies in lieu of payment. I told her and Mason to
enjoy their canoeing on the Delaware.
I ran into Ronna’s sister, who said Ronna wasn’t feeling well at all and had been crying
yesterday. In LaGuardia I was handed a copy of Kingsman by its editor-in-chief; Ian and Bruce
were discussing something at the time.
At home, I began typing Libby’s paper – and doing a lot of editing. I was appalled by her
writing style – sentence fragments, misspellings, poor punctuation – but I wasn’t surprised,
given the state of higher education today.
I phoned Ronna, who had gone to the doctor and said she was feeling somewhat better. We
didn’t talk long, but I know how miserable it is to be home alone sick and with nothing to do.
Teresa wrote from Palo Alto, saying she was pleased to get my card. She is Nick’s “partner (no,
not in crime)” and it’s working out beautifully. Nick seems to be an understanding, loving
man, and there are no day-to-day blowups.
That’s good. Teresa went through a veritable battalion of creeps. She’s becoming a California
hausfrau and she’s happy, although she’d like to write or work more. Dear Teresa – I’m glad
things are good for her.
[367]
Richard Grayson
Saturday, May 3, 1975

7 PM. It feels good to be sunburned again; my body is pink from lying for an hour in the sun.
I’ve just had dinner at the Venus Diner, just a few blocks down Flatlands Avenue from Ronna’s
house. I thought of dropping by, but she might still be under the weather or else she might be
going out with Hank or someone.
I’d never been to the Venus Diner before. The waitress at the counter was pretty in a plain sort
of way. Her face and her arms were milky-smooth, and it made me think of Kara, who had
once been a waitress there. I don’t think I’ll ever hear from Kara again.
As I sat munching my onion rings, I thought about my life and that naturally led to thinking
about a story. I don’t know whether to separate me from my fiction.
But here I am, at 24 (almost), endlessly mixing memory with desire, living in what I call the
suburbs of passion (I heard the phrase on a soap opera) and constantly looking back on my
experiences with Shelli, Stacy, Ronna as things in the past.
Ebel was right about the lack of physicality in me. Mrs. Ehrlich used to point out how I was
burying my sexuality, and she was right, too. Anyway, one of the things I want to do this
summer is explore the physical side of life.
There will be a summer, that’s clear now, but will there be a sensual me? Can I break out of this
well-ordered intellectual existence that I’ve vacuum-packed myself in? In a way I’m as spotless
as any of my mother’s rooms.
I’ve got to get out of my mother’s house, my father’s house, my brothers’ house and break free.
I’m given the respect of a professional at LIU (this morning I called Mr. Schecterman, who has
Reserve duty and told him not to bother with the final since he’s taking the course Pass-Fail),
but I’ll never be treated that way by my parents.
Anyway, I’d like to write this story called “Newmark Remontant” about this thirtyish twice-
divorced novelist and college professor who’s resigned himself to the suburbs of passion
(perhaps that’s the title of one of his books) and finally, prodded by characters resembling Alice
and Prof. Ebel, he manages to get somewhere.
It’s just the germ of an idea now and it may take months to “percolate,” but I’m sure I’ll get
around to it eventually; I’ll leave it to my notebooks for awhile. I like the name Newmark (from
[368]
Felicia, of course) and I came across the word remontant the other day; it means “to flower
again.”
I got a note from Herb Leibowitz at Richmond, asking who I want my second reader to be for
the thesis. He also states I cannot graduate until I take my language exam. I thought they’d
forgotten about that; that’s going to be one pain in the neck.
Josh called late last evening and finally did persuade me to go out; we went to eat at the
International House of Pancakes. Josh told me he’s definitely going to California this summer
with his friend Rob.
Josh really hates Spielberg and the MFA program in general. I remained silent, but at least we
agree about our dislike of Simon. After supper, we drove out to Rockaway and came home via
the Cross Bay Bridge and Linden Boulevard.
I got in at midnight, read Carlos Fuentes’ Holy Place for Comp Lit (it’s not bad), and went to
bed. I have difficulty remembering my dreams lately.
Alice came over at 1 PM, while I was sunbathing. (It felt so good to sit in the backyard by the
pool with the sun on my bare skin.) She and Andreas painted last night; Renee is moving the
last of her things out today, and Alice will have her trysting place.
The landlord will probably wonder why Alice is never there, and Alice is afraid that somehow
her mother will find out about it. But most of all, Alice was excited about her big night tonight,
when she goes out for a drink with Jonathan Schwartz.
Of course, she’s got a big scene planned. (“How can he not fall in love with me?” she asked
again.) I’ll turn on WNEW at 9 PM to see if I can get a sense of what’s going on, as Alice will be
in the studio with him.
But Alice says she also loves Mr. Hartman, a gym teacher (married) she flirts with at school, as
well as Mr. Blumstein from Midwood. Perhaps I should be more like Alice: “pushy, aggressive
and obnoxious,” as she characterizes herself.
Sunday, May 4, 1975

It’s a rainy afternoon. My parents are dead. Oh, they’re not physically dead, of course; they’re
still their old youthful-looking selves. But they’ve quite effectively cut themselves off from the
flowing rhythms of life.
[369]
Richard Grayson
My mother cleans night and day; during the week Maud is here, so she does go out at times: to
shop, to pick up Marc at the train station and Jonny at school; like me, they are too fragile to
walk. As Mom herself is; she phones for someone to pick her up at the beauty parlor two
blocks from the house.
On weekends, Mom is a straightening-out machine. She complains that she has no time, but
often in the middle of the night she can be seen rearranging kitchen cabinets or polishing
furniture. She does not exist apart from this house, apart from her family.
Perhaps one day, if my father dies (really dies) before her and if finally her children can break
free of her, she may be alone in this house. What will she do then, I wonder? She lets no one do
things for themselves. “That’s not how you do it,” she’ll say, and she will show you the right
way.
This morning she took away my orange juice before I had finished with it – such is her zest in
clearing the table. She has made a living-room into a looking-room, a room in which
Galsworthy’s stiffest Forsytes might feel uncomfortable.
My mother has created a museum here, a monument to her Teutonic rigidity (although,
curiously, she has an obsession with all things Jewish – not that she believes in the religion,
mind you, but she’s all out for Israel and anything faintly Semitic).
I’ve got to get out of here; I realize that now, after endless years of psychotherapy, I still do not
see what is as plain as my hand: it’s my parents’ emotional constipation which has made me
into a being barely in touch with life.
At least I could discover intellectual stimulation for myself. My room is like a library-
mausoleum. I can read and read and they will think I’m being “quiet” and “constructive.” And
I am, but I’m also being rebellious and wicked.
Thank God for the nausea I suffered in high school; it meant that I wasn’t dead, that there was a
spark of life within me. If only I’d known it then, I could have put it to use and would not have
had to make myself an agoraphobic prisoner of my house.
Of my father, what can I say? He’s afraid of the truth, so he behaves like an ostrich, and he
taught me to do the same. From the lump on the side of his face to not making preparations in
his business, he has always been the same: never making contact with reality unless it captured
him first.
[370]
Now the IRS is auditing him, and he’s nervous. In the morning, I hear his hacking cough from
smoking; once he quit but then he went back. He follows sports and bets on games with some
bookie in Monticello. He goes to movies, sometimes without my mother, because she doesn’t
enjoy them.
Together for 25 years, they mesh perfectly . . . and they created three male human beings, of
which I am the first. There is the odor of death in this house, and I’ve got to leave. The risks,
the fright: they can’t be worse than this.
It’s a wonder that I’m able to create and dream and feel at all. Last night I had a dream in
which I wanted to strangle my parents; in another dream, I was leading an adult life with a
family in a flooded city, sort of Venice on the Lower East Side. That’s what life can be like, I
know it.
Five years ago was Kent State. How much and how little I’ve changed since then. Last night I
read José Donoso’s Hell Has No Limits, which was simply superb. I typed up Libby’s paper and
then delivered it to her house in Park Slope, giving it to her brother Wyatt.
After studying in the college library, as I was driving back home, I spotted Josh walking in a
yellow slicker in the rain, so I drove him over to a friend’s house. Alice called while I was gone,
but she’s not home now. I wonder how it went last night; I couldn’t tell a thing by listening to
Jonathan Schwartz on the radio.
Monday, May 5, 1975

4 PM. It’s dark outside, but at least it’s not pouring, like yesterday. I guess I sounded harsh
and cruel, those things I said about my parents yesterday. I do love them – very much. And
that is why I want them to be better, to be freer, to be happier.
I don’t know what’s the matter with me. I’m starting to cry. I want someone to hold onto:
Ronna, anybody.
I’ve just finished reading a truly magnificent novel, Heartbreak Tango, by an Argentine, Manuel
Puig. It affected me as no book has in a long time. It was a comedy but beautifully sad.
I had so many dreams last night. It think this is one of them:
[371]
Richard Grayson
I was watching an old TV show, Leave It to Beaver, and a friend of mine was on TV with Orson
Welles. The phone rang, and it was Simon, but he said, “Denis?” I told him no, I was Richard
and then I noticed that it was 6 PM and I was late for Comp Lit.
I was at the college soon after that, and there the actress Nancy Walker was a secretary in the
Art Department, and I tried to avoid Dean Jones. I collected money for working in Hilary
Gold’s office on Tuesday from 11 AM to noon, although I never really did work at that time.
Then I entered Hilary’s office and this woman, a soap opera character, was saying goodbye to a
crowd of people; she was going away to prison for a crime she committed. As I filed past her
and took her hand, she said, “Dear Hank, I’ll miss you.” She had mistaken me for Hank!
Back at my apartment, I took off my sport jacket and loosened my tie. Ronna was cooking
spaghetti for dinner, and Hank was sitting at the table, waiting to be served. Alan Horowitz
was there, and we shook hands, but there was another guy there whom I didn’t recognize.
He said he was Stuie Taubman, the kid who used to head the Jewish Student union, but he
looked nothing like Stuie. I figured, it’s all a soap opera on which an actor had been replaced.
Then I woke up.
In other dreams I was Greek or with Jay Hershenson at some convention in a San Juan hotel or
depressed on a rainy day like yesterday. I woke up feeling refreshed but empty, and there’s
been a growing anticipation in me all day.
I got a very kind rejection of “Coping” from Redbook today; the editor said people would rather
not be reminded of Kent State anymore.
I don’t know what this malaise is. I don’t understand why I feel so odd. Perhaps I’m anxious
about teaching, but I have only four classes left. Maybe I feel guilty about grading students
because I don’t feel worthy of judging anyone or anything.
I called Ronna yesterday, but we didn’t seem to be making connections. I don’t seem to be
making any connections these days. My acne is flaring up. I wish it was warm, like Saturday,
again, and I could sit in the sun. My sinuses hurt.
I went into Manhattan by subway this morning, to catch the noon showing of Shampoo at the
Coronet. Warren Beatty played a womanizing hairdresser stud; I’d like to be like that just once.
Even though he’s unhappy at the end of the film, I’d like to be that free with women.
[372]
Also, I find myself really attracted to Warren Beatty. No, I’m not crazy writing like this. For
once, I’m not guarding myself. This is me, and yesterday was me, and I’m always me.
I never could understand it when people say, “I’m not myself today.” I’m always myself: when
I’m petty and when I’m generous; when I’m brave and when I’m a coward; when I think I’m
ugly and when I think I’m beautiful; when I’m teaching a class or masturbating; when I’m
nauseated or when I’m writing away like this.
It was nice to go into Manhattan for a movie during the week, but I almost felt guilty. I want to
do something crazy. I want to be physical. Ebel’s letter has been on my mind so much.
For once, someone who judges me has said it’s all right – no, it’s more than all right, it’s good –
for me to be physical. And strangely enough, I feel that when I’ve worked this all out, I’ll be
happier. I feel anxious now – on the train coming home, I nearly had an anxiety attack – but I
feel that something good is close at hand.

Last evening turned out to be rather pleasant. After a quick bite to eat at Kosher King, I went to
Comp Lit, which I greatly enjoyed. I’m very glad that I took the course because it exposed me
to new forms of writing; I’ve become especially interested in contemporary Latin American
writing.
A girl in the class came up to me and told me how thin I’d gotten since the beginning of the
term. Even if it isn’t true, it still made me feel great.
I spent the evening on the telephone with three women. First, Libby called to thank me for
correcting and typing her term paper. She described the canoeing trip along the Delaware.
Saturday was warm and sunny and nice; back at the camp that night she made Mason eggplant
parmigiana and they smoked.
But it started raining (as it did here) and Sunday was a horror. They got soaked as they
paddled through the rain; Libby was up front and the rapids kept drenching her while Mason
paddled furiously just to stay in one place.
[373]
Richard Grayson
It got to the point, Libby said, where she didn’t care if the canoe turned over. But they got back
to the city finally late Sunday night; Mason slept over and neither of them went to teach in the
morning.
My next caller was Alice, to tell me of her big night – which turned out to be, as I had
anticipated, a dud. It was like a boring first date, and she and Jonathan Schwartz really had
nothing to say to one another.
She got to his studio at 9 PM, and he showed her around, but his phone kept ringing; once a
woman called and he asked Alice to leave because it was personal and he didn’t call her back in
until fifteen minutes later. Jonathan made cracks about her living with her mother in Brooklyn
(which to him seemed like Hell); he asked about Andreas and they discussed writing.
He seemed to have no sense of humor and he sounded as if he was trying to impress Alice,
which wasn’t necessary. He was dressed sloppily, and instead of taking Alice out for a drink,
he just asked, “Where can I drop you off?” when they got in his car.
At the end, they shook hands and he said, “Keep in touch” without meaning it. Alice said she
looked good but was feeling quiet and not bombastic.
She was depressed, of course, but Andreas told her it’s good that she went and discovered that
her idol wasn’t what she’d thought he was. Alice had built it up so much, Jonathan Schwartz
couldn’t have been as great as she imagined, and she understands that now.
Then Stacy called and we ended up talking for an hour. She thought “The Peacock Room” was
“great” and “touching” and it made her feel good about me, “a sensitive young artist attuned to
himself.”
Of course she recognized the characters as similar to Ivan and Lisa, and she mentioned seeing
Lisa on the Rockaway bus that morning (“She’s more mature I am”). I think Stacy feels guilty
about what she described as a “run-in” with Ivan.
Stacy said that Ivan started calling her and he tried a seduction scene in her bedroom but she
said she wasn’t interested. (This was in contrast to Ivan telling Ronna, “Stacy’s after my body
again.” Which truth do you believe?)
[374]
Stacy wants a monogamous relationship, which sort of surprised me. She said Ivan is a good
person, but he’s young and has always been pushed into older things: “He needs a strong-
willed woman who’ll fuck him and then leave him.”
She’s sort of angry about her role as an agent to solidify the relationship between Ivan and Lisa.
Life is a soap opera, certainly. Will I never get away from Ivan? He’s become sort of an alter
ego, a bête noir.
Anyway, then Stacy and I cleared up our own relationship, which was difficult. We were pretty
honest and she talking frankly about her relationship with that woman. Apparently Phyllis
said that I talked about her nastily – but Phyllis viewed Stacy as a threat to her relationship with
Timmy and that may account for it.
Stacy said that she did enjoy my company when we were going out, and I told her that I always
liked her. After all the difficulty, perhaps Stacy and I can be friends. And that’s how we should
keep it, I believe.

7 PM. It’s finally turning warm and sunny, thank goodness. I lay out in the sun for hours this
afternoon, but clouds kept coming overhead and blocking out the warmth and heat.
And yet as much as I wanted the sun, I found myself grateful for the clouds. What a pleasure it
is, though, to feel the sun on my bare skin. It makes me feel so clean and pure.
When I got up, I noticed a little cat near me, a calico thing sitting serenely. I brought out a
saucer of milk, but it ran away.
Teaching went very well last night. First my students filled out the teacher evaluation forms
(I’m so glad I did not look at them; in more masochistic days I couldn’t have kept myself from
peeking). Then I discussed description and read aloud Balzac’s description of M. Grandet from
the reader.
I feel at ease in the classroom now; instead of hiding behind a desk, I was able, for the first time,
to sit on top of the desk, closer to the class. I have fun with them and maybe, just maybe, teach
them something.
[375]
Richard Grayson
Earlier I enjoyed the Fiction Workshop. We went over a story of Sharon’s; she and I seem to be
working in the same middle-class-Jewish milieu. I’m really going to miss the MFA program
over this summer.
While walking Denis to his car, I ran into Mira Baron, Mitchell and Drew’s mother: a lovely,
crazy woman. Denis and I were going to meet the others in Sugar Bowl but because of the rain
and heavy traffic, we decided not to and he let me off at my car.
More and more I’m coming to appreciate Denis, just as I find myself unable to take Simon. He
was again wearing different colored socks yesterday, so he must be completely color-blind.
Anyway, I had dinner at Junior’s and then went to my class. All the rituals of my life have
always been dear to me; I guess that’s because I’m the kind of person who likes the familiar, the
comfortable.
Today I went to BC – first at the Junction, I xeroxed my class’s final theme, which is as dull as
most final theme topics are. I ran into Stacy. Odd how I hadn’t seen her for months and now
we keep bumping into each other.
On Friday I’m going to stop by her office to pick up my manuscript. Stacy knows that we never
really got a chance to be honest with one another. Which is a pity, because I think Stacy is a
good person, really – just as we decided Ivan was.
She needs more hours at work and has to ask Aaron about it, and Stacy says he’s after her body
and she finds him gross. I could see getting intimate with Stacy; after all, we’re both very
bright, creative, monogamous bisexuals – but I don’t know if it would be good for me.
For if I want to get close with Stacy, it would bring back in Ivan, and Lisa, and Ronna, and
Timmy, and Phyllis, and Melvin, and Stefanie, and Mason, and Libby, that endless chain of exes
– and I’d find myself in the middle of a post-LaGuardia muddle.
I saw Prof. Merritt on the quadrangle, and we shared some uzo (they were giving it out because
of Greek Day). I told him about teaching my class and he said he still is terrified the first day of
each semester – “because you know they’re sizing you up,” he said.
It’s good to know that I’m not unique and that I’ll probably be nervous even after twenty years
of teaching. Then Prof. Mayers passed by. It seems his wife had open-heart surgery, which is
too bad, but I hope that she’ll be okay.
[376]
They said they had another English Department meeting to pick a new chairman since Maurice
Kramer’s on sabbatical next year.
I went to Sugar Bowl and sat down next to Elayne, who said she saw Leroy (she calls him by his
last name, Rivera) and that spoiled her day. He’s involved with four different women now, and
Elayne said, “He’s still the bane of my existence.”
Now, Elayne said, guys keep asking her over, wanting to cook a meal for her as a bribe to get
her into bed. She and Elihu are going to a party at Mindy’s tomorrow night. Mindy and
Charles are getting married on Saturday, and Elayne and Elihu bought them a camping pot for
a wedding present, figuring they can use it in Vermont.
Elayne said Elihu is going to Madison this summer and that he speaks constantly to Shelli. “I
don’t think much of that crowd – they’re sickies,” she said, meaning Shelli and Jerry and Leon,
etc. But I’ve stopped making value judgments – at least publicly.

11 PM. I’m glad that teaching will be over in a week. Tonight I really became disgusted with
my class – or at least with Ms. Mackey and Mr. Carretti, who come up after each session to
brown me and/or to argue for points on their compositions.
Of course both of them are between a B+ and an A, and I’m almost tempted to give them the
lower grade because they make such nuisances of themselves. They criticize me, which is okay,
although not great for the ego – but what really annoys me is that they’re more interested in the
grade rather than in learning.
I suppose I should blame the system rather than the individuals, but it’s such a rectalgia. (Isn’t
that a lovely word? I discovered it recently.) Well, one more lesson to get through, one more
theme to grade, and then grading the final, and then giving marks for the term – and that’s it.
In one respect Dr. Eisenstadt was right: if you give an inch, they take a yard, and in the future (if
there is one), I’ll act accordingly. But this was my first time teaching, and I made an awful lot of
mistakes which will help me to see what not to do if I ever teach again.
[377]
Richard Grayson
It does make me think, however: was as I greedy for a good mark as Carretti and Mackey are? I
only received a B in Freshman Composition, and I guess I felt I might have deserved better, but
I never thought of complaining.
All through my undergraduate days I never challenged a mark. But then I was never very
pushy or assertive.
Last night Ronna called. Her cold is better, although she still sounded nasal and was coughing.
She’s back at work and they’re glad to have her. The weekend after this one she’s going away
on a trip to Washington with Gwen and her cousin.
Susan is sailing for Europe on Wednesday, and Ronna wants to spend more time with her
before she leaves, but she still asked if she could see me this Saturday night. I said yes, we’ll go
to the movies or something.
I called Mikey last night. He, too, has been suffering with a bad cold, and with his bronchitis,
he’s got to be careful.
Mikey’s been job-hunting and had some luck; he’s almost sure of this job from the CETA
program, but it would be at the Financial Aid office of John Jay, and even if the job is confirmed,
he’s not sure he wants it.
Another possibility is an internship in John Scacalossi’s office at BC, something Mike found for
him. Scacalossi interviewed Mikey and found him well-qualified for the job in Campus
Security; the pay would be $10,000, but federal funding isn’t assured yet and won’t be until late
summer.
Mikey doesn’t think he’ll finish his thesis until autumn, as his adviser is taking her vacation
over the summer. He said that his mother is still working, that Mandy likes her job but is going
back to school soon, and the Mike is running around trying to find teachers so he can make up
his Incompletes.
I told Mikey of the offer I got to run for Graduate Student Organization Vice-President, and he
said I was wise to ignore it.
Last night I had very angry dreams. I was furious with Mom for telling me how things are
done; at Dr. Bob Wouk; at Mrs. Ehrlich; at Prof. Baumbach for talking about “the way to write.”
All those shoulds drove me crazy in my dreams.
[378]
I also had a pleasant dream about seeing Sunday, Bloody Sunday with Avis – God, how I miss her
face, her voice, her touch.
Today, in Fiction Workshop, we went over a story by Denis about his childhood; it was pretty
good. Simon irked me by saying he’d finished his “novel,” all 29 pages of it.
But I went with him, Sharon, Todd, Denis, Barbara and Anna to Sugar Bowl after class. Come
to think of it, Josh was the only one missing; he has to work after class.
In Sugar Bowl, I ran into Alex, who’s writing his farewell column already. By next year I will
know almost no undergraduates at BC.
Friday, May 9, 1975

9 PM. Sunburn feels so good. I sat out for two hours this afternoon, and now the front of my
body is this glowing red color. It feels hot, and I don’t mind it all.
I guess I’ll always be a narcissist, and I’ll always like getting tan because I know I look better
that way. (Of course when I’m 50 and wrinkled like Grandma Ethel, I probably won’t think so.)
If I don’t have a lean and muscular physique, if I don’t have a classically beautiful face, if I do
have a paunch and no chin and a head shaped like a balloon – well, at least I tan nicely.
I just came back from Macy’s on Flatbush Avenue, where I bought a silver choker-thing on a
chain. I wanted to pamper myself. I guess it was Ebel’s letter that prompted me to try to
become sensuous. Ha! I’ll never get there and I know it.
But you can’t always tell. They say Hugh Hefner was a virgin until 23, and I’m certainly ahead
of him.
Last night I called Gary, who’s leaving for Europe on Sunday. He’s been running around,
clearing up a lot of last-minute things at Columbia, doing the necessary shopping and making
other arrangements.
I told Gary I’d come to the airport to see off if I can make it. Sunday is Mother’s Day, so of
course I have to be with the family and visit my grandmothers.
[379]
Richard Grayson
Today I got a letter from Avis, who writes that she wishes some people from America could
visit her. She mentioned that Stuttgart isn’t all that far from Strasbourg, and I said I’d give Gary
her address just in case, although I doubt he’ll get to Germany.
Avis, who wrote the letter on Tuesday, said she’ll probably call her sister tomorrow, when
Mindy and Charles are getting married at the UN Chapel. Avis feels somewhat guilty about
not being there, but the expense of the jet fare was just too much.
Avis and Helmut are planning a party next week to celebrate the end of Helmut’s
conscientious-objector work. He’ll then play what Avis calls the “applying to the University
game.”
They’re going to leave Germany in mid-July when Avis’s babysitting job ends (she lost out on a
fantastic job at a book bindery and was depressed about it) and go to Greece. She asks if I could
meet them there.
I might be able to handle traveling to Europe now, but I don’t have the money. Avis said now
that it is spring, she misses the long afternoon talks we had on the steps of LaGuardia and the
lunches at Campus Corner.
Afternoons she mostly heads to visit her friend Rose and they take long walks or bike rides.
They’ve been saving some money and have been helping Helmut’s cousin Ursula move into a
new place.
Avis said that “something is changed inside of me; I’ve calmed down a bit,” and she quoted
something apropos from Colette. She still pulls her hair nervously, but she’s not ridden with
insomnia and her blood is flowing evenly.
She closes: “I am fine, Helmut is fine, we are getting by, we are still in love, and we both send a
little bit of that to you. You know I miss you very much and I love you more than just a little
bit.”
Dear, dear Avis – how much I care for her. I’m glad the way things worked out for her,
although once in a great while I regret what might have been.
This morning I went to Stacy’s office to pick up “The Peacock Room.” She had to get the
manuscript in another room, and while I waited, Aaron nodded and eyed me suspiciously.
[380]
Stacy came back and said, “It was great.” I said thank you and that I’d be in touch with her,
and we left it at that.
I didn’t want to interrupt her work. I want to build a positive relationship with Stacy, but I
want to proceed slowly. I guess I’ll never be an incautious person like Alice or Libby. But I
can’t really make myself into something that is not me.

3 PM. I feel peaceful, cozy and snuggly. I’ve just been lying in the backyard. It’s a mild, partly
sunny day, and wispy clouds kept blocking the sun, but I didn’t mind. Cool breezes kept
tickling my body.
And when I covered my head with a towel to keep warm, I opened my eyes and saw the white
terrycloth around me. I could breathe through the spaces between the fiber; the experience was
pleasant, being immersed in a white-towel world.
Maybe this is all nonsense, but it made me think about the infinite variety of worlds that exist.
My body was slightly warm all night; even now I feel a burning sensation on my legs. I am,
right now, merely a creature of sensation, of pleasure.
I feel as though I were a cat and someone was stroking my neck. I could like to be held and
patted and cuddled. Still, I can’t really express myself well – nor do I want to.
I think that’s where Prof. Ebel was off the mark. When I’m feeling this good, I don’t care about
analyzing it, and even describing it is somehow useless, so why try?
It strikes me that it’s much more interesting to write about (and to read about) frustrations
rather than pleasures. I’ve had many satisfying sexual experiences with Ronna, and I can
remember it being the same way at times with Shelli.
But I’ve never been able to describe those moments, nor have I really wanted to. It seems
somehow a waste to write about fulfilling things, except in an autobiographical context.
Tonight I’m supposed to be at Ronna’s at 7 PM, but I still don’t know where we’re going. If it
were up to me, at this moment, we would spend the whole night in bed. But we’ll probably go
to the movies and then out for a bite; that is, if we go out together at all.
[381]
Richard Grayson
This morning I woke up early; I had difficulty sleeping. I decided to pay Grandma Sylvia a
Mother’s Day visit a day early.
On the way there, I passed Steve Cohen’s parents’ house and I noticed his Cougar, with its
North Carolina plates, in the driveway. So he and Pauline must be home. I’d like to see them
again.
On Rockaway Beach Boulevard I was driving behind Ivan’s car, but I didn’t want to honk my
horn and say hello. I think Ivan was driving, as the driver had black wavy hair and was
smoking a cigarette. But he turned left at Beach 116th Street and I didn’t want him to think I was
following him.
Grandma Sylvia was getting dressed when I arrived, and Grandpa Nat just getting up from a
nap; he did not go into work today. The way they argue over such trivial things, one would
think them to be a miserable, violent couple – but I’m so used to their outbursts toward each
other that I find the yelling comical and touching.
Grandma Sylvia got my Mother’s Day card and I see she got one from Cousin Robin and little
Michael too. She didn’t mention Uncle Monty’s illness, so I don’t know how much they’ve told
her.
Dad and Mom were in Cedarhurst last night and they said Monty looked all right; he came
home from the hospital on Wednesday (the bill was $8,000!) and will receive treatments by a
doctor in Far Rockaway. Grandpa Nat and Grandma Sylvia had lunch, and we discussed other
things.
Cousin Scott will be graduating in a couple of weeks and then in September he’ll be going to
law school in Washington. I suppose his girlfriend is joining him; from what I hear, they’re
never apart.
That sounds clingy to me, but I guess they are anxious to get married. Which reminds me:
Mindy and Charles are getting married today, and I wonder who’s in attendance at the UN
Chapel.
I’ve got to give some thought to just what I’m going to do this summer. I want a job (I really
need the money), but they’re so scarce now. Also, I don’t think I could take a 9-to-5 office job in
Manhattan, if only because the prospect of rush hour in the subways gives me the creeps.
[382]
Sunday, May 11, 1975

5 PM. I’ve got to start writing again and stop lying in the sun. (Every time I think of Simon’s
29-page “novel,” I want to break something.) I’ve been so lazy and unproductive lately. But I
have been thinking about Baumbach’s and Colchie’s views of fiction.
I guess we have to do something different from what was going on before. In one of Borges’
ficciones, he makes the point of the absurdity of writing a traditional novel in the 20th century,
and I can see the point.
Who reads anymore, anyway? Besides the best-sellers, that is? The new (or, by now, not so
new) electronic media have made us writers into near-irrelevancies.
I’ve got to get into McLuhan again, but I do agree with what I learned in high school: that the
medium is the message, that the text is more important than the content – yet I persist in trying
my hand at realistic stories, and I enjoy them.
I see my feelings toward Ivan as more than just jealousy, or our interrelationships: Ivan is an
electronics and computer wizard, and in the end it will be a technocrat like Ivan who will
destroy me and my kind (and yes, I do presume to be an artist).
Oh, well – enough of that. I’m deliriously happy after last night; it was a totally beautiful
experience, a sort of gentle echo of the past.
Ronna wasn’t home yet when I arrived at her house at 7 PM. Earlier I had called and joked that
if she didn’t come home, I would take her mother out instead, so Mrs. C greeted me by saying,
“I’ll be ready in a minute, Richie.”
Ronna phoned and said she was on her way from the station, that she’d been in the Village with
Susan and Felicia. I sat down at the dinner table where the rest of the family were having their
meal.
Billy grabbed me by the hand and took me to his room (Ronna’s old room) to show me his three
white mice and his snake with two of its skins already shed.
When she arrived, Ronna looked terrific in a pink top and silk scarf. We didn’t feel like seeing
any of the neighborhood movies, so we decided to take an aimless ride, stopping off to buy
some tampons Ronna needed.
[383]
Richard Grayson
We drove around Flushing and up Main Street, talking of this and that. She’s seeing Susan off
on Wednesday; on Tuesday she’s finally going to BC to ask teachers for grad school
recommendations; and next weekend she’s going to Washington with Gwen and a few other
Filipina girls.
Hank took her to a Boy Scout meeting on Thursday night (one would expect Hank to be a Boy
Scout leader). He wants Ronna to do something with the boys, and true to form, I gave her a
vulgar suggestion for an activity – but Ronna’s used to me by now.
Back in Brooklyn, we had a 10 PM dinner at the Floridian. In the car we kept laughing, saying
how basically we could never stand each other. It was so funny, but if we really had meant it,
we wouldn’t have been able to joke about our incompatibility.
Ronna said that her sister’s boyfriend is mean to her, joking about her weight and making fun of
her; he’s not too bright, either (he plastered Susan’s name on the rear of his revved-up car), and
Ronna only hopes that they don’t get married.
We went to my house and watched TV in the basement, but we both knew we couldn’t avoid
touching each other. It was I who initiated it, but Ronna responded. I am so attracted to her
still, but I found it hard (ha) to tell her that.
Actually, hugging and holding and kissing her was the best way I could express how I felt
although I did tell her that I loved her. I thought it was all nice but didn’t expect it to get very
far.
But we were standing up kissing and we got carried away; it was so fine (how lame am I in
describing this?) and finally we were horizontal on the couch making love.
I came the first time and it felt good to have Ronna next to me, under me, again. We lay and
talked softly and explored each other’s bodies (on TV, Olivia Newton-John was singing “I
Honestly Love You”) and then we made love again – this time for Ronna, and it was good to
feel her come.
We lay together like the old days – yet is seemed we were never separated – until past
2 AM. I haven’t stayed up that late since last fall, and neither of us felt depressed.
[384]
I don’t think anything’s changed drastically. She said she loved me, and I love her so very
much.

4 PM. The coming of summerlike weather and the coming end of my teaching duties have
made me feel so liberated. I feel so free now, and I want to enjoy things, be a hedonist for a
while.
Gary left for Europe last night, but I told him I couldn’t see him off at the airport; he understood
that it was Mother’s Day and I wanted to see Grandma Ethel.
Gary mailed me a copy of his itinerary so I can write him; his flight was to Zurich, and by now
he must have arrived in Strasbourg and he’s probably settled in with Bill Beer and his girlfriend
there. I gave him Avis’ address in case he can make a side trip to Stuttgart.
Last evening I went out to Rockaway and arrived only a few minutes after Grandpa Herb and
Grandma Ethel had gotten home. They spent the day in Oceanside, where Arlyne and Marty
made a barbecue. I had attempted to ride out there earlier, but the parkway traffic was just too
heavy.
Uncle Irving and Aunt Minnie arrived at the Sarretts’ apartment just after did, but they didn’t
stay too long; they had just come from seeing Aunt Tillie and Uncle Morris, who were having
this ridiculous fight because paranoid Uncle Morris thinks another elderly man has designs on
Aunt Tillie.
After they left, Grandpa Herb, Grandma Ethel and I had a nice chat over tea. Grandpa Herb’s
father, who died before I was born, sounds like he was an intellectual; according to Grandpa
Herb, he read Zola and other writers in French and he played chess and the violin and was a
Bolshevik. It’s odd that all of his children turned out to be decidedly non-intellectual. I would
have liked to know Great-Grandfather Saretsky.
I was up late planning stories; I’ve decided to write some more realistic stories, using the same
characters in “The Peacock Room” and “Coping.”
It’s a sort of soap opera-ish, Galsworthyian, Balzacian thing. I can take these two New York
Jewish garment center families” on wealthy (the Kiviaks, based on Ivan’s family) and the other
middle class (based on my own family). I don’t have to limit myself to one mode of writing.
[385]
Richard Grayson
I slept deliciously and dreamed of Ronna. Saturday night was almost too good to be believed.
As we were lying in each other’s arms, I asked Ronna if she was sorry it happened; she said she
wasn’t but she might cry when she got home. I wonder if she did.
We do love each other, but I guess we’re not “in love.” I was with Mason and Libby today, and
I guess they are basically in the same bag. I picked up Mason at South Shore and we went
through the car wash at the Junction and then found Libby.
The three of us sat down in front of Gershwin, where a school band was playing jazz; they were
excellent. I just closed my eyes and let the music take over. It was extraordinarily good when
this blonde girl started to sing “Once in Love.”
Libby is going to both summer sessions so she needs an apartment near school, like she had last
summer. We went to put up signs in Boylan and LaGuardia, where Susan came up to me. I
hadn’t seen her in half a year. She’s excited about her upcoming trip. Ronna’s sleeping over at
her apartment tonight and Susan sails on Wednesday.
In her usual onrush of words (Mason says she talks so fast, he could never follow what she was
saying), Susan said grad school at Rutgers was horrible, but it’s over; she’s going to finish her
coursework in December because she’s decided a Ph.D. is worthless today anyway.
I wished her a good vacation and then went with Mason and Libby to Melvin’s for lunch. (On
the way, we passed John Zuccarelli, who gushed, “You look fabulous!” to me. Gay people say
the nicest things.)
The student government election is currently underway. I’ve never met this year’s Mugwump
candidate, but I know the party is so strong, he’s assured of victory.
Mason and Libby and I had lunch in Melvin’s kitchen. Fred is transferring to Queens College to
be near his girlfriend Beverly (I met her at Avis’s house in September).
Fred and Melvin found this dog, which we took out for a walk – but the dog doesn’t understand
how to shit, so we didn’t get very far.
I like hanging out with Mason and Libby. And I met Alex, who’s always so wonderful; he told
me that he mentioned me in his farewell column in Kingsman! Today was almost like the best of
the old LaGuardia days.
[386]

9 PM. Driving home through a thunderstorm from LIU just now, I felt so content. It was more
than that; it wasn’t elation or exuberance, however. The best way I can describe it is to say that I
felt a sense of person-ness, the sense that I am real, to myself and to others.
I am me, Richard Grayson, and though I may be both teacher and student, friend and enemy,
son and brother, angry or loving, scared or confident – the basic me is always the same. This is
perhaps the most wonderful thing I have learned in this life, and it’s more than worth whatever
price I paid to acquire it.
It’s so simple, really, but so magical. I don’t have to “act” any way to please people and I don’t
have to be anything I’m not.
My class and I had a long and interesting discussion about grades today. It’s a rotten system,
but that’s the way it is and we have to operate in it as best we can. I told them not to be nervous
about their final and explained how I felt teaching writing was a kind of impossibility.
I urged everybody to just do the best they can, whatever their capabilities, just as taught them
the best I could my first time out. Perhaps in later years I’ll think I wasn’t very good at all, but
the point is that I was as good as I could be now. I think my students went away feeling
somewhat more relaxed and reassured than they did when they walked in.
Mr. Walek, the Orthodox fellow who took the final tonight because Thursday is Shavuoth, said I
was a good teacher and a nice person. (He wasn’t browning me because he’s taking the course
Pass-Fail and he’s already assured of a P.)
Earlier in the day, it was hot and sunny. I went to BC at 2:30 to keep my appointment with
Susan Schaeffer; I waited outside her office awhile, and then Dan Mayers showed me a note
she’d left, saying she was sorry but she couldn’t make it to today.
I had two hours to kill and while wondering what to do, I was noticing a pretty girl walking in
front of me in the hall. She looked familiar to me somehow, and I called “Ronna?” hesitantly.
She turned around and smiled. Ronna had gotten her letters of recommendation from her old
Spanish teacher and was going to see Lillian Schlissel. But there were three people ahead of
her, so we walked down to Boylan cafeteria and had apple juice.
[387]
Richard Grayson
It was strange, but nice, to be on campus with Ronna again. She said she had lunch with Hank
(yes, I’m still jealous of him) and had seen Sidney, who quit his job with the Long Branch Record
and is working for another paper in New Jersey.
Ronna went to see Prof. Schlissel and I went out on the quadrangle, where I was soon joined by
Anna and Simon. When Ronna came out, she said that Prof. Schlissel had told her to apply to
Iowa as well as Buffalo, GW, Purdue, Penn State and Michigan, all of which have good
American Studies departments.
Later, Ronna told me that Simon and Anna are just what she figured they’d be like from things
I’d said and from their stories. A friendly group came by: Diane, Stefanie and her friend Carol,
Marc Cohen, and Alex, who was wearing a suit, coming fresh from a job interview.
We all chatted for a while and it was just like the old days for me. I walked Ronna and Diane to
WBCR, where they were going to meet Hank. Sitting on the grass earlier, I’d found a beautiful
gray hair on Ronna’s head and she let me pull it off.
When we party, I shook Ronna’s hand, but she kissed me. Then her cousin kissed me on the
cheek; that was nice. (Ronna said that Susan was surprised when I kissed her hello yesterday.)
Then I ran into Karin and Vito. I hugged him and scolded him for not calling me. He said he’s
been feeling guilty about it, but lately he’d been doing things alone: reading a lot and going to
films. We made tentative plans to see each other; even from our brief meeting, I can see that
Vito’s grown as a person.
I ran off to class, where we did my “Coping.” The class liked it enormously, except for Denis.
Simon thought it was well-constructed and Todd said that it was very professional.
Spielberg said he was surprised that I’d written it; he admires my versatility and some of my
insights, but he said that while the writing was always competent, the story did not interest him
very much. He disliked the soap-opera quality of it (which was deliberate on my part) – but I
figured he would.

3 PM. A little while ago, I was sitting by the lily pond with Mavis and Alex, talking seriously
about life. Each of us wants to be somebody, to be known and famous and respected in our field.
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But deep down, we know that very few people really make it. (I spent last night reading
Norman Podhoretz’s Making It, and while I don’t really like the man, I guess I have to
sympathize with his ever-present ambition, for I have it, too.)
We had just come from the English majors’ tea. Both Alex and Mavis had applied for the Sam
Castan Award, but Ian won it. And Carol won the short story award. Two years ago, of course,
I knew I was going to win the playwriting award and I did, but I never wrote another play.
There were ever so many would-be poets and novelists and playwrights in the SUBO penthouse
(I discount the department faculty) that it makes one very despondent. How can someone
stand out in such a crowd?
Alex and Mavis are both graduating and I know they’re insecure about their futures. Mavis
was offered a teaching assistantship if she stayed on at BC, but she’s decided to go to Maryland
or Ohio for her M.S. in Broadcasting even though they’re not giving her money – which seems
like a good move for her.
Alex hopes that he gets that job editing a United Fund newsletter. He’s also a fine artist and
would like to put that talent to good use. Alex and I read over Mavis’ farewell column and we
talked about our fear of the future.
I somehow wanted to cry because we seem so small and afraid and the world so big and
challenging. Alex says you have to believe in your abilities, but what if you’re insecure?
Sometimes it seems like there’s nothing to do but hold onto each other – a hand on Alex’s
shoulder, an arm around Mavis’ waist. And we sort of know that in years to come we probably
won’t be seeing each other – that’s how life goes.
But maybe – the thought comes to me now – the secret is to live for now, to understand that life
is transitory and unfair, but to seize the day, the old Carpe Diem thing. The past was nice but
it’s over; the future is uncertain; so we can immerse ourselves, not in the destructive element,
but in the present.
I know what I’m saying is probably trite and hackneyed, but often it takes time before truths
become “truths.” I look at myself and I look at people around me and I see we’re all – to use
Dad’s phrase – muddling through.
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Last night I spoke to Ronna and there were such good vibrations between us; it’s impossible not
to know how much we care about one another. But we have to let go because it’s for each one’s
benefit.
I literally let her go last night – to talk to Hank on the other line. (I saw Hank today in
LaGuardia and he gave me a very open smile; I can’t imagine him being anything other than
what he feels, and that’s a very good quality.)
Yesterday Alice called. She’s ill with an upper respiratory infection, which she caught from her
students – but she’s not at all sorry to be at home. She doesn’t want to teach sixth graders; she
wants to be a famous magazine-article writer.
The other people I see all have similar dreams and discontents. John Zuccarelli (who said I
looked “fabulous,” and of course I love him for that) has ambitions in the theater. Carl Karpoff,
passing by with a girl, both of them in shorts, wants a career in dance. Yolanda, whose birthday
was on Monday, is another aspiring writer.
I’m not sure what Vito wants, but I know he wants to rise above where he is now; maybe he’s
just interested in glamour, since he said that going to the Tony Awards and reception was the
high point of his life.
Mavis said we don’t want to end up like our parents, and that’s true. I love my grandparents,
but they are not really alive: their existences revolve around their health (necessarily, I
suppose), their meals, the TV set or card game, and their families, who are all really too
involved in their own lives to offer them much.
Alex said a person has to keep growing and learning, but how many do? Even at the English
majors’ tea, I see people like Professors Murphy, Starling, Mayers, Merritt, Kitch – they are all
quite wonderful, but would they rather be somewhere else, doing something else?
I don’t know. Well, summer’s almost here and maybe it’s time just to soak up the sun and
relax. But relaxing is never an easy task.

10 PM. My teaching at LIU is at an end, and what remains is the most obnoxious part of the job:
giving final grades. I had a long talk about grading with Jim Merritt yesterday. He says as
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long as there’s the system, we have to live with it and do the best we can, although it’s so
subjective.
Today Susan Schaeffer told me a cute story: that Jim sent a change of grade card to the Registrar
and listed as a reason, “I was unjust.” The Registrar’s office sent it back, saying, “Insufficient
reason.” So he handed it in again with the notation, “Clerical error,” and it went through.
I’m going to miss my students; as they left after the final, several of them said I did a good job in
taking over the class in mid-semester. It was so odd; it was like all finals, with people writing
away, staring into space and thinking, cricking necks – except that I was the teacher, the man in
front of the room, watching silently as I read a biography of V. Sackville-West.
It’s strange how all of the routines of the various episodes of my life become so dear to me –
well, not all of them, as I loathe the sight of Alexander’s at Kings Plaza. But I enjoyed my little
rituals: my dinner at the counter of Junior’s, my going to the office I was given use of, my class
sessions.
I suspected near the end of the term that some of my students might have been plagiarizing
from Time or someplace, and that disturbed me; it had never crossed my mind before that
anyone would.
But at the end I knew all their names, even the quiet ones like Mrs. Marryshow, a West Indian
nurse; Mr. Anaso, also a West Indian; Mr. Lawrence, who told me of a rough day at work at
Chase, where he had to pick up $200 million in government securities; the Orthodox Jew Mr.
Walek, who told he was thinking of dropping out (which would be a pity; he wrote a beautiful
description of a Chasidic Rebbe).
Maybe I was the one who failed them, not giving them enough mechanics, but I think maybe I
tapped something inside some of them. I’ve been waiting for this night, after which I wouldn’t
have to be nervous on Tuesdays and Thursdays, but now that it’s over, I feel slightly sad.
Yet no matter how I’m judged, either by Dr. Eisenstadt or my students, I know that I’m proud
of myself just for having the guts to take the job and to go through with it all, for not running
away from something difficult.
Today I got a letter from Kara. It was a great surprise, and I found myself hesitating about
opening it. Finally, curiosity got the better of me, and I read it and it made me happy in one
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Richard Grayson
way and sad in another. It must have been a very difficult letter to write, and I admire Kara’s
courage.
She was avoiding me, she admitted. Through our letters, she had expected so much of me, she
had built up a very romantic picture of me and figured I would sweep her off her feet.
No feet-sweeper I, she found out, and so she was disappointed and then guilty about feeling
disappointed. So she didn’t see me again.
How I feel now: I can understand completely Kara’s feeling and I’m not angry at her anymore.
I’m glad – and a bit surprised – that I’ve gotten to the point where I didn’t anticipate things. So
to me, Kara was not a disappointment and I felt no letdown upon meeting her.
(And I don’t think it’s that she is simply more desirable than I am, for there were things about
her that annoyed me slightly but I had expected that some of her traits would.)
“Right now,” she writes, “I’m just concerned with letting you know how anxious I am to quit
acting this way, and that I like you and I’m glad you’re not my fairytale knight so maybe we can
be friends. Were you this messed up at 19?”
She’s going out to Boulder with a roommate after finals, and she’ll be back in the city around
the middle of June. Kara ended by saying, “If I were you, I’d drop me . . . a whole lot of
hassles.”
That makes me feel sad and sorry for a person who’d say that about herself (if what she says is
sincere, which I assume it is). I want to write Kara and tell her that it’s okay, that I’m her friend.
But I see now that I don’t want it to go further than that. Kara’s young and she has growing to
do. I shouldn’t compare her with Ronna or Avis, who over the years have become more honest
as they’ve gotten more sure of themselves. Ironically, it was Kara who made me appreciate
Ronna all the more.
Friday, May 16, 1975

I’ve just finished making my own dinner, a hamburger and chunky chicken soup, and I’m
preparing to spend a rather dull evening at home. I can’t bear to look at the final exams yet; I
never before realized how, when the students breathe a sigh of relief that their work is done, the
instructor’s work is just beginning.
[392]
While I was out yesterday, a Mrs. Edelman, a secretary in the BC English Department, phoned,
and I called her this morning as she had instructed. It seems that Prof. Kramer wants to
interview me for an assistantship in the fall; I arranged a meeting with him for next Friday at 11
AM.
I’m not going to worry about it, because there’s nothing I can do; either I will get the job or I
won’t, and in either case, my life will go on. Sometimes my own fatalism amazes me. It’s
always been my dream to teach at Brooklyn College, though.
I am friendly with quite a few members of the English Department faculty. Dan Mayers seems
to like me, and I always talk with Jim Merritt; Jack Kitch is friendly, as is Miriam Heffernan.
And of course I’m on good terms with Susan Schaeffer, Peter Spielberg and Jon Baumbach.
Yesterday I found myself next to Lillian Schlissel at the counter of the Sugar Bowl, and she
seemed interested in telling me how the American Studies program is going. I mentioned the
fact Ronna had seen her, and I also informed her what Scott, another American Studies grad,
was doing. She said she’d recently been wondering what he was up to. I remember how much
Scott admired Prof. Schlissel for her dedication: timing her children’s births to coincide with
Christmas and Easter vacations.
I had a 90-minute meeting with Susan Schaeffer yesterday. She enjoyed “Garibaldi in Exile”
and feels that I’m at my best when I adopt that voice somewhere between Barthelme, Borges
and the Marx Brothers.
She admired “Coping” less and showed me how to fix up the dialogue; apparently, I had been
trying to imitate real-life dialogue too faithfully, including every annoying mmm, well and um.
We talked about President Kneller and the Russian language and the delight people take in
hearing the sound of their own name. It was nice to talk to Susan like that, and it’s too bad that
she’s going on leave next year.
I told her to have a good year (although I may not see her for several years – but then I told my
students to “Have a good summer” as they left and I’ll probably never see them again), and she
said I should continue to send stuff out.
I will, although today I broke my record, getting three rejections: from Carolina Quarterly,
Esquire and the Atlantic Monthly. I’d take it much harder if it wasn’t for Susan Schaeffer.
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Richard Grayson
Our Fiction Workshop yesterday was a very small group. Barbara hasn’t shown up for some
time, not since Peter threatened her with an Incomplete. And Josh and Denis had decided not
to come, pissing off Simon because today was to be the critique of his “novel.”
But he got good reviews. Even I had to say that while I thought his calling a 29-page work a
novel was pompous and absurd, the writing as a whole was very effective and the piece as an
entity “worked” in that it moved me. Everyone else, including Spielberg, pretty much agreed.
I was sitting on the porch this afternoon, and Bonnie gave me her Kingsman to read. In his
farewell column, Alex thanked me for all the gossip I’ve given him over the years (he also
thanked Jesus Christ, but not for gossip).
I liked Mavis’ piece, too – but then I’ve always been one of her biggest fans. I must remember
to send graduation cards to Mavis and Alex and Mason.
This afternoon, I dropped by Harry’s after seeing him sitting out on his porch with his dogs –
shirtless, of course. (Though he has muscles, it gives me some satisfaction that Harry has even
less chest hair than I do.)
He was studying a law text for a final on Monday, so he didn’t want to go over to Canarsie Pier
with me. We both agreed that the summer job situation is very bleak indeed, even if Ford’s
economists say that we’re moving out of the recession.

It’s starting to cloud up a bit, but it was a beautiful day. I don’t think I’d enjoy living in Florida
because up North, with the change of seasons, the advent of spring and summer means so
much more.
There’s a kind of unleashed sensuality at this time of year as we get rid of our heavy winter
clothes and see more of our bodies. This year, particularly, I feel much more comfortable with
my bisexuality.
Except for a few people like Alice or Josh, there is almost no one I’d be hesitant to telling about
my feelings. Now it seems a joy to be bisexual, an added bit of luck. (In writing to Avis
yesterday, I described my life to her as “a long series of lucky breaks.”)
[394]
Today on the beach, I enjoyed looking at male and female bodies. Sometimes I prefer one sex
to the other, but today I was equally aroused by breasts and chest. Perhaps finally I shall be
able to let go and act on all of my different impulses, but for now I feel freer than I ever have.
I recognize that at the core of my homosexual feelings is probably deep narcissism. I keep
comparing my body to that of other guys. Sometimes I feel I’m hopelessly fat and flabby, but
then I remember that the first guys to take off their shirts in May are the ones with the best
bodies.
The really fat and skinny people are probably holed up wherever they disappear to every
summer. And I know my body isn’t that bad; I’ve looked at myself in a mirror at a distance and
I’ve found myself looking tanned and muscular, and my paunch seems to disappear.
I’ve always had big biceps, for some reason, but I wish my chest were more solid and defined.
I’d like to have visible stomach muscles, too, but that would mean giving up the foods I enjoy
too much. Of course I always wanted some hair on my chest. That’s always been a symbol of
masculinity, and I notice guys unbutton their shirts to whatever point where their chest hair
begins.
I have no quarrel with the bottom half of my body: I have nicely muscled legs with nice blond
hair. My feet are too small, though.
It’s so odd writing about my body; I’ve never done this before and it embarrasses me, but I
think that’s all the more reason why I should do it.
There’s the ever-present issue of penis size, of course, but I’ve never figured out if I’m small,
average or large, and it seems to be of no concern for most people, especially the women I’ve
known.
That’s enough self-therapy for tonight. I got a letter from Herb Leibowitz at Richmond. A new
hassle has come up: they had eliminated the creative writing thesis, so he’s got to call the M.A.
committee and see if they’ll waive the rule for me.
Fortunately, he said, my prose style is very good; he’s read the thesis. And he said September is
okay for the language exam. I think I’d better take a course in French at the Graduate Center
this summer.
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Richard Grayson
I went to Rockaway this afternoon and followed Mikey’s care home from Larry’s house. We
stood in front of his house and talked. Dean Vera Tarr walked past us, going to a party up the
block, and we exchanged hellos.
Mikey still has two finals and he’s got to work on his thesis. He said Mike ran into Scott this
week. Starting in the fall, Mike is going to grad school in Psych at BC, so now I’ll have an old
friend at school again as I go into the second year of the MFA program. Mikey is going to work
in the John Jay Financial Aid office – that is, if nothing better turns up.
We went to a store on Beach 116th Street to buy a converter for his TV set; I was so involved in
the salesman’s explanations, I didn’t realize that Grandpa Herb and Grandma Ethel were
standing about a foot away. They hadn’t noticed me, either, and the moment of recognition
was a funny one for all of us.
Later on I looked for them on the boardwalk, but I found only Grandpa Nat with some friend of
his. We talked for a few minutes, and then he had to go pick up Grandma Sylvia at the beauty
parlor.
Another rejection from The New Yorker. I guess they don’t need another Barthelme.

Last night turned out to be one of the craziest evenings in a long time. Scott called at about
7 PM; he finished with law school finals and had finally been inducted into Phi Beta Kappa a
year after his graduation like I did.
Scott said he’d been planning to stay home and watch TV, so I told him – my biggest mistake –
to drop by. He arrived at 9 PM and immediately put on the Mary Tyler Moore Show, which he
claimed he had never seen before.
He talked about law school and phoned a friend of his who was trying to get him a girl for the
evening. Scott said he hadn’t been laid since Christmas, when he came to New York to see
Miranda. You can imagine how sorry I felt for him.
But Scott still has his charm. He told me a professional writer had seen the story I sent him and
thought it was “as good as Barthelme.” And Scott noticed my arms and asked if I’d been lifting
weights. So I was flattered and I agreed to accompany him to a bar even though I don’t drink
and had diarrhea.
[396]
I suggested the Pub and so we wound up at a table there. My stomach was acting up, but the
Pub’s awful-smelling restroom had no toilet paper.
After watching Scott finish off a roast beef sandwich and fries, we moved to the bar, where he
could drink beers and pick up women. I felt so absurd standing there, ginger ale in hand,
staring at people who I ordinarily would not associate with.
Scott kept leaving to call his friend who was trying to get him laid. I tried to detach myself from
the scene and become an Isherwoodian camera, an observer.
Finally I got on the phone and called Josh. He and his friend Bob, the one he’s going to
California with, were just sitting around drinking coffee. I told Josh what I was doing in the
Pub (I could hardly hear him over the racket) and he said we should come over.
I mentioned this to Scott and also said that Elspeth lived in Josh’s building as well. At this,
Scott’s eyes lit up: Elspeth had come on to him in the past, and he was sure she’d be an easy lay.
For awhile, I thought this was funny, but when he rang her bell and she sleepily said, “Who is
it?” and he replied, “A voice from the past: Scott Koestner,” I felt so embarrassed. It was only
the beginning, however.
We had woken Elspeth up and she was dressed in a work shirt and nothing else. She said hi to
me and I wanted to die. I told her I had to go downstairs to Josh’s and how Scott just wanted to
say hello, and I left quickly.
I thought it was so obvious. And I felt lousy. Elspeth has gotten much prettier and I thought of
the nice Christmas card she had sent me and how Scott was using her.
I went to see Josh and Bob. Bob’s nice, and he had this really fine dog who was just dying for
affection. We talked and read the Sunday Times. Robbie came into the kitchen with Rose and
another girl, who goes to Michigan, where Robbie has been accepted for the Ph.D. program in
Developmental Psych.
Half an hour later, Scott came into the apartment and took me aside. He said his timing was
awful: that very morning Elspeth had broken up with her boyfriend of eight months and she
wanted to cry and talk about with Scott.
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Richard Grayson
I felt bad for Elspeth but glad that Scott didn’t take advantage of her. But now he had to go
back upstairs and use me as an excuse to leave; he had told her that I felt ill and didn’t want to
go to Chinatown with them so he couldn’t go either because he had to take me home.
Eventually Scott joined us for coffee, and as usual, turned the conversation to himself, bragging
about law school and talking about how he’d written a parody of a brief by Douglas.
He was greeted with a deafening silence but plodded on anyway, to my embarrassment,

because I’d brought him. Josh left the room abruptly to walk the dog, he said; I could see he
couldn’t put up with Scott.
I rolled my eyes skyward as Scott continued (Robbie and Rose kept exchanging significant
stares) so that Bob would realize that I felt the same way about Scott’s talking as Bob did.
Then Scott abruptly said he wanted to score some pot in Long Island City. I just wanted to get
him out of there so I agreed to go along. He drove like the maniac ex-cabdriver he is/
When we got to the guy’s apartment in Long Island City, we found him plying a card game
called “Oh, hell!” with his girlfriend and a neighbor. The transaction went fairly quickly
(though not fast enough for me) – but on the way back, Scott was stoned from the pot he’d
smoked at the apartment and got on the Triboro by mistake.
He tried to talk his way out of the toll, but I simply just handed him the money. Finally – I
thought it was never going to happen – I was home and Scott was saying goodbye and
swearing me to secrecy.

Alice called me yesterday at 3 PM and told me to meet her in Brooklyn Heights. In half an
hour, I was in front of the Promenade Restaurant on Montague Street, where I saw her.
She told me that she had been at the Promenade Art Show and was interviewing Mr. Blumstein
for ninety minutes. I’ve been to so many of those shows, I have almost learned to recognize
each exhibitor’s work.
Frank Blumstein does pen and ink sketches and watercolors, mostly of Brooklyn people,
animals and buildings. He’s fairly good, but of course Alice is not interested in him for his art;
she still hasn’t outgrown that high school girl crush when he was our Spanish teacher.
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We passed by his booth and I said hello. He said, “Stewart?”
“No, Richard.”
“Gold?”
“No, Grayson.”
“Mumps?”
“Right.” So he remembered I got mumps when I was a senior.
Alice told me he has a girlfriend named Miriam. He’s a striking man for his 38 years.
No longer teaching, he told Alice his reputation got so inflated he became the “star” of
Midwood, a kind of pedagogical Mick Jagger. Kids took his class not to learn Spanish but to be
entertained.
For a while, it was “a real trip,” but then he realized he had been more of a showman than a
teacher and decided to take a couple of years off.
After we left Mr. Blumstein, Alice kept asking me, “Don’t you think he would have asked me
out if he was really interested in me?” and I kept saying, “Yes.”
She’s even thinking of writing Jonathan Schwartz again. But if he failed to respond, she’d want
to die. I told her about Kara’s letter. Kara reminded me of Alice, who also seems to enjoy
things more in anticipation than in actuality.
We had a ginger ale and an iced coffee outside in Capulet’s, and she told me how Andreas is so
dull and passionless. When they make love, he never kisses her. She loves him, but she’s not
getting enough sex from him (on Friday night they just painted their supposed love nest) or
enough excitement.
The gym teacher at school is coming on to her more and more; he’s married and something of a
swinger, into bisexual swapping and pedophilia and more kinky stuff.
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Richard Grayson
We went to Picadeli for some solid nourishment and Alice continued her litany. Money or no,
she’s decided to turn down the principal’s offer to stay on after June; she’s just not happy being
a teacher.
Alice said she stopped by Flatbush Life to see about a job. It seems that Denis Hamill, Pete’s
brother, has taken over Mark Savage’s job. (I need to call Mark and Consuelo.)
I drove Alice up to the Village, where she was scheduled to meet Andreas. On the way, I told
her of the disastrous evening with Scott and mentioned that Scott wanted me to call her to see if
she was available for sex; Alice replied that she was in such a bad mood on Saturday night that
she might have responded to Scott.
I am disgusted with him. Finally, when we got to my house, he said, “It’s 2 AM, a great time to
pick up the girls who are left when the bars close!” I assured him that the only thing I was
interested in was sleep.
And his warning me not to tell anyone about his trying to make Elspeth struck me as sleazy and
hypocritical. Avis is so lucky that she’s rid of him.
Surprisingly, though, when I spoke to Josh, I learned that he wasn’t particularly upset with
Scott. He left his apartment so abruptly because he was disgusted with Robbie and Rose and
their friend, who were so dull and like old people. In fact, Josh said as he and I walked through
the Botanic Gardens this afternoon, Scott was the most interesting person there that night, even
if he is egotistical.
I can see Josh’s point about Robbie and Rose, who are the only person each other has gone out
with and are already like a 45-year-old married couple. Robbie is very nervous and gets an
upset stomach when he has to go to Manhattan.
Josh is anxious to go out to California. He and Bob are leaving July 17, and he’s asked me to
think about taking over his room in the apartment for the summer.
There’s a meeting of the Alumni Association Finance Committee at Ira Harkavy’s law office
tonight, according to a memo I got from David Pollack. But I have to go to Comp Lit and get
the questions for the final.
I got the check from New Writers today, all $25 of it. My story should be coming out soon. At
least that letter counteracted the effect of still another rejection notice.
[400]

It’s 2 PM on a very hot, hazy day. That Burger King meal threw me for a loop yesterday. I went
to Comp Lit to get the final questions but I had to leave in the middle of class.
I had awful diarrhea and some nausea – as I walked to my car, I thought I was going to have
one of my old nausea/anxiety attacks, but I held myself together and just rested all evening.
Steve Cooper called me back; earlier I had phoned him and spoken to somebody who didn’t
sound like Drew and said he was Tony, a new roommate. Steve said Tony has been living there
since the beginning of May; he was a friend of Drew’s who got kicked out by his roommate.
Tony has a good job at St. Luke’s and he’ll be taking over Drew’s room, as Drew got a job
teaching music upstate at Fredonia, and in the summer Drew is going first to Italy and then to
Oneonta, where he’ll be playing in an orchestra.
Steve and Tony want to find a three-bedroom apartment in the Morningside Heights area, and
they may have found one on Riverside Drive. Steve’s in summer school now, already taking
graduate courses in the Architecture school; of course, he already has a lot of Urban Planning
credits.
And he’s been trying to get fired so he can collect unemployment checks. But apparently his
boss knows what he’s up to, and so far all Steve’s goofing off and lousing up have been to no
avail.
Steve is also upset because he destroyed his refrigerator; while trying to defrost the freezer, he
used a screwdriver to break up the ice, and it punctured it and all the gas escaped.
I slept well last night, and this morning I went to LIU to pick up my grade cards. I hope to
finish grading by next Monday; so far I haven’t been able to bring myself to look at the finals.
A letter from Herb Leibowitz said that the M.A. Committee waived the requirement that the
thesis be critical; that was fast work. Prof. Leibowitz is such a nice guy; he wrote that he agrees
with Ebel that my thesis merits Honors.
But I have to hand in another copy, with the pages consecutively numbered, a title page, and a
table of contents. So that will be more work. He said he’d like me to take care of it “before the
fireflies of summer appear.”
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I xeroxed my check from New Writers and now I’m beginning to get excited again about seeing
“Rampant Burping” in print. Once again I grow hopeful about my career.
I’m trying to anticipate Friday’s interview by Prof. Kramer, but I’ve learned that neither Josh or
Simon or Denis, who also applied for the assistantship, have been called for an interview.
I’ve definitely decided to take a language course at the Graduate Center this summer.
Leibowitz said that when I pass the language exam in September, Richmond College will award
me my M.A. I want to get that out of the way completely.
Besides, I supposedly also need a foreign language for the Creative Writing program. Can it be
possible that by next June – a year from now – I’ll be Richard Grayson, B.A., M.A., M.F.A.?
I finally got to go to the beach for an hour today – what heaven to lie on the sand and get my
feet wet in the ocean! Things are going so well I’m almost afraid that the bubble will soon burst
and everything will be just awful.
Gary (or “Monsieur Gary,” as he signed himself) wrote from Strasbourg – a typical tourist’s
aerogramme. He loves the sights, the foods and the wines.
Bill Beer and his girlfriend proved themselves to be excellent hosts, although they returned to
the States this weekend (they were anxious to get home after eight months) and left Gary, who
doesn’t understand a word of French, by himself.
The Strasbourg weather is fine and there are no newspapers or TV to bother him; Gary claims
that Alsatians have never heard of showers or deodorants. And he said he’d write from either
Amsterdam or Great Britain, so I guess he’s not going to see Avis in Stuttgart.

A hot night. Josh called yesterday with very bad news: his sister is gravely ill. I said how sorry
I was, and Josh said, “I’m sure you couldn’t care less.” That hurt, but I know Josh by now and I
knew how upset he was.
He came into my room a bit later and said, “I think my sister’s dying.” He was trying not to
cry, and he apologized for what he’d said on the phone but of course I told him to forget it.
[402]
A friend of Hope’s called Josh’s parents. Hope has been living in California for a year. The
Hodgkins returned, only worse (before it was in Phase 1, and now it’s the final stage, Phase 4),
but Hope didn’t want to notify her family.
After her friend’s call, they called the hospital, which said they needed Hope’s record from
Long Island College Hospital before they could operate.
Josh had just come from driving is parents to the airport to catch the first flight to Sacramento. I
felt so bad for Josh, and so helpless.
I had been in the middle of marking finals and watching Another World, what I was doing
seemed so useless and ridiculous. Yet my class finished the semester and took their finals
despite the death of their first instructor, and when actors on the soap opera get written out, the
storyline goes on.
We left for class together and had drinks beforehand. I saw Stefanie with Melvin (and also
Carol) and everything looked cool between the two of them; I’m glad. Melvin said that this
summer he’s either going to finish his Incompletes or torture himself for not doing it.
In class, we went over a story by Anna. Peter canceled class for Thursday, so we only have left
the two sessions next week. After class, I went to Sugar Bowl with Todd, Simon and Sharon.
Denis called me and said he’s got a well-paying job waxing floors in a Madison Avenue office
building from 5:30 to 11 PM, so he won’t be coming back to class for the rest of the term. And
Barbara hasn’t shown up in weeks, not since Peter threatened her with an Incomplete.
I woke up at 3 AM today and couldn’t get back to sleep, so I wrote for a while and then lay in
bed thinking, mostly about Josh’s sister. Today I went to the beach in Neponsit and lay in the
hazy sun, reading Herzog.
I passed Ivan’s house and noticed the door was open and the maid was cleaning. I am still very
curious as to what goes on in that house when the door is closed. To me, Ivan’s family
represents the ideal, but they must have some flaws.
This evening I looked so good, more attractive than I’ve ever looked. I am tan and wearing a
work shirt and dungarees. After dinner by myself in Kings Plaza, I thought of picking Ronna
up at the station. But I decided that I should call her house first, which was a good move
because her mother said something about her going to a party at WBCR.
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Richard Grayson
Hank again! He seems to be always with her now. I guess they are boyfriend and girlfriend
again; at least Hank’s friends must think so. But I don’t think Ronna loves him. I can’t imagine
Hank and Ronna sharing the passionate intensity she and I did.
I felt very depressed. If she had gone back to Ivan, that I could understand. But Hank’s a solid,
dependable, dull Boy Scout. I wanted to go out, and I wanted to be with a woman, and only a
woman, to talk to.
But Elayne and Mavis and Alice were all out, and when I called Stacy, whose sinuses were
bothering her, we talked pleasantly and she invited me over on Monday but not tonight.
Finally I decided to go to Cedarhurst; I should have gone to see Uncle Monty before. Also, I
wanted to do something constructive and see what people’s real problems are so I can see how
trivial my concerns are by contrast.
I interrupted the tail end of their dinner in Cedarhurst. Bonnie and her boyfriend Ted were
there, and so was her twin Alice, up from Florida; it had been years since I’d seen my step-
cousins.
Monty looks pale and somehow fragile (or is that in my mind?). He’s getting those treatments
and he goes out to see customers a little, but there’s no real business; still, just doing nothing
depresses him, he told me. We’ve never been close, yet I feel so badly for him now.
Aunt Sydelle did the dishes while the rest of us sat outside on the patio. How I’ve always loved
that backyard in Cedarhurst! Our conversation was interrupted every two minutes by another
plane landing at Kennedy airport.
Aunt Sydelle is flying to Chicago for Scott’s graduation on Friday; his girlfriend Karen is
picking her up at O’Hare and she’ll be back home that night. Scott and Karen are driving his
car back to New York and won’t return until Sunday.
I liked talking with Ted, Bonnie and Alice, although they’re all very quiet. Still, a family
evening was a good antidote to my earlier self-absorption.

2 PM. I hate when I get like this – in a real depression. Everything I do seems to increase my
unhappiness. I want to cry, but I can’t.
[404]
I got a parking ticket today, for no reason except that I carelessly forgot to put a dime in the
meter. I guess I wanted to have something to be angry with myself about.
I feel so lost. Part of it has to do with Ronna. I am hurt because she’s closer to Hank than to me.
Last Tuesday, when she came to school, it was he who she came to see; I met her by accident.
That night when we were talking, he phoned on the other line; I wonder if he calls her every
night.
Ronna goes with him to WBCR parties and Boy Scout meetings and with his best friend Craig to
funerals and shiva calls. She used to tell me how nice Hank was, but how dull and
unimaginative and practically asexual.
Perhaps he’s changed. I suppose she talks about me to him, but I wonder if she told him that
she and I made love two weeks ago. Isn’t she using him as an escort? I know that’s really not
what I’m concerned with.
Maybe I should just tell her I don’t want to see her again and leave her to good-natured,
uncomplicated Hank. As I look back on our relationship, I can see that Ronna was not there
when I needed her.
No, that’s not quite true. And I wasn’t always there for her when she needed me. Besides, it’s
an unreasonable expectation.
Last night I felt such an overwhelming sense of loneliness. I needed a woman to be with, just
to talk to, and to respond to me, if not sexually, then at least the way a woman responds to a
man emotionally.
Stacy has been very nice, but we’ve never been on the same wavelength – or maybe we’re
exactly on the same wavelength, which is the problem.
I miss Avis desperately; on Saturday I facetiously told Scott that if Avis ever does come back for
good, I’m going to ask her to marry me. But was I joking? I couldn’t get ahold of Mavis or
Alice of Stefanie or Elayne last night, but maybe it was just bad luck.
In Cedarhurst, I tried to forget about my problems, but Ted, Bonnie’s boyfriend (she lives with
his parents and goes to BC), reminded me of Hank: similar appearance, that said solidness and
quiet dependability.
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Richard Grayson
Ted was handy with things around the house, and he bowls. I liked him very much, in the
same way I cannot dislike someone as guileless as Hank, so I end up feeling guilty about being
furious with him.
Cousin Alice lives in Fort Lauderdale with her grandmother, aunt and uncle; I can tell her apart
from Bonnie now. She says she’ll be going back to Florida soon, as she has to register for
Broward Community College.
The twins told me they ran into Mom and Marc at Kings Plaza the other day. Cousin Scott
called while I was there; he and Karen had just come back from a short trip to the Wisconsin
Dells and he was giving Aunt Sydelle instructions for her visit to Northwestern for graduation
on Friday.
Aunt Sydelle said that Cousin Michael is growing brighter and cuter every day and that Robin’s
working for an orthodontist in Forest Hills three days a week.
I slept a heavy, dream-filled sleep that was not at all refreshing. At noon I picked up Mason at
South Shore and took him to the college (where I got the ticket). It was his last day of classes at
BC; he has just one final and then graduation.
Mason asked to borrow my gown, but I told him it would look absurd on him, as he’s at least
seven inches taller. I confided in Mason about my uncertainties – but he’s not sure where he’s
at now with Libby, either. They’ve broken up and gotten back together so many times.
Shelli called Mason. She’s in from Madison, without Jerry, to visit her parents. Madison
sounds so insane; there is a whole soap opera there, with everyone sleeping with everyone else.
Then there’s a “war” between Leon and this rich woman who collects men that started on the
dance floor of a disco when Leon asked her to dance. So now Leon and this woman are leaders
in a battle which has numerous skirmishes among other individuals.
Elihu wrote to Madison asking for gossip about it, and Leon wrote him a letter filled with
made-up things and closed by saying, “Elihu, we don’t need another sieve in Madison.”
They sound so fucked-up there. But am I doing anything that’s more constructive?
[406]
Friday, May 23, 1975

I’ve just showered, shaved, and washed and styled my hair. I’m not going out, but it’s good for
me to get cleaned up as if I were.
Last evening I decided to stop feeling sorry for myself and take myself out, do something on my
own that I would have preferred to do with another person. So I drove into Manhattan until 6
PM, when it became legal to park. I had dinner in the Village Art Restaurant, and it was a
pleasant meal.
Then I walked up the block (avoiding Elaine Taibi, who was across the street) to the Eighth
Street Playhouse, where I used my student discount to see Vittorio De Sica’s A Brief Vacation.
The film was beautiful, haunting; I felt that I had had a brief vacation after seeing it. It was after
8 PM when I left the theater and just beginning to get dark.
I had a pleasant twilight drive back into Brooklyn during which I thought about a lot of things:
how Mason said that another “perfect couple,” Brian and Louise, have broken up; and what
Mason said about the nonsense in Madison and how all these people are on welfare, which
makes me really angry.
I thought about seeing Jay Nussbaum in Kings Plaza; and Josh’s offer for me to take over his
room for the summer.
I thought about my students’ exams and how giving them their final grades is agonizing,
though I should have it all done by Tuesday.
I wonder whether I’m marking them too high or too low. They are people to me, people I like,
and I have to assign them letters of value.
On Farragut Road, I had this odd feeling that the red light I was waiting for was not going to
change. And it didn’t. It was so weird. I felt a pins and needles sensation throughout my
body, and I realized it was pent-up anger, uncontrollable rage at things out of my control.
(I’m sure there’s a logical reason for the traffic light; probably I noticed, subconsciously, that it
hadn’t changed for a long time.)
Mostly I was furious with Ronna for not calling me and for being so close with Hank. I felt that
I, at least, never made any pretense of unselfishness while Ronna always talks about it and ends
up behaving as selfishly as I do.
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Richard Grayson
I thought of how I dread listening to her talk about her job. Mason said he just stopped
listening to Libby when she talks about certain subjects.
Now I know that my fury was childish. Mrs. Ehrlich and I used to discuss how I hated not
having control over different situations.
Ronna did call, after 10 PM. She said, “I’m sorry for not calling sooner, but I’ve been out every
night.”
“Uh, look,” I said, “I really can’t talk right now. I have company.”
We said we’d speak to each other another day. I know avoiding her, and my anger, probably
isn’t the best way to deal with situation, but the words flowed out of me as if by protective
instinct.
And of course I hoped she might think I was with a girl and be jealous. I dislike operating that
way, but at the time it seemed the easiest thing to do.
One thing from this business: I can finally understand Ivan’s attitude toward me, which must
have been the same as mine towards Hank. Namely, how can Ronna go out with this schlemiel
after seeing me?
This morning was my interview with Prof. Kramer, who said there may be no funds at all for
the assistantships. (Every day the papers are full of the city budget crisis; it’s really a
catastrophic thing.) But he said he’d go along tentatively on the assumption that the funds will
be there.
I talked about my views of freshman composition, and we discussed D.H. Lawrence and the
MFA program and other things. I think the interview went well; I was myself, which is all I
could be.
Kramer said they would get in touch with me later – if he thought I was any good, that is. In
any case, I won’t hear anything until early July.
I spent the rest of the day lolling around on the beach, where I saw Ivan’s dog Tiger, and
generally goofing off. I want to saturate myself in lazy decadence now so that when summer
really comes, I can feel like going about getting a job.
[408]
It would be nice to stay at Josh’s; it’s a good opportunity. But I keep thinking of reasons not to
do it: money, no air-conditioning, money, alternate parking, money. . .
I wonder how Josh’s sister is.

I’m going to stay up another two hours until midnight, when there will be a total eclipse of the
moon. Jonny may get out his telescope; we’re alone in the house, as Marc is off at a party and
so are Mom and Dad.
I called Josh last night to find out what news he had of his sister. He was expecting a call from
his parents, but so far the news has all been bad. No one expects Hope to live.
The enormity of this is too much for me to comprehend. Josh said he had made a reservation on
a flight to California for this morning (one cannot fly direct to Sacramento), and I told him I’d
drive him to the airport.
But he never called me back this morning, so I assume his parents talked him out of going.
Hope looks so terrible, they probably don’t want Josh to see her. Josh’s parents must be going
through pure hell.
I was very upset last night and took a drive by myself to think about things. I noticed Ivan’s
brother Kevin coming out of the Ram’s Horn Diner with his arm around some girl, and I could
tell by the look on his face that he worships her.
I called Ronna last night, but again she was out. Maybe I’d just better leave her alone, to enjoy
whatever relationship she has. If we’re no longer lovers and it’s difficult to be friends, I don’t
want us to be enemies.
Today was a record-breaking hot day, a fine start for the Memorial Day weekend. I spent the
day in Rockaway, at the beach. First I stopped by Mason’s house; his brother Joey was outside
and he said that Mason was helping their father install an air conditioner.
I went upstairs to watch and say hello. They finished rather quickly (I had never seen Mason’s
attic before; it’s enormous) and we walked over to Mikey’s, joining Mikey and his mother in
sitting on the porch.
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Richard Grayson
Mikey starts his job in the John Jay financial aid office on Tuesday; I don’t think he’s
particularly happy with it, but so far Scacalossi hasn’t gotten that federal grant for that security
office job at BC.
Mason tried on Mikey’s gown for graduation and it will be a bit short on him, but it fits okay.
Mason and I walked backed to his house and I vacated his driveway to make room for some
visiting cousins from Philadelphia and parked in Mikey’s driveway.
Mikey went down to the beach and we stayed there for some three hours. The water was really
too cold for swimming, but the air was warm.
We ran into both Karpoff twins separately. Alan, on his way to see Davy, said he got a job this
summer teaching phys ed to handicapped and retarded kids. Carl seemed pleased that I saw
and enjoyed his dance recital; he’s working at the new American Youth Hostel store in
Manhattan, ordering camping equipment and stuff.
Mikey and I lay in the sand, talking about this and that. He has his eye on some girl from Beach
129th Street and another one who works in the John Jay library, but Mikey is so shy. Then so am
I, really; my public effusiveness is all a big act.
Mikey told me Mike has a job for a couple of weeks, counseling entering BC freshman; I guess
Hilary Gold put in a good word for Mike. I told Mikey to give Mike and Mandy my regards
when he sees them tomorrow at a barbecue Larry’s making.
I suppose Stuie and his wife and Steve Cohen and Pauline will be there; I noticed the invitation
to the latter couple’s wedding on Mikey’s dresser.
I think Mikey will apply to law school for fall 1976 admission; this time, I hope, he’ll have a
good shot at it. Mikey’s mother asked me to stay for dinner but I declined with thanks; by 4
PM, I was tired of the beach and I wanted to avoid a beach-day traffic jam driving back into
Brooklyn.
I’m red and brown all over by now, and I’ll probably risk skin cancer if I stay out in the sun
much more. But I love it that summer seems to be here for good.
Now I’m getting anxious to look for a job. I just have one more student’s paper to grade. What
a chore it is, and it makes me see that I really wasn’t a very thorough teacher. I’d like to stop
doing everything half-assed.
[410]

7 PM. It clouded up late last night and no lunar eclipse was visible. It’s like a repeat of the
Comet Kohoutek fiasco. The weather turned dark and gloomy and much cooler today. The
temperature did not go past 60° – so much for summer being here.
I read the Times last night and fell into a kind of sensual sleep. I woke early this morning,
pleased that it was cloudy for a change, and I took off for Manhattan early, to make the noon
showing of Alain Tanner’s The Middle of the World at the 68th Street Playhouse.
I must have looked very feminine this morning, for both the manager of the theater and the
couple to walk in after me (for awhile, I thought I would have the lovely place all to myself)
mistook me for a woman.
It gives me a queer feeling to hear myself being referred to as a “lady” or by the pronouns “she”
and “her.” But my old bugaboos about homosexuality (and more than that, lack of manliness)
are nearly all gone now.
I think my basic orientation is toward heterosexual relationships, even if I do have an awful lot
of gay feelings; probably when I do enter into a homosexual relationship – which I expect to
happen someday – I will relate to my lover just as I do to a woman.
I’m not sure that this makes sense as I write it, but I know what I mean. Like in the film today: I
can relate to heterosexual intercourse because I know and understand and enjoy the feeling of
my penis in a vagina, of being on top of a woman, of touching a breast or stroking a woman’s
long hair.
I found myself getting impatient with the film, but that was because it moved as slowly as life
itself (like my diary?) as it told the story of an affair between a Swiss candidate for parliament, a
married engineer, and an Italian waitress – an affair that lasts 112 days.
The film was very sensual and the scenes of Switzerland made me want to go there, just as after
seeing A Brief Vacation I wanted to see Northern Italy. I think the point it made was that we
don’t really feel the people we see, not even our lovers whom we see naked and at their most
vulnerable and defense-free.
I’ve been thinking a lot about Ronna, who did not call yesterday or today. Perhaps it’s finally
over now; only by making love two weeks ago could we set one another free. Now it seems to
me for the best, even though I was very hurt and angry earlier.
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Richard Grayson
We could fall in love all over again, we both know it, but where would that leave us? It’s like in
the movie, when the waitress’s friend asks her when she leaves Paul, “Is it because he was a bad
lay? . . . because he wanted abnormal sex? . . . because he lost the election?”
To all of these questions, Adriana answered, “No.” I can’t explain – and I’m sure that by now
Ronna feels the same way – why we must part for good. I don’t think we can even be friends
anymore, but I know that’s how it’s going to be.
So I’ll forget about Ronna, finally, and keep myself open for something new. I have patience.
After the movie, I took the 59th Street Bridge to Queens and proved to myself that I could find
my way out of the area where Scott and I were last week. I’m not sure why I wanted to do that.
Actually, I wanted to get to Roosevelt Island and couldn’t find the bridge from Queens. I had a
great big lunch at a new Greek diner, The Forge, on Queens Boulevard, then came home.
Mom said that at the surprise party last night for Irma Cohen’s 50th birthday, Annette Saturn
told Mom to give her my résumé. She’s friendly with the chairman of the English Department
at Kingsborough and may be able to wangle me a teaching job there. That would be terrific.
On Tuesday I’ll bring in my grades and papers and roll book and keys to LIU, and that will end
my spring semester of teaching. I think I’ll write a note to Dr. Eisenstadt, thanking him for the
chance to teach.
I’ve almost definitely decided to take that French course (or another language, if it’s closed out)
at the Graduate Center this summer.
Chances for a part-time job look slim, judging from the size of this Sunday’s classified section
and the general economic picture, although I might try a temporary agency.
It’s odd how much I miss Gary; how I take him for granted, just as I take everything for
granted.

A kind of manic Memorial Day. This morning I drove into Manhattan and went to the old U.S.
Customs House (a magnificent building) to the Second N.Y. Book Fair. Last summer I went to
the first one, at the Cultural Center on Columbus Circle – that place owned by Huntington
Hartford.
[412]
All the small presses and little magazines and various feminist, Third World, gay and radical
publications had set up exhibits, just like last year's. It was a kind of huge candy store for me,
going from table to table collecting leaflets and catalogues, and looking somewhat wistfully at
all the books, pamphlets and magazines I could not afford to buy, and signing up for mailing
lists.
At the table for The Magazines - 6 fairly well-known publications including Fiction (published
by Mark Mirsky at CCNY - his new novel just came out, published by the Fiction Collective)
and Partisan Review, I saw a somewhat familiar figure with a Parnassus head visor. I asked him
if he was Herb Leibowitz and he said yes and I told him I was Richard Grayson.
He said he enjoyed many parts of my thesis, particularly "The Peacock Room." I thanked him
for the kind words and told him I'd drop off the other copy of my thesis at his office so I can get
my M.A. this summer. He said they're having a meeting of the M.A. Committee on
Wednesday, and they're probably going to eliminate the comprehensive exam. I told him I was
teaching at LIU and said I'd see him around. He's the editor of Parnassus - Poetry in Review and a
frequent book reviewer for the Sunday Times.
The Fiction Collective had a table, but the coordinator of it, Peggy Humphreys, would be there
on Wednesday. Moving from table to table, I felt surrounded by kindred spirits: poets, fiction
writers, literary people. (It probably was a great place to get laid; various black-stockinged girls
with granny glasses and long dresses were similarly moseying along.)
I came across the New Writers table and introduced myself to the editors, Connie Glickman and
Miriam Easton (both pleasant, Jewish and 40ish), whom I've corresponded with. They showed
me Volume 2, Number 3 of New Writers with my story in it; I decided to buy a couple of copies
even though they said they'd just mailed my contributor's copies out to me.
They said I should send them another manuscript. It felt surprisingly good to see my name and
"Rampant Burping" in print; I was more than a little excited, and when I came home, Mom and
Dad made a semi-big fuss over the magazine.
Lest I should get a big head, however, I ran into an editor from a little magazine who had
rejected "Alice Keppel." I didn't say who I was, but got to talking to him, and he said he always
sent criticism except when rejecting manuscripts of no value whatsoever. Needless to say, I got
my story returned that way, without even a note.
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Richard Grayson
But I feel at home in the semi-underground, somewhat counterculture literary world. I see it's
much easier to publish poetry than fiction and much easier if you're a woman (and probably
easier still if you're a lesbian).
Alice, my own friendly neighborhood little publisher, came over this afternoon after finishing
the latest issue of Henrietta. We had a raucous time, for Alice is still the best raconteuse money
can't buy; even Mom and Dad think Alice is a genuine original, a kook.
We watched Another World (Steve Frame was killed in a copter crash today; the actor playing
him had demanded better scripts and was summarily fired) and took a test in the issue of
Cosmopolitan that Alice brought over, to see what kind of lover we are. (Apparently I'm a manic
lover, Alice an eros type.)
Alice saw Mr. Blumstein yesterday at the Washington Square art show – she’s so crazy about
him – and then went to meet Andreas. Alice says I must see the apartment (she still calls it
"Renee's place" for lack of a better name): they've painted a fake fireplace on the wall, with a cat
sitting on top of it.
[414]
More Summer in Brooklyn

1976-1979
5 PM. I was supposed to go into the city and do something with Mikey and Larry this evening,
but I’m going to call and give them some excuse. I don’t feel like taking my car to Manhattan in
this 90° heat, especially since I’ve just come back from taking Josh to Staten Island to pick up his
new car, a ’69 VW.
Getting back to the subject of what I did yesterday at the Unemployment office, in chatting up
the security guard, I really did think of what Wayne Dyer might suggest I do in that situation.
Being hostile is no good, but I can be creative when I’m stuck somewhere for four hours.
Suppose I go there next Wednesday with a notebook and ask everyone there I’m dealing with
his or her name, saying I’m writing an article. People might get uneasy and get me out of there
more quickly. I could take photographs. Or if I want to take another tack, I can enhance that
place’s humanity – what little it has – by giving out bubblegum or lollipops to everyone.
If I want to make people laugh, I could wear a gorilla mask or bring along a hand puppet. Next
Wednesday I can do a variety of things to make the long wait pleasant.
I’m almost looking forward to it with a sense of adventure. And I’m trying to put other “non-
victim” principles into effect.
Yesterday I received a form letter from the English Department chairman of Nassau
Community College turning me down for a Lab Assistant position. The letter stated that they
wanted someone with a B.A. in English and experience in remediation. And after all, I only
have two master’s degrees and teaching remediation experience.
So I called up the college and asked to speak to “Peggy” (not “Professor Haskell” – Dyer says to
use first names and it worked). They said she’d call me back, but then I found out her home
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Richard Grayson
number and left a message there. Since I don’t really care about getting the job, I can afford to
look silly or nervy; I want to see where it will get me.
I told Jonny to do the same when he found out he failed Economics even though he had a 74
average. And talk about being silly: I just sent away to the Village Voice to have this ad put in
their bulletin board section: “Learn To Write Fiction — The Richard Grayson Way! Send $1 for
first lesson: Grayson, 1607 E 56 St, Bklyn, NY 11234.” It’s worth the $18 to see if I get any
responses. I don’t expect to, but who knows? Maybe people will see my name and think I’m an
asshole – but they’ll be thinking about me, right? And maybe this will be a good way to sell
Disjointed Fictions.
Look, we’re in New York City, the media capital of the world. I’m reasonably bright and I
should be able to figure out a way to get free publicity. The strategy I’ve got to take must be
creative.
For example, I’d really like my work to get to Ted Solotaroff, Eliot Fremont-Smith, Harvey
Shapiro and Irving Howe – but how to get through to them past the mounds of books and
manuscripts they must get every day (most of which end up at the Strand Book Store anyway).
One tack – and you could do this only once – might be to send the books to their wives at home.
At least it will get into their homes and possibly to their wives – who may feel neglected or
whatever and who will mention it to them, maybe just to annoy them. It’s worth a chance, isn’t
it?
If I sound silly, fine. Tim O’Brien at Bread Loaf told me that he was interested in moral issues,
especially courage, and he asked me what the point of a “silly” story like “Joe Colletti” was.
Well, Tim-hotshot-novelist-beloved-by-critics, maybe the point was that it takes courage to be
silly these days. My biggest breakthroughs in my work have come when I stopped caring what
people thought and went ahead with something idiosyncratic and playful.
The galleys of “I, Eliza Custis” arrived from Texas Quarterly and I’ve got to correct and return
them by next week; the story looks very classy, and long, too.
Impact accepted “Why Van Johnson Believes in ESP,” and the editor said he loved my story in
Statements 2 and was about to get in touch with me when he got my submission. Nice, huh?
11 PM. I was suffering from boredom and lack of stimulation this afternoon, but I conquered it
by getting myself out to dinner and then to showing of Robert Altman’s “3 Women” at the
Midwood. It worked like a charm, for the movie haunted me enough that I was able to come
home and knock out a pretty good (my opinion) story straight out on the typewriter.
[416]
Altman is a genius, and “3 Women” is one of his more intimate films; he concentrated on only a
handful of characters and the results are beautiful and macabre. Shelley Duvall and Sissy
Spacek are, as always, superb; I could eat them both up, but I’ve always been taken with Sissy
Spacek’s odd, albino-like dumb beauty. God, I would like to spend the night with her.
Anyway, my story, a speck compared with Altman’s canvas, is influenced by him; called
“Progress,” it’s a surrealistic and subtle (I hope) story of homosexual indoctrination.
I spent last evening on the phone with Libby and this evening with Alice. Libby’s mother was
pleased to hear that I started getting unemployment checks and we had a nice chat before she
put her daughter on the phone.
Libby – come to think of it, she has a Sissy Spacek quality – is back at work now, doing
everything including taking tennis lessons. She was dismayed about the date of Avis’s party
because her friend Tommy asked her to reserve that date for him. Maybe we can work
something out.
Libby said Mason called her up from Jersey and told her he’s coming in for a weekend soon.
“Where are you staying?” she asked. “With you,” Mason told her. Libby and I talked about
Avis’s forthcoming visit and we agreed to see each other soon.
Tonight Alice told me she ran into the mother of Phyllis (who, having graduated law school, is
taking the bar exams and has a job awaiting her with Legal Aid) and Harriet (married and the
mother of a baby boy) and Judy (now divorced and graduating Brooklyn College); Mrs.
Rappaport sent me her regards.
Alice sold several articles today for $325 and got a $500 assignment from Ladies’ Home Journal,
but she’s so jaded by now, she doesn’t bat an eyelash. Her big interest now is her musical
version of Alice in Wonderland, and she recited for me some songs she’s written. They were all
quite clever, and she said Scott is quite impressed.
She read me a Seventeen press release about her promotion and June’s hiring; their credits and
biographies sound so imposing, but I guess maybe mine would, too.
Alice is even more pragmatic and achievement-oriented than I could ever be. She told me she
wishes she had started writing earlier because now she would be “ahead of myself.”
I couldn’t understand that, especially when she used me as a “for instance,” saying I “wasted a
year” studying literature at Richmond College. Of course that year wasn’t a waste, and I can’t
even grasp Alice’s concept of being “ahead of yourself.”
[417]
Richard Grayson
If I had wanted to write fiction that badly in those days, I would have. And I don’t really feel
that there’s any kind of timetable for success. Alice says she hates the work of writing, she only
loves getting the check and seeing her name in print.
For me, the joy is in the act of creation itself. I lose myself, I exist in my present state, when I am
creating. Sure, acceptances cheer me up and rejections depress me, and I love seeing the
expanding shelves of magazines featuring my stories. But that’s all frills to me.
Kenward Elmslie of Z Press told me to submit stuff to him next spring when he plans another
issue; he said it’s always a surprise to get an unsolicited manuscript as good as mine.
Last night I had terrible insomnia and couldn’t get to sleep until 5:30 AM. I felt sluggish all day,
stayed out of the sun, went to the bank, watched TV and put myself into a state resembling a
coma until I snapped out of it late this afternoon.
8 PM. Half of 1979 is over already; it barely seems possible. I had a productive session with Dr.
Pasquale today. Ivan’s brother Chet offered Dad the job of salesman for his
Florida/Alabama/Georgia territory, and Dad has accepted. He still has another job interview on
Monday for a position with a jeans firm in Manhattan, but if that doesn’t work out, he’s going
to Florida.
At least that’s what Mom says. With Dad, well, as usual, “it’s not the right time to talk about
it.” For Dad, it’s never the right time to talk about anything important and unsettling. He
never prepared for the future because he was too afraid to look at it. That’s how he got himself
into the position he is now: where, at 52, he has to work for Ivan’s family for $300 a week.
Mom can’t be very happy about his being away traveling, but I don’t think she really accepts it.
Even now, I tend to doubt Dad will make the move. Of course, he’s broke and he doesn’t have
much choice. He’s scared, he told me, and worried about how Marc and I will do on our own in
New York.
I became furious with him. How dare he worry about me, who can take care of myself better
than anyone in the family. And, I told him, if he hadn’t made it so easy for Marc by taking him
into the business – the way Grandpa Nat did with Dad himself – Marc would have found
something on his own by now.
[418]
At least I broke the vicious cycle of being dependent on my father for a job. Dad admits that
Grandpa Nat did everything to make his life easy. Dad still can’t get out of his father’s shadow.
The reason he failed in business with his partner was because Dad thought the man would treat
him as a son, the way Grandpa Nat did.
I am furious with Dad for getting himself – and his family – into this position, but I also can’t
help myself and I feel very sorry for him.
I suppose Ivan’s family will treat Dad well, though of

course I resent what I see (psychologically, not realistically) as their control of my father. I
always wanted to be like the Reitmans myself. And I will be.
Dr. Pasquale says I vacillate between utter helplessness and assertive mastery, and that I
haven’t learned that true control isn’t entirely in or out of my hands.
Anyway, if my parents move to Florida, that raises a new question: Do I still want to go to
Albany for the doctoral program? I am going there, and I’ve never denied it, more for personal
reasons than for professional ones. At 28, I wanted to break with my family and live in another
city.
But if this home I’ve lived in all my life no longer is our home and my family – except Marc – is
in Florida, I don’t really need to go to Albany to escape them. In fact, all that change might be
too much for me. I’d be giving up my ties to New York City and I don’t want to do that.
If my parents remain here, I’ll definitely move to Albany. But if they go to Florida, it becomes
an open question. I might be happier (and now I suspect I would) living on my own in the city
I know and love.
Dr. Pasquale didn’t think this sounded unreasonable. I’m not worried about making a living.
There will be teaching jobs, writing assignments – I’m not afraid of getting a full-time position
doing anything I have to. I have many resources to fall back on, and the change will be easier
for me than for any other member of the family.
Dr. Pasquale says (and of course he didn’t have to tell me this) that I have to think about how
much Albany means to me. Do I really want a doctorate? No. The program looks interesting,
but I don’t think that the program per se would make me a better writer; it was the experience of
independence I was looking for to give me that.
It sounds as though I’ve already decided – but then again, who knows what my parents will
do? Inertia has ruled them for so long they have a hard time doing anything new. And as Dr.
Pasquale said, I still have a couple of months to decide.
[419]
Richard Grayson
10 PM. I see we’ve reached the midpoint of 1976; the first six months whizzed by so quickly.
Life goes by so fast, I think it’s wise to remember how fragile life is. I’m proud to say that on
Monday night, I lay in bed giving thanks for the precious gift of that day.
I’ve come to accept certain things with age; maybe I’m beginning to mellow. There’s very little I
can do to change things: most profound thoughts have already been expressed, most good
books written, most great deeds done.
But I can offer what Sam Levenson at commencement called my “message”: the unique small
thing I carry around with me by having lived the life of Richard Grayson and no one else.
I am confident that I will die having accomplished little more than a small fraction of what I set
out to do. But if I work hard (by my standards), relax, enjoy life and have fun, I may do all right
in the end.
Uncle Monty is dead, but if he’s in the consciousness of one person – perhaps a stranger to
whom he told one of his jokes or even someone who stared at him on a bus – then he still lives.
I flatter myself sometimes that the world cares what I put down on these pages when reality is
that very likely no one else out there will see them. It doesn’t matter; I have written them; that’s
enough.
Yesterday at the funeral, Grandpa Herb took me aside to say that his niece Suzi had brought
over a book of Jewish stories – “by some guy named Bellows.” But, Grandpa Herb said, after
reading them he decided, “Personally, I prefer your little antidotes.” I smiled at his kind words
and the wonderful malapropism.
Last night I dreamed that I sent a story to the Ladies’ Home Journal and received a check for
$1,250. It would be wonderful if my dream proves prophetic, but if not, it’s nice to know that
my subconscious is with me, too.
I worked all day today for the Fiction Collective; it’s a pleasure to work. I met Gloria at George
Braziller’s office this morning. Mindi Schecter has been fired, and Sam Kleinberg, the sales chief
or whatever, helped us out.
I am in awe of George Braziller. A distinguished-looking grey-haired man, he seems to be so

discriminating and cultured.
Gloria had called me last night. She had spoken to Jon Baumbach and he agreed she could pay
me something if she ever needs me to come in for a full day. He also said that something by me
will definitely appear in Statements 2. Gloria knows that I’m more reliable and hard-working
[420]
than most of the author-members of the Collective, and I worked pretty hard on the First Novel
Contest.
Unbelievably, we managed to pare down that mountain of perhaps 400 manuscripts to 45 to be

given to the judges (15 each). One charming cover note I must reproduce in full:
“Dear Sirs: I am presenting a novel about a Turkish princess who became a gunfighter and a
sheriff in the Old West to protect her Christian Arab people from the hostility of the Anglo-
American outlaws during the days of the cattle-boom after the Civil War while riding a camel
(sic). I hope this novel will be accepted. Yours truly, Mercedes Penera.”
It was very discouraging to read though (even a few first pages) of such trash, but by 1 PM, we
were finished. We had lunch on Lexington Avenue; Gloria eats so much because she’s
pregnant. I really like her, and after working alone with her for two whole days, I can
understand how people caught up in a project together can become very close.
We have nothing in common but the Fiction Collective’s work, and yet I think I’m capable of
falling in love with her. (Physically, she’s especially cute now, but I’ve always adored pregnant
women.)
We rode the subway to Schermerhorn Street and I worked at the office the rest of the day,
trying to make a dent in the manuscripts plied up and the queries and requests to be answered.
6 PM. I’m not feeling too bad. Which is a pessimist’s way of giving thanks.
I slept well, had an erotic dream about Cara Weiss, whom I haven’t seen in years. In its way,
the dream was fairly logical: I was going up Riverside Drive when I spotted Teresa, who invited
me in and said I should say hello to Cara. A friendly kiss turned into more passionate ones, and
before I knew it, we were a tangle of arms and tongues. Very nice.
Aunt Sydelle moved out of her house finally; she got $65,000 for it. She’s still in Cedarhurst, in
some very pleasant garden apartments off Central Avenue. She may be happier there than she
would have been in Florida, where everyone seems so old.
Cousin Robin is still going through her breakdown, but a psychiatric social worker has moved
in with her and is caring for her. Aunt Sydelle spoke to him on the phone and he advised her
not to interfere, that he knows how to handle Robin’s crippling depressions. Sydelle said that
aside from being Gentile, the man is too good to be true.
[421]
Richard Grayson
I stayed out of the sun today; instead, I was working on sending out submissions. Writers’
Resources, a very valuable Boston newsletter, arrived today, and it listed several places to send
out to. I think that eventually I should have a small press willing to put out a collection of my
short stories; that’s my immediate goal now, to gather the best stories already published into
one book, my book.
I’m too intelligent and well-informed to have any delusions of bestsellerdom or even breaking
even. I know about the poor small press distribution system, the low public demand for short
story collections, the lack of reviewing space, etc., etc.
But realistically, if I’m to survive financially, I’ll need to exist on teaching jobs – and I don’t
mean adjunct positions at LIU. A book, if it’s well-done – and I’ll make sure it is – will enhance
my reputation, which is so far based only on stories in various little magazines.
Also, it will satisfy my need to hold a book that’s completely mine, one I won’t have to share
with anyone. As Alice said the other day, she most enjoys “hustling.” I do, too – that process of
making a name for myself in the small press world.
I’ve always wanted to be an important member of a community (that’s why I loved my

LaGuardia Hall years at Brooklyn College) and I’ve still got the old politician in me. So I
subscribe to all the magazines and the journals and I write letters to the big machers like Charles
Plymell, Len Fulton, John M. Bennett, Diane Kruchkow, et al. I get to know them and
eventually they’ll get to know me and I, too, will be a small press “name.”
That part of the job is just as important as the writing, and I like to push my way to power. I
don’t do anything underhanded or sneaky (except perhaps allowing two little mags to print the
same story – but I’ll never do that again).
Simon could never understand this: he thought my going to the New York Book Fair was a
waste of time, for example, and he used to mock all the small-press magazine title names to me.
But Esquire and The New Yorker didn’t want Simon, he wouldn’t settle for less, and so he gave
up writing altogether.
If I had had Simon’s talent, I’d be famous – or at least fairly well-known – by now. Of course
more than half of what little income I have goes into paying for paper, xerox, envelopes,
postage (I used up a $13 roll of stamps in less than two weeks). But it’s worth it as an
investment in the future.
Sure, I’d like to be making the $10,000 a year Simon is. But he’s a file clerk in the hospital and
he can go nowhere. I, at least, have a chance, and the chance looks better every day.
[422]
I have diarrhea now, for some reason, but I’m going to try not to let it prevent me from going
out tonight. If it does, there’s always tomorrow. (I never knew a guy with diarrhea could be so
optimistic.)
6 PM. I’ve just been outside, talking with Jonny and a cute little bespectacled boy named
Georgie who wants to become a lion tamer. Bologna, he told me, is his “best food,” but he
doesn’t like to read or eat bread.
Today was a day when absolutely nothing happened – and I wasn’t surprised. I don’t know if
there is such an animal as Luck, but I seem to have observed it over the years. There are times
when things go well for somebody and even their bad moments turn out to be disguised
blessings. My life has always seemed to operate in alternating spurts of great activity and
absolute nothingness if not downright bad news.
I’ve been devouring Jules Witcover’s Marathon: The Race for the Presidency, 1972-1976; it’s very
absorbing. I’m a sucker for presidential politics and always have been. I sometimes think I’d
have been happier being a professional politician rather than a writer.
Anyway, reading about Carter’s amazing campaign from nowhere, one sees a pattern of hard
work and enormous luck. (Mo Udall, in contrast, couldn’t get one break.) Did Carter use up all
of his luck in 1976? Today he got the lowest poll rating in history, 76% disapproving, worse
than Nixon just before he resigned.
The Carter administration seems to have unraveled completely, and I think it’s too late to put it
together again. Carter will probably have to withdraw as a candidate next year.
Another lesson Witcover’s book has taught me (though I’d long suspected it) is that politics –
any kind of politics: academic, literary or electoral – it’s the perception of an event that counts for
more than the event itself. Reality seems to be just a shadow compared with Image. The media
can change a defeat into a triumph, a sad event into classical tragedy.
Last week I read Nora Ephron’s Scribble Scribble, a sharp, witty collection of her Esquire “Media”
columns. I am fascinated with television, newspapers and magazines, which again seem more
real than reality.
Incredible changes have taken place because of TV, but since I’m of the first generation which
never knew anything else, any other reality but a TV world, I don’t think everyone up there has
gotten the message. Marshall McLuhan, what are you doin’ these days?
[423]
Richard Grayson
I ventured from the house today only to get a haircut, but I know what’s going on in Manhattan
and Moscow because of TV, the papers and radio. I know who’s Hot and who’s been indicted.
Probably I know much too much and am beginning to feel my circuits overloading.
Just think of all the time and emotional energy I’ve invested in Liz Taylor, Truman Capote,
Skylab, the boat people. . . In a year, will any of this matter? Fame and celebrity seem to be
instantaneous and instantly gone.
Is it worth it to try to achieve fame? Is it more noble, more honest, to work as a graduate
student in Albany? Or to take a job in a backwater place like Fort Valley State College in rural
Georgia (“Carter Country”) – I got a letter today saying they’re interested in me.
God, “bubble popularity” – a term I remember from Thomas Hart Benton in Profiles in Courage –
is so heady. A week ago I was Liz Smith’s column and I felt intoxicated. Of course there’s a
great letdown, as with any drug.
I can probably make myself into a Public Person, but do I want to be one? Well, I guess days
like this are good for something, anyway. Tomorrow is the Fourth of July; in no time the
summer will be over.
I no longer worry about not writing. Something tells me I know what I’m doing.
11:30 PM. By the time I finish writing this, the Bicentennial Fourth of July will be over. I did
just what I said I would not do, of course, and was an observer at both Operation Sail and the
fireworks – if only briefly and from a distance.
Now I can rest easy that when, come the year 2025, my grandchildren ask me the inevitable
question, “Grandpa, what did you do in the Bicentennial?” – I can look the little tykes straight
in the eye (assuming, of course, that I don’t suffer from cataracts or senility) and tell them just
what I did.
Alice called me at about noon, and she’s mostly responsible for this. She was tired after four
hours of playing paddleball, and both her current sweeties were unavailable for the historic day
(Andreas stayed in New Jersey “to avoid getting trampled on” and Jim was somewhere in New
York Harbor, on a friend’s father’s ferry).
So she bicycled over here and berated me for being so unpatriotic as to sit on my porch reading
while the rest of America was out doing their part to celebrate. She used the now-familiar
“grandchildren” ploy and then proceeded to work on my guilt.
[424]
She herself felt very guilty, Alice said; her brother dutifully went off this morning at 6 AM,
camera and radio in hand, so as not to miss a minute of anything that might occur.
Her brother, I explained to Alice, works for the State Department and so must be on some
official diplomatic business. He’s currently serving in the fascinating post of Adviser for
Micronesian Affairs, and there must be at least one Micronesian somehow connected with the
Bicentennial.
But Alice said I couldn’t let her feel guilty about this, and so, good friend that I am, I drove her
to Brooklyn Heights so we could glimpse a few of the sailboats from the Promenade.
(Alice is a strange girl: she feels guilty about staying home on the Bicentennial but she doesn’t
feel the slightest twinge of guilt about seeing Andreas and screwing him last Friday night, then
coming back to Brooklyn and then seeing and screwing Jim. We should all be so lucky.)
Before patriotism, of course, comes hunger – so we ate lunch at Pica-deli. There we ran into (as
I knew we would) Simon with some buddies, including his friend Elliott from The Racing Form,
and we were cordial, cheerful and mercifully brief with one another.
It was nice to dine outside at a sidewalk table. The weather was magnificent (for the moment,
at least) and we watched the crowds and the street vendors pass by. Then we too went over to
the Promenade and joined everyone in watching the sailing ships pass by.
I’m not trying to be a jaded cynic, but I failed to be impressed. Lightning and thunderstorms
started acting up and brief rains came, so we high-tailed it back to my house, where Alice
cycled somewhere for more interesting adventures.
Still, I am terribly glad that I had a friend to spend the day with, and it actually was good to be
out in the throng, which was unusually good-natured.
Tonight, after dinner and rereading on my own of the Declaration of Independence and the
Constitution (seriously), I drove to see the harbor fireworks from the car – first looking on high
on the Gowanus Expressway and then from a street near the docks in Red Hook.
The fireworks were quite spectacular, the best I have ever seen. The sky lit up with color, and
I’ll write no more about it, for I fear that every idiot in the nation is penning some words about
his own Bicentennial feelings and experiences. (Alice had said she wanted to do something if
only so that she could write about it in her journal.)
Back home, I sat on the porch for a while, watching East 56th Street’s annual display of loud
noises and bright lights. And I am very grateful – yes – to have been born an American.
[425]
Richard Grayson
5 PM. I’m feeling pretty discouraged after a difficult day. At 6 AM I awoke with severe
stomach cramps, the kind usually accompanied by diarrhea. But I didn’t really get diarrhea; the
cramps persisted by themselves, and even now I have them.
I drove down to the Unemployment office and only had to wait an hour today. The caseworker
told me (after I had asked someone) that I am not eligible for benefits unless I bring a note from
LIU saying I will definitely not be rehired for the fall.
I asked how come the law was different last year when I had been eligible for benefits, and he
said the legislature changed the law. But I’m sure he doesn’t know. (He wrote out a report on
our interview and left out all the apostrophes in the possessives, but I didn’t correct him.)
I left the Lawrence Street office feeling ashamed, as if I had done something wrong. What really
makes me mad was that I didn’t collect my $11-a-week benefits (the difference between my
benefit rate and what I actually earned) all last academic year, knowing how many people
(members of my own family among them) collect money they don’t really deserve.
I went over to LIU, where I got more bad news. Because of low registration, Margaret doubts
that there’ll be a course for me to teach in the second summer session. (There certainly won’t be
two.) I came home feeling utterly dejected.
Dr. Wayne W. Dyer doesn’t tell you how to deal with anger and depression of this kind. In fact,
he seems to feel there’s no reason to be depressed, ever. He overlooks the idea that maybe
depression could be healthy – as in mourning, for example. I find his endlessly cheerful pop
philosophy doesn’t suit me, and I’m going to give it up except for those parts that still make
sense to me.
I really want to cry for a while, but I can come up with anything more than slightly moist eyes.
Money is going to be a real problem again. I’ve been spending too freely lately.
Let’s see: I have $650 or so in the bank. Assuming that I don’t get a teaching job later this
summer, that $650 will have to last me until November 15 or so, when my first adjunct check
arrives. That’s clearly impossible.
So the only solution is for me to get a job. I’ll wait till after next week, when Margaret should
know about the second summer session either way. I dread the prospect of a menial job, and I
don’t see that I can get anything else. My typing skills are too poor for secretarial work (which
would be horrible anyway).
I won’t work for less than $3 an hour, and I don’t think I’m being unreasonably proud – not
with two master’s degrees, a hundred published stories, and three years of college teaching
[426]
experience. Two years ago when I worked for that crook Fassbinder, I swore it would be the
last job of that type I took.
I don’t want to again be a messenger, shelve books in the library, wait on department store
customers, deliver laundry or flowers or be a bimmie in a nursing home.
I’m reading Thoreau now, and he says to “simplify”; I’m certain I can get by on less than I think
I can, but it won’t be easy. I’ll have to cut down on all my expenses and hope unexpected ones
don’t arise.
I lost a total of about $1,500 today – before I even collected it. “Easy come, easy go” is a trite
expression, but it’s true. Money is meaningless anyway. And I’m trying. I really am.
My ad, “Learn fiction writing the Richard Grayson way – Send $1 for first lesson” appeared in
the Voice today. I don’t expect any replies, but it will be nice if they do come. Undoubtedly
people will think I’m a jerk, but Thoreau didn’t care about people thinking that about him and
neither do I.
I just wish I had the consolation of self-respect.
7 PM. I want to get into bed early tonight. It’s cloudy and thunderstorms are threatening.
I may have to have root canal work done tomorrow. Last Wednesday I broke my tooth, and
today, when I went to Dr. Hersh, he fixed it up as best he could but said the nerve may be
exposed. From the way I jumped when he touched near the nerve, I suspect that’s true.
I dread the prospect of going down to the Williamsburgh Savings Bank Building, to that team of
endodontists where I had oral surgery twelve years ago. But if I must, I must. Dr. Hersh says
my gums are in bad shape, too. If I don’t start taking care of them, I’m going to end up with
pyorrhea.
My nerve is throbbing now, but that may just be the result of the dental work. By tomorrow
morning, I should be able to judge. All I hope is that I’m not kept awake by the pain of an
exposed nerve. I still recall the pain of it when I was 14; it was the worst pain I’d ever had or
have had since then.
Days like this make me feel like I’m falling apart at 26.
[427]
Richard Grayson
I had a kind of acceptance today; make of this what you will: The editor of Punch, a new Seattle
magazine, wrote, “I’m keeping ‘A Story for Negroes’ and ‘An Incomplete Story,’ though I don’t
quite know what to do with them.”
He explained that the three editors of the magazine are all poets, and mine was the first fiction
they’d seen which appealed to them. Their second issue is filled; their third issue is to be on the
Long Poem; and so my work won’t appear until at least the fourth issue – which could be a year
away, or, knowing little magazines the way I do, it could be never.
Still, I have hope and patience and I told the editor, a Mr. Cervantes, to go ahead and keep the
stories, and I sent seven dollars for a subscription. If anyone knew how much money I spend
on subscriptions to little magazines, they’d think I was crazy.
Of course, I look at it as a way of paying my dues, of spreading good will, and of getting to
know what my contemporaries are up to. Already my small press books and magazines are
easing the other books off my bookshelves (and onto the ones in my brothers’ room and in the
basement): the Literary Guild and Book-of-the-Month Club books that were once all that I
owned.
Who knows? Perhaps one day my little magazine collection will prove valuable – that is, if
they’re not thrown out the way my superhero comic-book collection was.
Mom and Dad are supposedly leaving on Friday morning, although Dad’s very upset because
they unexpectedly told him to come back next week and sign for his Unemployment check;
heretofore he’s been signing every two weeks.
Avis writes that she’ll look all over Bremen and try to get me the Rilke book I’ve been wanting.
Her parents will pick her up at the airport, but she asks if I can drive her to pick up Helmut the
following week. Thank God something pleasant will happen this July. I can’t wait to speak to
Avis, to see her again.
Ronna’s another matter. She’s now been back over a week and I’ve yet to hear from her. I bet
she doesn’t call until late summer. She and her family will be moving out at the end of the
month and I won’t know where she is. That will make the third time in a year that she hasn’t
given me her address, and I’d say that’s a pretty good indication on what to look for in a
relationship with her. Phooey on Ronna, I say.
Mikey sent me a birthday card saying, “What’s a month between friends?” Not a thing, of
course.
It occurs to me: Do I judge Ronna by a different standard than I do Mikey or others? I suppose I
do, but ex-lovers are never in the same category as other friends. Vide: Last week Scott was
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most curious about Avis. And Avis today wrote me to say she was thrilled about Teresa’s
party. She asked, “Will Scott be there?” She didn’t ask about anyone else. I rest my case.
No writing today, and a foray into the library to get the creative juices flowing proved hopeless.
All I found there was an article called “Ph.D.’s: The Migrant Workers of the Academic World,”
about adjuncts. Misery loves company.
9 PM. I just came back from Rockaway to an empty house. It’s so quiet. It’s hard to believe
that in a few months this house won’t be ours anymore.
When I went down to breakfast this morning, Mom said, “I don’t know what I’m going to do
with your father.” Dad was up all night worrying, mostly about Marc and me. “He thinks
you’re going to starve in the streets.”
He makes it difficult for me to feel angry with him for that, of course – and that makes me
angrier. Mom said it’s unnatural, the way he feels. Remember how Grandpa Nat used to cry
when Dad and Mom visited him in Florida and then had to leave? Dad is his father all over
again. I never knew a man to be so protective of grown children.
All these years I’ve believed Mom was the typical Jewish mother who couldn’t let go. Well, it
turns out that Dad was the more overprotective parent all along. “He needs a psychologist,”
Mom told me this morning.
My psychologist and I talked over the situation today. I’m glad I have Dr. Pasquale; he’s a
rational, stable force in my life. He seems to think that all my fears and anxieties are quite
realistic. After living in such a close-knit family for my whole life, it’s going to be hard on me,
on all of us. As Dad said to Mom, “It’s like breaking up that old gang of mine.”
But of course it had to happen sooner or later. Mom, I think, would like Marc and me to live
together, but I doubt if that would work out. I’m not close with Marc, and our interests are very
different. I’d rather think of him as in the background somewhere in case I ever need help.
I seem to be leaning towards staying in the city. Dr. Pasquale doesn’t think that’s a cop-out.
Albany never meant a professional boost to my career; my reasons for going were personal. I
told Dr. Pasquale of my reaction to my parents’ announcement about moving to Florida, and he
told me that my immediately sending out résumés was a healthy, activist way of coping.
I am worried about money, but again, that’s a realistic fear. One fear grounded in fantasy is
Dad or Mom dying or getting very sick. While there’s always that possibility, at 52 and 48
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Richard Grayson
they’re both young and in good health, and what happened to Grandpa Nat will not repeat
itself.
I am surprised at how positive I feel about getting my own place in the city; it’s exciting. I can
still feel comfortable in familiar surroundings, and I could even take my old furniture with me.
If people like Josh and Elihu can survive financially on their own, why can’t I? I can survive
emotionally, too – with the help of my friends. And Grandma Ethel and Grandpa Herb will still
be around; I’ve always been closest to them.
I went to see them tonight, bring my book – which Grandpa Herb insisted on paying five
dollars for. (Several people – Ivan, Jay, Marie – have asked to buy the book from me, and I
think I’m going to make money that way.)
Instead of Grandma Ethel cooking for me, I showed her that I could make cheese omelets for
dinner. Grandpa Herb fixed the cuffs on a new pair of jeans for me, and after Grandma Ethel
went out “to work” (to play cards), we sat in the bedroom and talked.
Grandpa Herb told me that he had an underwear manufacturing and contracting business
which he started in 1944. It was all black market stuff, and in a year they made $100,000 profit.
The IRS was watching him, and at one point he had $30,000 stashed in a bathroom hamper.
Grandpa Herb told me he’s got about $50,000 in various bank accounts now, but he tries to live
on his Social Security. I am more and more interested in making money – I never had to before –
and on the way home I bought The Only Investment Guide You’ll Ever Need, which I plan to read
now.
10 PM. It’s Worrying Whether It’s All Worth It Time. It just struck me, while I was making
another batch of stories and queries, after another day of hard work trying to promote my
writing career, just why the hell I’m bothering. I don’t expect to take success well; I’ll probably
become more of an egomaniac than I am now.
I’ve changed enormously. Other people see it and tell me I’ve grown too confident, too brittle,
too arrogant. Today I got a rejection that said my material was “too distant” for the editor:
“”We’re looking for the real, sweaty personal stuff – yours may even be real, but if so, you’re a
cold person.”
Of course the editor is a moron; judging me by one of my stories is absurd. But still, it hurt –
and I guess the fact that it hurt still shows I’m not a total egomaniac. This is crazy: me worrying
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about success going to my head when here I am, at 25, with $150 in the bank, no job, and living
in my parents’ house.
But I have the feeling that I can make myself a success through sheer will power and hard work.
I do get very arrogant sometimes, as when I answered a nasty rejection with an even nastier
(and very vulgar) note; today the reply came and I dumped it into the garbage immediately, too
ashamed to read it.
After a day at the Fiction Collective office, working and grasping at every bit of information that
could do me some good, trying to get an “in” and ingratiating myself with everyone, then
coming home, reading my mail (Aspen Leaves said my writing is “the best we’ve seen in six
months” but they’re booked solid; Tom Fisher wrote and said I was the first person to respond
to his plea for money and he hopes to get Star-Web Paper out this summer; Coda arrived with
much information I can use) – sending out manuscripts all seems rather silly and beside the
point.
The trouble is, you see, my basic instincts are political, not literary (the old Poli Sci major shows
through). I feel I’m getting away from myself, taking myself too seriously, becoming pompous
– and in the end that will destroy me as a human being and as a writer, too.
I’ve become obsessed with the idea of my own success. I don’t need, at this point, to frantically
send stories here and there. I know what will happen eventually: I’ll get two acceptances for
one story and then I’ll be in real trouble.
Enough about writing. Let’s bring our hero’s (villain’s?) two friends onstage and let’s see
what’s going on in their lives.
The latest installment in The Alice Saga is this: Last night Alice tried to write Jim a letter, but it
turned out too mushy. Then she got this bright idea: she bought Chinese fortune cookies and
took the fortunes out with tweezers, replacing them with her own slips of paper on which were
written such gems as “Please reconsider – you’ve nothing to lose” and “In New York the
number is 251-6613” and “A short brunette will reenter your life – she hopes.”
Alice went to the playground and finally found a teenager who said he’d deliver the box of
fortune cookies to Jim’s door – or so Alice thought. He gave the cookies to his pothead friends
in the playground and ran away.
By this time it was 11 PM and Alice was in tears. But she doesn’t give up easily; she rode
around the neighborhood on her bike until she found a Chinese restaurant that was still open,
stayed up and did it all over again, leaving the cookies at Jim’s doorstep this morning. So far he
hasn’t called.
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Richard Grayson
As for Gary, he had an “anxiety-provoking” interview in D.C., had a bad flight in a storm
coming back (“I thought I’d never see Brooklyn again”), but he’s confident he’ll get the job –
although he’s going to try to get Liz Holtzman to “pull some strings and make it a surer thing.”
10 PM. Do you know where your children are? Do you know who they have become?
I have a sticking pain in my stomach. It couldn’t be hunger. I had a Whopper, fries and a giant
Sugar-Free 7-Up not three hours ago. I feel beaten down tonight. Let me take a tranquilizer. If
I can have one more good night’s sleep in my life, let it be tonight.
God, I’m beginning to sound like Jonny, invoking the Deity. Jonny went to the synagogue this
morning and slept the rest of the day. He should write a book: Total Avoidance. Sometimes, not
often, I envy Jonny his defenses.
I began reading Virginia Woolf’s Moments of Being. I want to read it in small doses because it’s
too good to be gulped down. I suppose I’d say it was like a fine brandy if I knew what brandy
tasted like. (Brandy, of course, reminds me of Ronna, but by now I’ve completely forgotten
about her.)
The Postal Service tells me a package sent to me got separated from its wrapper. They
thoughtfully sent the wrapper. It had a June 29 Chicago postmark, 55 cents metered mail. It’s
probably either the complimentary copies of Mati or of Oyez Review, which are both in that city.
So I wrote both editors informing them.
This annoyed me no end. Because. You see, if I’ve got something published, I’ve just gotta see
it right away, hold it in my pudgy little hands. So. . . tired as I was, hot as it was (no more air
conditioning in my car), I went to Manhattan this afternoon at 4:30 PM, just to see if the
magazines had come out and I could find them.
Sean Wilentz said hello to me at the Eighth Street Bookshop (I bought a nice little magazine,
Works in Progress), but nothing of mine was there. I took a delightfully air-conditioned F train to
the Gotham Book Mart, but avoided spending any money there.
Then I drove down to Soho Books – the latest contender – and I came away with a nice small-
press scene mag, Contact II and a beautiful-looking anthology, Taxi Dancer, poems put out by
Exotic Beauties Press, whom I am hoping will publish my collection of short stories. But did
find “my” magazines. No matter.
[432]
Stephen Bailey of The Midatlantic Review, a terrible mag, keeps rejecting my work, although in
his most recent rejection he allowed as how “you do have a different way of looking at things.”
Charles Plymell answered my letter. After I wrote him, I learned he was the first man to
publish Zap Comix. He wrote “DIG YA!” to me. He talked about a writers’ union and put down
Barthelme and told me he was sorry he didn’t get to the BC Conference; Diane Kruchkow
showed him the brochure and he said it looked interesting. Charles said he just attended his
first – and last – COSMEP conference. All these small press names are becoming people to me.
This morning I went to the AAA and got a Trip-Tik for my drive to Vermont. It’s only 270
miles, mostly New York State Thruway; at Lake George I cut off to Vermont.
Deanna’s staying over for the weekend, sleeping in the master bedroom with Marc. I suppose
the reason I don’t mind is that Deanna is so unobtrusive one hardly realizes she’s around. I
never saw such a mousy person. But she’s sweet.
Uncharacteristically, I went with her and Marc to the Staten Island Zoo today. Deanna wanted
to go to a zoo, Marc wanted to take pictures, and I was the only one who knew how to get there.
It was fun, especially the Children’s Zoo.
Deanna is so naive that I can’t believe the things that come out of her mouth; she’s Gracie Allen
in platform shoes and a halter. She was disappointed there weren’t enough “cuddly” animals
and Marc had to drag her away every time a baby passed. I had a lot of fun, though; it was a
nice change.
10 PM. I didn’t do my exercises today, but then I didn’t have to. I worked hard helping Dad
with the goods. My body is starting to ache a little.
Last night Elihu called. He got these three HEOP classes in social science at LIU, starting today;
they pay an unbelievable $1,500 for six weeks. And there’s almost no preparation involved,
since the stuff he’ll be doing is basic, like orienting them to college study, teaching them how to
read a newspaper, etc. I’m very envious. Al Orsino is doing the English HEOP classes.
Elihu said he’s already fallen a week behind in his American History class and hopes they can
get to World War II before the term ends in two weeks. Oh well. I’ve had my share of teaching
experiences in the past, and now it’s Elihu’s turn.
As I told Elihu, I’m very fatalistic about getting courses: “If God had meant for me to teach, He
would have had students register for freshman English.”
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Richard Grayson
I slept magnificently, having this monumental dream about Ronna and me working our way
through a maze of rooms in her grandmother’s house and ending up in the old bungalows in
Rockaway during a July Fourth gala celebration.
I was awakened by Dad at 8 AM, and half an hour later I was following him and Marc to
Flushing. It was good to be out early in the morning – but even at that hour, you could tell
today was going to be a humid scorcher.
Rick Davis, Dad’s idiot of a salesman, was there to work with us. The shipment came in at 11
AM – but one-third of it (19 out of 60 cartons) was missing, and Dad almost fainted. He has
more orders for jeans sold than he got in! He’s missing 1150 pair, which were probably hijacked
from the pier in Jersey; the truck driver said he couldn’t find them on the dock. They’re
probably being worn in South Carolina by now.
I can see the problem Dad has in his business: so much can get screwed up between Hong Kong
and here, and it’s largely out of his control. At least the reduced shipment meant less work
today. It was hard getting the cartons (50 pair to a carton) down the wooden slats on the steps; I
was the middleman on the landing and got quite bruised.
But opening the cartons, sorting them by sizes and setting them up for orders took forever; it
was a combination of busywork and physical labor. I thought it would never end, despite
breaks for iced tea and lunch. I left at 4 PM, leaving them there and drove home from Flushing
feeling somewhat woozy and pretty smelly.
At home, Jonny told me that E.L. Doctorow’s attorney called and said he wanted to speak to
me. Evidently Eliot Fremont-Smith told him about the phony letter on “Doctorow’s” stationery.
But I’m not worried in the least and I certainly don’t intend to call back the lawyer. He can’t do
anything but scare me – and he can’t even do that.
Even if he could sue me, the publicity I’d get out of it would be worth it. At this point I have
nothing to lose – not even a reputation. Actually, if this guy (and Doctorow) went to the trouble
to look up my phone number, it’s more recognition that I’ve gotten than I ever did for my work.
Speaking of work, I got my copies of riverrun today with my “Go Not to Lethe Celebrates Its 27th
Anniversary: A Soap Opera Journal Special.” They changed only Mason’s name and left the rest
of the story intact. It’s a very risky thing for me to do, but it’s done now, and I think it’s one of
my strongest pieces. If I could have only one story to represent my life, I would want it to be
this one.
I spent an hour xeroxing the story and the résumés I typed up yesterday. I have almost no
money now, and I’d soon better get started finding a way of making some. Maybe I should tell
Doctorow’s mouthpiece that I’ll settle out of court if he gives me $20,000.
[434]
9 PM. Four years ago I was in Miami Beach, attending the Democratic National Convention
with Leon, Skip and our delegate, Mikey. It was an exciting time for me, and I thought I’d try to
see what was going on at the 1976 Convention today as long as it’s being held in New York,
starting tomorrow.
And I did do something I could do in ’72: get a close-up glimpse of the Democratic nominee.
Yes, I’ve seen Jimmy Carter in the flesh, bright smile, cool blue eyes and all.
I figured the best place to go was the Americana Hotel, the headquarters for the Carter
campaign as well as the New York and Iowa delegations. I parked my car on Eighth Avenue
and 52nd Street, and as soon as I got out, I was approached by a man asking me where Seventh
Avenue was.
He had one of those very noticeable non-New York accents (he pronounced his r’s) and I asked
him if he was here for the convention. It turned out that he was the chief political reporter for
U.S. News and World Report, “that is, I will be if I ever get my credentials.”
I went with him to the Americana, where he picked up his credentials and I walked around.
There was really no difference from the lobby of the Diplomat Hotel in Florida in 1972 and the
lobby of the Americana in 1976: the people looked the same, spoke about the same things, the
hotel glitter was there, the hospitality suites . . . only the candidate and the mood of the party
had changed.
This year, after eight years out of power, caused in part what they feel were contentious,
bickering conventions, the Democrats smell victory and everybody seems ready to swallow (if
not love) Jimmy Carter because he can bring them victory.
Why did I go there today? I’ve always been fascinated by politics, and conventions in
particular: seeing people from everywhere, from all ethnic groups and walks of life, get together
and choose a President.
And I’m irresistibly drawn to power, to where history is being made. I live in this time, so why
shouldn’t I play a role in it, even if I’m only an outside observer?
Certain types at conventions were in evidence along the streets of midtown Manhattan, like a
red-haired teenager, a button collector trying to get all the buttons he could; and a middle-aged,
slightly drunk-looking man sitting outside the hotel, his sports jacket covered with green Carter
buttons as if they were growing on him like ivy (he was selling them for fifty cents each).
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Richard Grayson
There were information desks set up, and downstairs in the Americana, Carter HQ was being
set up, with tables for Women, Hispanics, Blacks, Messages, Volunteers, Issues, Southeast – all
different Carter committees.
Rep. Andy Young of Atlanta, Carter’s main black supporter, entered and I shook his hand,
saying, “Welcome to New York”; like every good politician, he pretended to know me from
somewhere else.
Bella Abzug came in with State Senator Carol Bellamy after some Women’s Caucus. Bella
looked good, having lost some weight – but she’ll always be recognizable for her hats.
Then the bright TV lights came on as I stood near the door. Mrs. Carter – Rosalynn – came in
first. She’s a pretty slip of a woman. Then Jimmy came in, and the crowd was electrified. I was
just a couple of feet away from him, but Secret Service agents would hardly let you get close.
My first impression: his eyes were a beautiful blue, very cold and determined – and he seems a
lot shorter in person.
If Carter was short, Congressman Peter Rodino, who came to chat with him about the Vice
Presidency, is a really tiny man, terribly plain and sweet-looking. I chatted with Carter
supporters, some very nice Udall delegates from Iowa, and some members of the press – who
appear to outnumber delegates.
On my way out I saw anti-abortion presidential candidate Ellen McCormick and her supporters
marching down Eighth Avenue.
6 PM. Last night I went to the library again; I’ve been spending time there every day. When I
got home I wrote about seven letters to various book critics and reviewers. Perhaps I’m doing
more harm than good, but I feel it’s important for me to do something.
It’s been nearly two months since the book first appeared, but today was the first time I really
read it through, and I felt quite pleased. It’s the book I wanted to write – maybe not me at my
best, but I think it’s good enough.
All night I was obsessed with thoughts of getting my book publicized, and that kept me from
sleeping well. Dad startled me out of a dream at 8 AM; I had to get up for my interview at
Queensborough. Because of the gas shortage and inflation, it certainly isn’t my first choice as a
place to teach.
[436]
The ride, however, is pleasant, and the campus is in suburban Bayside, in a new neighborhood.
The buildings are from the late ‘60s and early ‘70s – not quite as nice as Kingsborough, but
much better than Brooklyn College.
I arrived 90 minutes early and walked around campus; then I sat down and read Hitler because
there seemed nothing else to do. My interview was not with the English Department, but with
the Department of Basic Educational Skills, which would be hiring me.
I was interviewed by a woman professor and Jerald Nudelman, who co-authored the Steps in
Composition text I used with the BC veterans’ class. Their questions were straight-forward and
predictable: What errors did I find the students making? How would I teach them to eliminate
fragments? Did I think anything could be accomplished in one semester? They don’t use the
CUNY placement exam as an exit test and their courses are graded Pass, Fail, or Repeat.
I think I impressed them. They know I’m looking for jobs at other CUNY schools, and of course
they won’t know about course availability until registration after Labor Day.
I filled out a long personnel form for them, and they’ll get in touch with me if they need me. It’s
really shitty, of course, always getting called at the last minute, never having job security – but I
take it all philosophically. The pay, after all, isn’t bad.
But in a way I’m glad I’m not teaching this summer. I needed a break. Yesterday I ran across
Bruce Charlton, who is teaching at BC now, and he says he needs to recharge his battery.
I’ve been very careful with money this week. Yesterday I spent less than five dollars and I sold
a book to Peter, so actually I came out ahead.
There was an ad in the Courier-Life papers for community editors; the new editor, Gary
Daniels, is looking for one for Flatlands. I thought I’d apply, but then I figured I’d call Ronna
and see if she wanted it. She needs the bylines more than I do – not that she had much
enthusiasm when I told her about it.
Ronna is not like Alice or me; she plods along so slowly. I guess I also called Ronna because I
wanted to show her I’m a nice, generous guy despite the fact that she treats me cavalierly.
It was hazy today and oppressively humid. I took a quick dip in the pool this afternoon, but
mostly I exercised, overate and read in the library.
Actually, I think it’s very healthy that I’m more concerned with selling this book than writing
the next one. As Judith Appelbaum and Nancy Evans point out in How to Get Happily Published
(my bible), some writers think it’s undignified to hustle for their books. But if you believe in
what you write, wanting it to get out to as many people as possible isn’t undignified.
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Richard Grayson
I feel very sleepy now, filled with tuna and bread and onions and carrots. I think I’ll take a
short snooze.
5 PM. So much seems to be going on. I couldn’t get to sleep until 5 AM last night, as my mind
was whirring away with feelings, thoughts, ideas.
I think I was angry with Avis because she didn’t stay the same; that’s what she expected of me
too, but neither of us could stop growing in our separate ways. It struck me, tossing and
turning in bed, that at 26, I have yet to learn to let go.
I’ve always had this awful need to preserve things as they were. That explains much of my life:
my writing, my living at home, my keeping in touch with everyone, being the editor of the
Class Notes. I couldn’t give up Shelli and till now I’ve been unable to give up Ronna.
In some respects I’ve been extremely fortunate. Only one person that I’ve loved – my great-
grandmother – has ever died. And I visit Bubbe Ita’s grave, her photograph is the one on my
desk, I write her, I track her family in Canada down . . . I’ve never really accepted her death
twenty years ago. I realize now that I’ve been half-expecting her to show up at the door one
day, looking the same as ever.
Perhaps Ronna merely wanted to preserve the memory of our relationship and not put it out of
focus with the two people we’ve become in the present. I must accept her desire to terminate all
contact with me, let her go, and let myself go. I want to remember the Ronna I loved, not some
stranger.
Which reminds me: I wonder how Avis and Scott are getting along together right about now.
I’m rather glad I’m not there. Though neither of them would consider me an intruder, I didn’t
want to take away from their reunion, however it goes. For once, I put other people over my
need to be an observer.
And I do have my own life. If, as Avis suggested, we are turning into our parents, is that so
terrible? My parents, Avis’s, Scott’s, Alice’s, Libby’s mother – they weren’t bad people. They
worked hard and tried to do the right thing; if they made mistakes and behaved badly, I like to
think they couldn’t help it.
During the late ‘60s we were adolescents and rightfully in rebellion. But now we’ve become
more tolerant. We want to change some things and we’re trying to do it: Scott and Mikey
through the criminal justice system, Teresa with her tenants’ association, Alan Karpoff teaching
[438]
retarded kids, even Elspeth working for the police department, who are not quite the fascist
pigs we called them – they do help, in many cases.
We couldn’t sit around LaGuardia Hall all our lives, dreaming and gossiping. I do respect Avis
for her choices, but we all can’t leave the country. My great-grandparents came to America
from Russia, where they had been persecuted, and they got a measure of freedom here.
There was discrimination, there were violations of their rights, some terrible things happened to
them; they didn’t always prosper. It’s hard to say this without sounding like Bob Hope or a
high school civics text, but I think I owe something to America, and to New York City in
particular.
I spoke to Mikey about it last night. He just quit after a week’s work as a Pinkerton guard at the
World Trade Center for a lousy $2.30 an hour, which is terribly demeaning for someone like
Mikey, a law student with a graduate degree in criminal justice, and a sign that the system is
not working. (There are many signs like that today.)
But when I talked to Mikey about the scorned 1970 idea of “working within the system,” he said
in effect that there’s no alternative. And he’s right. Enough preaching for a day.
Today I wrote some terrible stories (truly awful ones): got some rejections (one was devastating,
using adjectives like “flatulent” and “incomprehensible” to describe my writing); got a postcard
of Union Square in San Francisco from Laura (“RG – I’m having fun – LF”); had three cavities
filled, floated in the swimming pool; spoke to Vito and invited him to the party next week (Scott
had bumped into him yesterday). It all may not be me living up to my potential, but it’s the
best I can do on five hours’ sleep.
5 PM. Today I did nothing I should have.
I called up Josh yesterday afternoon and told him my E. L. Doctorow story; he thought it was
great, but Josh likes thumbing his nose at the Establishment. We went out to dinner together at
the Roll ‘n’ Roaster in Sheepshead Bay and afterwards we came back to my house.
It’s nice seeing Josh once in a while. We got out my boxing gloves, but Josh refused to take off
his glasses. I find it odd that someone who in the abstract digs violence so much can’t stand
playful aggression.
[439]
Richard Grayson
I would love to have a male friend I could confide in the way I confided in Shelli or Ronna.
And I would like to be physical with a guy. Weirdly, when I was punching Josh yesterday for a
minute I could imagine myself in a physical relationship even with him.
I wish I could see more of Elihu and talk to him, even if he’s so into the gay bar scene,
something I’m not sure I want to be a part of. Josh says Allan is working at a bar called The
Cockring. I don’t understand why a guy like Allan, with a master’s degree in urban planning,
wants to do that with his life.
Oh well, here comes the nonjudgmental disclaimer: Who am I to criticize anyone?
Josh and I seem to get along although there’s tension between us. He has such a sour view of
people and life in general.
Josh thinks it’s very weird that I don’t have a stereo and am not at all into music. I suppose it
shows something defective in my character, but I could probably go without hearing another
note of music for the rest of my life and never miss it.
Why did I never develop a taste for music, I wonder? It certainly wasn’t my upbringing;
everyone else in the family is a music lover. I guess I’m just totally tuned into words; the songs I
like, I like for their lyrics.
I awoke this morning to a cloudy, muggy day. The balance of the weekend is supposed to
remain gloomy. I didn’t write today; I didn’t call Dr. Tucker about teaching; I didn’t return calls
from Teresa or Mikey; I didn’t write George or Ed Hogan.
The IBM broke, but they fixed it – something electrical. The mail brought no acceptances and
no Epoch with my story in it, so I was about to go to see if it had come in at the Eighth Street
when Marc asked if I’d go with him to the World Trade Center, where he had to pick up a pair
of jeans at customs.
So we combined both errands and it went smoothly although I never did find Epoch. On the
way back home via the Manhattan Bridge and Flatbush Avenue, I tried the LIU library, but the
school is closed on Fridays in the summer.
Ronna is coming over this evening, and I hate to say it after all these years, but I don’t like to
put a “kinnahora” on the evening by thinking about it beforehand. Pure neurotic superstition, I
know, but that’s how I feel.
I’m still not content to let myself move along with the tide. Yesterday I lay on the air mattress
in the pool and every few minutes I got a twinge of panic to find myself just floating. No
wonder I never really learned to swim, although I want to learn badly and wish Libby was
around to teach me.
[440]
Yesterday I got six copies of riverrun at the BC Writing Center; the girl who gave them to me
looked at me funny and I felt embarrassed that I had revealed so many intimate details of my
life in “Go Not to Lethe.” But she did ask me to submit again next term.
I must be an exhibitionist, for I sent copies of the story to Elihu, Mrs. Ehrlich and Brad. I want
people to remember me. I’m afraid of being forgotten: my old terror of abandonment.
As I told Mrs. Ehrlich in my letter, I keep thinking that one day I will go back into therapy. I
feel it’s necessary for me if I’m to grow beyond a certain point.
I don’t need to search out the dark recesses of my past for some secret, because by now there
aren’t any. I need therapy focusing on everyday practical things – like why I’m embarrassed to
buy condoms.
7 PM. Today has been another unbearably hot and humid day. The sky was a sickly grey-
purple, so you couldn’t even get any sun. It was hard to breathe, and I stayed indoors most of
the day, venturing out only to have lunch at the Floridian and to drop off a copy of Hitler at
Ronna’s house (she wasn’t home).
I spent the day reading papers and magazines and writing letters about my book to people who
may or may not be able to help me – people like William Safire, who wrote about the
convertible top “up” or “down” question in his column today but didn’t credit me with
originating the idea in my previous letter to him.
I don’t know if my hustling is going to pay off, but it does keep me occupied, and besides, it’s a
hell of a lot of fun. I see it as a deliciously enjoyable game. It doesn’t matter so much whether I
win or lose; the important thing is that I try my best not to let any opportunity slip by and that I
keep having fun.
I send out stories to little magazines with the same enthusiasm. Getting acceptances was
delightful and getting rejections sometimes was discouraging, but I liked the game of it. Alice
would understand – she’s a real competitor – but most people I know would not.
At this point I have nothing to lose and everything to gain, so I answer every want ad, I write
letters to everyone, I promote my book with 80-proof chutzpah. A person like Ronna, who lets
opportunity slip through her fingers – she’s always saying she’s about to rewrite her résumé –
wouldn’t understand.
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Richard Grayson
Once I thought so many of my college friends were special: not only Ronna, but Leon, Slade,
Stacy, others. I thought they would all be famous or at least push themselves to be successful.
Yet most of them never even tried.
Alice is the exception. She’s a doer and will continue to push herself, as I will. I like these
people, the ones who push themselves, and I can understand why successful people and
celebrities tend to want to be with other successful people and celebrities.
Crad Kilodney, Peter Cherches, Wesley Strick – these are all people I admire for their self-
confidence and persistence. I admire it even more in Alice, because it’s harder to do if you’re
female.
There was a story about Richard Price in the Soho Weekly News in which he seemed amused by
the interviewer’s awe of him. From what I’ve seen of him in person and in the press, Price
seems like a guy with his head screwed on right. I admire him very much, both for his writing
and for the way he handles success.
Another young couple came to see the house today, and they appeared to be impressed. But
like yesterday’s potential buyers, they need to consult their parents and have them see the
house, which means more guided tours of Grayson Manor.
Hey, you know, the past week – a week in which nothing much happened – has been one of the
most pleasant of my life. I really am enjoying myself. In fact, I’ll bet that trying to achieve
success, this incessant struggling, is as satisfying – probably it’s more satisfying – than actually
making it.
Tonight, after two weeks at Camp David, President Carter tries to save his administration with
a very important speech on the energy crisis, the declining economy, and “the national malaise”
we are in.
Oh, I wish he could rouse us up out of distrust and apathy – I would like to believe in
something, to fight for something – but I think that given the country’s mood, it’s impossible.
8 PM. Somewhere there is a novel in all of this, if only it would show itself. It was 96°
yesterday and 98° today.
I haven’t gotten to sleep before 4 AM in nearly a week. My throat is scratchy, as though there’s
a film over it. My air conditioner keeps icing over. I am playing with skin cancer, with all kinds
of cancer.
[442]
Virginia Woolf thinks we are all part of a novel, and I suppose them’s my sentiments, too. Let
me write about other people for a while. I am sick to death of Richard Grayson.
I hate him by now, this smug, overambitious, moralizing neurotic whom I cannot quite make
come alive. He exists only on the surfaces of paper. Only I am real. But let’s forget about
Grayson for now. A literary exercise: Complete this diary entry without once using the word I.
Very well, we begin. (Uh, uh, that’s cheating.)
Avis was wearing a long skirt last night. To be cool, she said.
Teresa looked tired. The subway ride home from work had gotten to her.
Don, the live-in lover, fortyish vice president of the New York Times Corporation, having left
wife and four kids in suburbia, was wearing shorts. He looked the way he was supposed to
look: sexy in an avuncular backyard barbecue kind of way.
There were some small silences, nothing uncomfortable. The guests arrived too early. They
had smoked marijuana on the way to Manhattan – at Avis’s behest, of course. Before she enters
Teresa’s apartment, Avis says Teresa’s trouble is that “she never got into dope.”
Spaghetti and meat (vaguely tough and too chewy; one almost knew one should have rehearsed
the Heimlich maneuver) were served with, strangely, rye bread. And German white wine.
After dinner everyone retired to the air-conditioned bedroom to make plans for the party. It
was decided to serve bagels and white wine. “That should keep people up all night,” Don said,
and he informed Teresa that he’d be away that night, visiting his kids.
Teresa wanted gossip; there was none. Everyone discussed New York. Teresa didn’t like the
photos of the blackout looting going out to the nation. A car’s burglar alarm stayed on for
twenty minutes, hypnotizing everyone, and when it stopped, it seemed that all of West 85th
Street cheered.
At midnight it was thought best to call it an evening. Driving back on Flatbush Avenue, Avis
pointed out some evidence of looting. She was walked to her door – look out for Son of Sam –
and kissed on the cheek.
Back at home, the garbage pails had not been put out despite admonitions to younger brothers
and a note left as a reminder. A party was going on downstairs. Marc and Deanna slept in the
master bedroom again (they are in bed at this moment).
[443]
Richard Grayson
Today my unemployment check arrived, and it was cashed after half an hour on line at the
bank. Alice came over, bringing my “birthday” presents: a ream of Sphinx typing paper and
several envelopes for mailing out manuscripts.
She and Andreas are going to Paris in late summer, and last night he agreed that they should
take an apartment in the city so they can live together on weekends. Alice was so happy she
cried.
Bad News Department: Dolores has a perforated uterus and has to have a total hysterectomy.
She’s really upset, of course, and Alice says we should try to cheer her up. First Janice’s
mastectomy, now this: something’s wrong somewhere.
Alice’s brother leaves for Iceland this week, and she’s going to be spending time with him
before he goes.
Other news about other people: Avis reports that Wade and Angelica have broken up. It’s
probably temporary; Wayne is making $230 a week scrubbing bathrooms at St. John’s
University on the night shift.
Scott’s old girlfriend Sheila was hitchhiking with a friend in South Africa and they got into a
terrible accident. Her friend was killed and Sheila broke every bone below her waist. After she
testifies against the driver, she’s going to London to stay with her parents, and Scott will fly to
England after his bar exams to see her.
It turns out that Jonny’s friend at the synagogue is Mr. Denker, father of Milton, Melvin and
Mendy. I guessed it when Jonny described the man.
10 PM. Last evening our neighbor Jerry Bisogno came over with some old things he found at
his Uncle John’s house in Park Slope. Uncle John was a “second-hand man” and spent his life
acquiring old things: his house is full of antique clocks, potbellied stoves, old books, papers,
whatever.
Jerry brought over an old set of golf clubs and some remarkable books: a copy of the play
Shylock (a version of The Merchant of Venice) autographed by Sarah Bernardt; a navigator’s guide
from 1833; a poetry chapbook from 1918; and a collection of pocket-sized nickel books, all
classics of literature.
[444]
I’m fascinated by all that stuff, even by a 1950s girlie magazine which contained what now seem
like very tame shots of Jayne Mansfield.
I wrote a rambling conversational story last night: “What About Us Grils?” Then I slept heavily
and dreamed about TV, about that new invention that enables you to get an insert of one
channel while watching another channel. I also dreamed that a kind of instant Nielsen rating
told you just how many people were watching each channel and that the Republicans will pick
up thirty House seats this fall.
I didn’t want to get up till 10 AM. After breakfast, I drove down to LIU, where I ran into some
of my old students, which was nice. Somehow to be called “Mr. Grayson” and recognized as a
teacher helps my self-image.
Margaret said it looks as though all the courses will hold, so there’ll be a class in something for
me starting next Monday.
I couldn’t call Dr. Tucker until the evening, when I told him it would be impossible for me to
house-sit. He understood and was making other arrangements. He told me he’d call me on
Thursday about teaching.
I stopped off at Grand Army Plaza on my way home, combing issues of Seventeen for short
stories. The narrator in a Seventeen story must be a girl, bright and funny and a little unusual –
not Miss Popularity – and there can be no sex. I probably could write a story like that,
following some kind of formula.
Back at home, I was astonished to find yet another story of mine had come out: “The Life of
Katz” in Maelstrom Review (formerly Nausea). That makes four stories out in a week – a record –
and over seventy published stories overall. I guess I’ll probably have a hundred stories in print
by this time next year.
Last night I went through copies of Fiction Collective books and satisfied myself that no one
else had my publishing record at 27. So what am I so worried about? Most Fiction Collective
authors didn’t have their first books out until they were in their thirties.
I called Mikey and apologized for not calling before, and we had a nice chat. Doctorow’s
lawyer Paul Asofsky called; obviously my letter, mentioning his wife Maida, had reached him
at his law firm. It’s amazing how much trouble I can cause. I kept him “on hold” (I just put the
receiver down) for ten minutes and then hung up, saying, “I don’t talk to shyster lawyers.” I
bet I receive another letter.
Mikey said, in response to my question about a “hypothetical” case, that it’s fraud to use
someone else’s stationery and signature although it’s difficult to prove it. I hope E. L. Doctorow
[445]
Richard Grayson
doesn’t blackball me, if he does have the power to do that. More than likely in a year he’ll
forget my name.
I suppose I have to act “respectably” now that I’m getting more well-known. Boring, won’t it
be? Yet I really dislike the publicity-hound aspect of my natures as much as I sometimes
admire my guts.
8 PM. Aside from some heavy lifting, I did nothing but goof off today, and I felt I was entitled
to do so.
Last night I worked for over two hours and managed to come up with what I believe is a
passably good story, “Kirchbachstrasse 121, 2800 Bremen,” loosely based on Avis and Helmut.
The idea for the story has been in my head for a long while, and I got the idea for the form while
reading Clarence’s Reflex and Bone Structure.
Anyway, just to write two ten-page stories in a single day was gratification enough for me; it’s
more than I’ve ever accomplished before and makes me feel somewhat better.
All during the week I’d had the awful feeling I was completely drained of ideas and would
never write another story again. This shows me that slumps are natural and that creativity
occurs in spurts, not on a set time-schedule.
At midnight, after finishing typing up the story, I fell into a deep sleep and awakened early this
morning. In summer, early mornings are the best part of the day and I’ve been missing them.
I drove out to Rockaway and put my car in Riis Park, then walked to Neponsit and lay on my
towel at the beach there for some time. Then, restless, I walked all the way to Mikey’s block,
where I found him on the porch.
He was waiting for Larry and Stuie to come with Larry’s van so they could move his furniture
to Larry’s garage, where it will stay for two weeks until Mikey moves into the apartment he’s
taken on West 23rd Street between Seventh and Eighth Avenues across from the Chelsea Hotel.
Mikey’s mother is moving to her new place on Wednesday, and today Mikey took five carloads
of stuff across the street. Their apartment was a mess, and both Mikey and his mother seemed
exhausted and disgusted with the moving process.
It’s something I truly dread, and the logistics of our family moving out of this house after nearly
twenty years are mind-boggling and stomach-churning. Anyway, we did a lot of lifting and
[446]
groaning and complaining but we finally got Mikey’s stuff outside, loaded onto the van and
into Larry’s garage.
Back at Mikey’s house, while Larry was taking down the curtains – Larry is the ultimate
handyperson who can fix anything – Mike and Mandy came over, too late to help very much.
We did get some more things done, and Mike and Mandy and I went back to Larry’s, where he
was on the porch with friends.
Mike’s been working at Financial Aid at the college and this past week he took off to learn sign
language for the deaf at NYU. Mandy’s been offered a $200-a-week job at another insurance
agency, and she can’t turn down the money even though she likes her present office.
We sat around Larry’s house and we got ice cream and then I walked on the beach to join Stuie
and Anne and Mikey. Mikey looked very tired; because of the tuition business, he’s been
working very late at John Jay and that hasn’t made things easier.
I left at 3 PM and walked along the beach to Riis Park. Luckily the traffic was light coming back
from the beach at that hour, so I was able to get some more sun at the pool (and I went into the
water some, too). I’ve now revived my bronze look sufficiently.
Actually, I know I look really good; I’m finally becoming unselfconscious about my physique.
My body is fairly firm and I think I might even be attractive. I know I got a few stares when I
passed the gay section of Riis Park, though all the guys there turned me off; they look the same,
full of cotton candy and pipe-cleaners.
Alice came by today while I was away and left me a batch of Seventeen magazines (so I can look
at the fiction) and some review copies of books that came into the office.
4 PM. It’s an unbearable 102° now and the temperatures are breaking all records.
It was hot when I went to pick up Avis yesterday; her father was talking to her outside. She
told me that he had just come from his monthly chemotherapy treatment. He’d taken along his
father-in-law, and while they were waiting for the results of his blood test, Avis’s grandfather
went to look up some of his old black customers downtown where he used to sell appliances on
time.
[447]
Richard Grayson
The 83-year-old man climbed up four flights of stairs to look up a woman known as Mother
Brown. She recognized him immediately and got so excited you’d have thought she was going
to have a heart attack.
Then she started crying: “Oh, Mr. Glass! I’m so old!”
“How old are you?” Avis’s grandfather asked.
“Eighty.”
“Why, you’re younger than I am!” he said. “Not so old.”
Avis’s grandfather keeps asking her the price of things in Bremen; he’s pretty sharp for his age.
We were at the International Arrivals Building at Kennedy an hour early, so we went to the
cocktail lounge, where Avis had two beers and I had a ginger ale. We talked about this and
that, lovely little things; the time passed quickly, and by 7 PM, the Laker flight had arrived and
we waited downstairs at Customs.
One could write so much about the International Arrivals Building, but I’ll just give one
anecdote: an elderly lady decried the effusiveness of disembarking Alitalia passengers who
kissed and hugged and screamed. “You’ll find the English coming off the Laker flight far
better-behaved,” she said.
Marc was waiting for Mom and Dad at the other end of the Customs exit; their flight also
arrived at 7 PM, but they came out first and so I was there to see them.
My parents looked tanned, young, refreshed: the way I’ve seen them come out of Customs a
dozen times over the years. I kissed them, they introduced me to some friends, and I said I’d
see them later and went back to Avis, who was starting to get worried.
But Helmut soon emerged from the whitened-over doors and Avis gave him a restrained kiss.
He was wearing a leather jacket and didn’t want to take it off despite our warnings about the
heat.
I hadn’t expected Helmut to look so well. His hair wasn’t very long, and it’s such a nice blond
color; he’s tall – is he ever! – and thin and very handsome. He remembered my car and we
began driving towards Brooklyn. Helmut spoke English slowly, with a terrifically nice German
accent I wish I could put down on paper as dialogue.
He’s very bright, too; we were driving up Flatbush Avenue (he said, “It’s always easiest for you
to go that way, eh?”) and Avis was asking me about the new telephone checking accounts and
how they worked. I told her you used a code word, and Helmut said, “A commercial mantra?”
– and at that moment I knew why Avis loved him.
[448]
We got to the Judsons’ house, where Libby and her mother were watching TV in the living
room, and Wade and Angelica – reunited, if only temporarily – came downstairs. Everybody
was glad to see us.
Libby told me she was grateful to have the chance to ride home with Josh on Sunday because in
college she’d had a crush on him.
Libby also told me about the problem of her friend (I think it’s Tommy, whom I met at the
hospital and really liked) who can’t decide if he’s straight or gay; he tried going to a gay bar and
it depressed him, so he’s going to try to put homosexuality out of his mind. (Good luck with
that!)
We went outside on the stoop, Helmut, Avis, Libby and I, and we ate ice cream and smoked
some of the grass Avis bought from Marc yesterday. Helmut told us about his adventures in
London with their friends Clive and Wladimir; he’s a great storyteller.
We talked about Vonnegut and the SPD and nuclear energy and other things; Helmut asked me
what “the trends” were here. We went back inside, and looking at American TV through
Helmut’s eyes, I see how ridiculous it all must seem, especially the commercials and Eyewitness
News.
With Wade at work by then, Helmut and I had to bring the foldaway bed downstairs. As it got
late, I took Angelica and Avis home and got back at midnight myself.
5 PM. I’m writing this now because I have just finished a beautiful novel, Andrew Holleran’s
Dancer from the Dance, a kind of Great Gatsby about the ‘70s gay disco circuit, and also because I
would rather not watch NewsCenter 4 and hear about Carter’s Cabinet firings and the elevation
of the Georgia Mafia; Carter killed any advantage Sunday night’s speech gave him.
But mostly I’m writing this now because this is one of those rare moments when life seems
more like a novel than life. July 20, 1969, was ten years ago, a Sunday that was humid and
when I spent most of the day in the same room I am now, the same air-conditioner humming,
the same view of brick houses and London plane tress from my window.
That night there were those fuzzy, static pictures of the moon and the clumsy astronauts and
Walter Cronkite and Nixon on the phone and someone had diarrhea and Aunt Sydelle called,
wondering if she had woke us up.
[449]
Richard Grayson
The next day I felt awful, it was dark, Mom drove me to Kings Highway, where I bought the
Times with its headline MEN WALK ON MOON (it is still in my closet somewhere) and the East
Village Other with that ad from Brad which I answered: “Hello, I am an 18-year-old neurotic. . .”
That day I made Mom drive me to Mary Queen of Heaven Church and I dipped my fingers into
the holy water, crossed myself, knelt down and prayed. I have to close my eyes just to think
about it.
Where am I a decade letter – later – with ten of these National Time-Line Diaries (#55-148) in my
drawer? Don’t get melodramatic, baby, just answer the question.
I mailed out my xeroxed pleas to bookstore owners this morning. I had breakfast at Jentz with
Josh and remembered why I never eat pancakes anymore.
Wesley called to say he and Marla were going to his mother’s at Bridgehampton this weekend,
could they could here next week, and would I go to his show an East Side bar called Eric’s on
August 2nd and try to get Alice to review it for Our Town? Yes, yes, I said, Yes.
I got sunburned.
Crad wrote me a beautiful letter about how horrible it is to sell his book on the streets of
Toronto and face a public of robots, idiots, madmen and machines.
Stacy surprised me with a long letter, a friendly one (she said it was nice to see a familiar face at
the Gay Pride March), and she said she was happy for me and that I should get in touch with
her at her job at Brooklyn College.
I spent two and a half hours reading newspapers and magazines in the public library.
Taplinger sent me the second half of my advance.
Michelle Herman, a fiction writer, and a friend of Harvey’s, called me after I wrote her to solicit
from fiction. She’s 24, from Brooklyn (Madison and BC), edits freelance, has Maxine Groffsky
for an agent (she’s sending around an anthology of father/
daughter stories and is trying to get Michelle to write a novel). It turns out that we’ve been
living the same life, almost.
Rick Peabody thanks me for imagined kindnesses and tells me to call him at Averill Harriman’s
house but to ask for Gretchen since she (the Harrimans’ cook) is keeping him there
surreptitiously. My father told me about a man he jogs with at Marine Park who is planning,
God knows why, to run from Brooklyn to Detroit next year.
I got a call from Marie Stein to ask my advice on something I know nothing about: what price
she should ask for a technical editing job. The Secretary of State of New Hampshire sent me a
[450]
package of petitions so I can get on the ballot in next year’s Vice-Presidential preference
primary.
Teresa’s going to Fire Island tomorrow and giving a bridal shower for Jan on Sunday; she’s
organizing Jan’s two weddings: one in Texas August 4th and a big one for her family back in
Ohio in October.
I ate, went to the bathroom, squeezed a pimple under my scalp, read until my eyes ached,
exercised, stared too long at certain strangers I found attractive, dreamed about some Indian
summer picnic, had doubts about the present course I am pursuing. Tomorrow I see my
psychologist and get interviewed about my candidacy for Vice President of the United States.
Punch line: Has anything changed in the past decade?
11 PM. Life is going so quickly, but at least I’m enjoying myself.
Last night I immersed myself in all the material I’ve received from the Federal Election
Commission, so as to prepare for the interview. I thought about the inequities of the present
electoral process, the press and media’s attention to trivia, the long grueling obstacle course of
primaries, the low voter turnout, and I decided I wanted to make some Serious Point about the
system.
At 9 AM, I got a call from Mary Ann Muccio; her allergies were very bad and she asked me to
come at 3 PM instead. Fine. I got back into bed for another two hours, as I had slept much too
lightly all night because I knew I’d have to get up early.
At 11 AM the mail arrived: a manuscript from Carolyn Bennett and three letters. Epoch’s fiction
editor asked me to submit a story for their fall issue; I did. The editor of Connecticut Fireside,
Albert Callan, said he’s going to do a review of Hitler (I had written him about it).
And I finally got a letter from George. I had thought he was very angry at me, but the only
thing that he was mad about was that X: A Journal of the Arts didn’t get credit for the jacket copy
on Hitler. I’ll explain how that was done after the copyright page had already been set. He
liked my book; oddly, the Family and Women sections appealed to him most.
George is now working on the morning Harrisburg paper, the Patriot, from 4 PM till 1:30 AM,
with only Tuesdays and Wednesdays off. He tries to sleep to noon and ends up “walking
around dazedly in my underwear and watching the soaps.”
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Richard Grayson
Seeing his byline is gratifying, and the Patriot is more news and less feature-y than the afternoon
Evening News, on which he had been working:
“About the paper: No one knows this but a few people at the plant, and I’d appreciate if you
didn’t tell Ronna about this. . . I’ll be a staff writer for no more than two years, then I’ll move on
to some other part of the paper, business, circulation, then into a management position. I’m
being ‘groomed’ for publisher, yes, crazy as that sounds. . .
“New York is already aware of my grooming and in favor of it. I think I’d been trying to ignore
it, in case it doesn’t work out.” George sent along an article he wrote on small presses in which
I was mentioned.
I had a good session with Dr. Pasquale; he’s beginning to know me well. We like each other,
and he’s bright enough to keep up with me. We talked about how success is in large point
revenge, and how I’m afraid people will find out I’m an angry, hostile person, not Mr. Nice
Guy. Intellectually, I’m aware that there’s little basis for that fear in reality, but I’m not quite
sure of it emotionally.
Ms. Muccio came over at 3 PM. I gave her Perrier water and we sat in the kitchen and she
interviewed me for half an hour. She took lots of notes, and I tried to sound intelligent. She
took a photo of me, I gave her some xeroxed documents, and she said she’d call me tomorrow if
there are any loose ends.
It was a pleasant experience, being interviewed; I think I came off well, but we’ll have to wait
for the article.
I visited Grandma Ethel and Grandpa Herb tonight. They’ve read the book and are a little
embarrassed over the portraits of the grandparents in it. Grandma Ethel thinks they are going
to arrest her because I revealed she picks off price labels until she gets to the lowest price. After
reading the book, they’re also very worried I will starve to death.
Dad’s 53rd birthday was today and he, Mom and Jonny went out to a Charles Aznavour concert
tonight. Oddly, Jonny and I ended up separately buying Dad the same exact card.
8 PM. I feel worn out. I’ve been working pretty hard even though I’m enjoying myself.
Sometimes I wonder whether my obsession with achievement is counterproductive. I push
myself into doing things immediately; I hate my own discipline, as hard as a Marine sergeant’s
at boot camp.
[452]
But without similar obsessions, would Jimmy Carter have been nominated for President a week
ago? Would the athletes be winning their gold medals at the Montreal Olympics? Would we
be seeing those awesome pictures of the Martian landscape, taken by cameras on Viking? The
answer is implicit in my self-serving questions.
Last evening we managed to make Dad’s 50th birthday a good one. All five of us – including a
reluctant Jonathan – went out for a sumptuous dinner at O’Reilley’s Steak House on Church
Avenue.
The meal was fantastic, from the delicious chopped steak with fried onions to the vegetables
and salad and rosé wine and creme de menthe. We ate with real gusto. I no longer worry about
indigestion and so I dug in as heartily as anyone. You know with a little more money and class,
I might have become a real gourmet (or is it gourmand? I never know).
Later in the evening we had a cake and balloons and presents, with party favors and a lot of
laughter. The strain of the previous evening was not in evidence, and I think Dad enjoyed
himself; he knows age is just a state of mind.
But he still has no idea where all the months and years went; sometimes he thinks of events in
his childhood happening only last week or even the day before yesterday.
I went into the CCLM office at 11 AM this morning, parking my car when it became legal (the
alternate side rules are 8-11 AM) on Bank Street and Greenwich Avenue and walking up to
Eighth Avenue and 14th Street.
I read through over thirty magazines for the contest today, making my way through the
remainder of the undergraduate publications. After scouring these things, my main impression
as a preliminary judge is of the enormous talent, energy and wit alive among college students.
Some of their literary achievements stunned me with their brilliance, and the “poorer”
magazines are generally full of competent work; there are very few dreadful entries. I feel at a
loss as a writer to try to compete with creative writers and artists I read; my own work is not
that much better than this stuff and in some cases, it’s obviously inferior to these stories and
poems.
The trouble is that I’m afraid many of these resourceful, talented kids will find no outlet in the
“real” world, unless they join the ranks of the small press/little magazine people.
Coming home at 4 PM, I typed up a short story, “Triptych,” which I astounded myself by
writing last night when I was unable to sleep. A completely instinctive story, I feel it succeeds
on its own terms.
[453]
Richard Grayson
I got a rejection from Esquire’s quirky Gordon Lish. He said I should “low down – relax – take it
easy.” That’s what I mean by trying too hard. Perhaps a writer can write too much.
I’ve been keeping in touch with Alice, who still can’t seem to get Jim out of her mind.
Obviously he affected her a great deal. Last night Alice was rereading Howie’s old love letters
to cheer herself up; luckily, her job is a wonderful tonic for her.
Teresa wrote me from California. She was in New York in June, but her father and
grandmother were in the hospital and she went back to Palo Alto soon after they got better.
She’s on unemployment now and feels a little out of it and is thinking of going back to school.
I wrote Peggy Humphreys in New Mexico and sent her copies of my published stories.
8 PM. Life is so short. (Why not begin with a cliché?) And I don’t understand it and there are
tears in my eyes now and I’m not sure I have been a very good person, but who knows? When I
look over the past weekend, I feel happy and sad at the same time.
This afternoon and in the terribly obsessive heat and humidity, Ronna and I slept in my air-
conditioned room, on this bed I am lying on now. I held her and it was perfect; just looking up,
with thoughts and colors floating through my mind, I wondered why it couldn’t be like that
forever.
My whole life, I see now, has been an attempt to turn those moments into forever. It’s an
impossible job, yet I want to go on trying, having fun, writing another nine years of journal
entries, living.
So I’m not afraid of teaching tomorrow night or of moving to Albany or of doing many things,
because I am approaching a level of acceptance of myself and of other people.
Not everyone will like me; Michael Largo of New Earth Books thinks I’m a perfect bastard, and
I can understand and sympathize with his point of view. I was unfair to him, but I just couldn’t
be both fair to him and fair to myself, and I had to pick myself in the end.
Yesterday, Saturday, I woke up feeling energetic – until I went out in the oppressive air. (Why
did I write obsessive a few lines back?) It was not a day to go to the beach.
I did drop by Ronna’s house to bother her for a while. I told her about Albany, and she was
pleased for me. She said Susan told her I could drop by for dessert, but she didn’t have enough
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food to go around to serve me dinner. I told Ronna that maybe I would, so that she wouldn’t
have to take the subway home.
I came home and went in the pool with my parents and Marc and Deanna and Deanna’s brother
Edward, who is 16 and weighs only 80 pounds, and whom Dad was attempting to teach to
swim (successfully, it turned out).
I surprised myself by having fun, feeling very energized by the water and the splashing and the
fun. Deanna’s parents stopped by, and Mom and Dad got to meet them for the first time.
At 5 PM Teresa called from Mt. Sinai Hospital. She had been admitted in the morning. All
week Teresa had these incredible abdominal pains and a fever; on Saturday they took her to the
doctor who found Teresa’s white blood count three times normal. He suspected appendicitis,
though Teresa wasn’t nauseated, and put her in the hospital.
They did tests and gave her ampicillin; she was taken off food and put on IV so she’d be empty
in case they had to operate. I told Teresa I’d come over that night, and so I called Ronna and
told her that I could drop her off at Susan’s on my way uptown. (I just found one of Ronna’s
long brown hairs on my bed and I have wound it around my finger.)
Teresa looked very good when I saw her; her parents had just left, and Lance from next door
was with her, as he had been all afternoon. I showed Teresa my Page Six article and joked with
Lance that he could have my tan too (he’d envied it) if he didn’t spend all day sleeping and all
night sleeping around.
I massaged Teresa’s neck and tried to keep her mind off hunger and her pains. Lance and I
always fun when we see each other; he likes me and I’ve always had a crush on him.
When the nurse came in to take Teresa’s temperature and blood pressure and do other stuff,
Lance and I went up to the solarium and leaned against the edge, looking down at the
unexpected green lush beauty of Central Park.
I discussed my anxiety attacks, knowing that Teresa has had them too, making me worried
about her being in a hospital.
When we got back to her room, I lay in Teresa’s hospital bed and tried to feel how it would be
to be in one as a patient; Teresa and Lance sat in chairs, laughing. Lance swiped a hospital
gown and put it in his satchel for me; I have it now.
We stayed till 10 PM, two hours after visiting hours ended, and Teresa and her portable IV
machine walked us to the elevators. Lance hadn’t eaten all day, so we went to the Burger King
on Broadway and 83rd. Lance’s very handsome, but if I slept with him I’d be only one of a
hundred or more.
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And I can’t tell if he lies a lot. He said his album comes out in August and he’s now in rehearsal
for an NBC TV movie, What’s a Pretty Young Thing Like You..., directed by David Lean; Lance
said he stars as a boy destined to be murdered by a pickup in a Christopher Street bar (“Sort of
a Looking for Mr. Gaybar,” he said). Lance claims he doesn’t like show business and says he’s
going to give it up. Huh?
I just left him saying, “Find something you want to do and then do it.” (Question: Why don’t
straight people have proclivities?)
I drove down to the East Side and at 33rd Street, I ran Susan’s bell. They had just finished dinner
and I walked in on a strange scene. Apparently Joe, who had been John’s lover, had just
stormed out after taking offense to a remark John had made.
They thought when the bell rang, it was Joe coming back. I didn’t quite understand it all, and
Joe finally came back, but before that I got to eat dessert with the others. It was nice to see Evan
again after years; he remembered that we first met on our first day of Brooklyn College on the
Flatbush Avenue bus at Avenue N.
Ronna was quiet, and when we finally left, thanking Susan and saying goodbye to everyone, we
had a pleasant ride home down Flatbush Avenue. She wanted to come back to my house even
though it was late, and we went upstairs and of course we’re still pretty attracted to each other
and we ended up making love, which was slow and sweet and beautiful.
There isn’t really a future for our relationship, but it doesn’t seem to matter to either of us now.
Ronna and I still care a lot about each other.
I didn’t take her home until 3:30 AM, which is why I’ve been utterly useless all day, waking up
past noon and then doing very little that was productive. But last night was really nice.
2 PM. Last night’s party left me feeling a little down. Oh, I suppose it was a success in that
people seemed to be having a good time. All of my good friends seemed to be present.
But here was no need, finally, for me to drive anyone home, and driving back to Brooklyn alone
at 2 AM made me feel out of it and useless.
Why couldn’t I feel at home in the presence of my friends? And if I couldn’t feel at home there,
will I ever be able to feel at home anywhere?
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When Lance, one of Teresa’s gay neighbors, found out I lived with my parents, he looked
astonished, in the manner of one would expect from someone hearing a confession of murder.
“Why?”
“Because I’m peculiar,” I snapped, and he nodded his head in agreement.
Then Don came over to me with a bottle of beer, pinching my paunch and announcing that he
and I were both “fatties,” unlike Helmut, who could put away kegs of beer without putting on a
gram.
Mikey mentioned that he’d been with Mike and Mandy the night before and that they were
preparing for their wedding, which he will attend. Even though I’ll be at Bread Loaf then, I still
feel bad I wasn’t invited. (Of course, I didn’t invite them to last night’s party, either.)
Do people wonder about my living at home, about my dubious sexuality, about whether I’m
capable of love? Well, let me dwell on some of the nicer aspects of the evening:
I picked up Avis and Helmut at 6 PM; they were having coffee with Libby’s mother. We drove
up to Teresa’s, stopping on the way to buy Beck’s Beer, brewed in Bremen.
Helmut worked in the brewery once, and later in the evening he would be drinking out of a
bottle and musing that perhaps he’d once seen that very bottle pass by him on the assembly line
in Germany.
With Teresa, we three got stoned before the others arrived, and I got giggly, which made my
stomach feel better. Teresa’s neighbors were pretty nice, and it was good to have Alice and
June there; I hope they enjoyed themselves. They brought a watermelon.
Elspeth and Elihu came, and Mikey. Libby arrived later; David Whitman was there; and even
Mason showed up, a pleasant surprise. Helmut charmed everyone, I’m sure. If I were capable
of being jealous of him, I would be, but he is too nice.
We decided that he’s going to win the Nobel Prize in Biology the same year I win it in Literature
and we’re going to wear tuxedos, top hats and canes and shock the Swedish Academy by
singing and dancing to “There’s No Business Like Show Business.”
Alice spoke to him for a long time, about her visits to Germany and his previous trips to
America; he told Alice how he used to wiggle his ass and let his long blond hair fly in the breeze
so men would stop and give him lifts; a tattooed sailor in New Orleans offered to give him
money to live on for a year.
Teresa was an excellent hostess, and the bagels went over well. When Don arrived, I noticed
Elspeth say, through clenched teeth, to Elihu: “It reminds me of Network” – meaning Faye
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Dunaway’s affair with the older, married William Holden, whom Don, oddly enough, does
resemble.
Mason said he’s enjoying working at the camp for the blind and deaf; Libby was surprised that
Tommy had taken her to see Judy Collins as their date tonight; Mikey said he’s going to give up
job-hunting for the summer if he doesn’t find something soon.
June told us of having lunch with Laura, an editor of a trade publication. She confirmed my
suspicion that Laura turned a bit strange after graduation. Vito didn’t show up; I was sorry
about that.
At about 10 PM Teresa and I looked at each other and expressed surprise that the party was
going so well. People didn’t start leaving until 12:30 AM, and I was among the last to leave.
Nobody needed a lift (Mason, with a car, and Helmut and Avis and of course Libby were all
staying with the Judsons in the Slope; Alice got a ride back to Brooklyn with Elspeth and Elihu),
and although everyone probably felt I was glad not to have to chauffeur people around for a
change, it only made me feel superfluous.
I took photos of everyone (did I need proof I have friends?) and lent Teresa my camera so she
and Don could use it on their vacation trip to Canada.
Grandpa Nat is not responding. Now they think he had a stroke as well as a heart attack.
8 PM. “Today is always the present; it is sometimes the future; it is very often the past.” That’s
the opening sentence of a story. I don’t have the story to go with it yet. I feel somewhat guilty
about goofing off this weekend and not doing any writing. I have ideas; however, ideas not
carried out remain only in one’s head.
Right now I’m more interested in a couple of things. One is “A Conventional Life,” my
impressions of the Democratic conventions of 1968, 1972 and 1976, weaving my personal
journey with the political climate.
I’m afraid most of my writing is terribly self-indulgent. But if I can make my particular
situation part of a larger whole, maybe this piece won’t be so narcissistic.
I have a title for another story: “The Joe Colletti Fan Club, Joe Colletti, President” – but no story.
And something else I’d like to do would be a kind of family journal, taking in the events of the
lives of my parents, grandparents and great-grandparents – but I don’t yet have a form in which
to place the raw material.
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I’ve also been thinking of using the Jewish legend of the Lamed-Vov, the 36 saints who live in
secret, always there to protect the Jewish people. I have a sense of myself writing in a
distinctively Jewish-American tradition.
Last evening I went to have dinner at the counter of the Ram’s Horn, as I had dinner the night
before at the Charcoal Chef. I love eating dinner alone at the counter of diners; it gives me a
feeling of independence, a chance to think.
Then I went over to visit Grandpa Herb; Grandma Ethel was out playing cards, so the two of us
sat on the terrace for hours, watching the beach and watching day turn into night, as Grandpa
Herb told me tales of the past.
I never tire of his stories, and there always seem to be new ones: about his Brownsville
childhood, about his Army years in Manila, about his father and mother, who have nearly
become mythical figures to me.
I’d always known that Grandma Ethel became very ill after Marty was born, hemorrhaging
after the Caesarean delivery. Her mind became unbalanced, Grandpa Herb said, and one day
the doctor called him to the hospital.
Grandpa Herb stood at the bus stop outside the psycho ward of Kings County Hospital and had
a funny feeling, a premonition he’d be coming back there.
When he met the doctor, the man told Grandpa that Grandma Ethel had attempted to strangle
him while he was examining her. She’d grabbed his necktie and the doctor was choking;
Grandma’s grip was so strong that a nurse had to cut the necktie with scissors.
The doctor advised Grandpa to put Grandma in the psycho ward at Kings County, that she was
too violent to be anywhere else. They took her there in a strait jacket.
For weeks she stayed there, and whenever Grandpa came, she begged him to take her out of the
“crazy house,” where terrible things occurred.
At this time Bubbe Ita was taking care of the infant Marty, and Grandpa’s father advised him to
“break up” his house and move in with them, letting Grandma come to stay.
Grandpa slept with Grandma with a cord tied around each other’s legs, so he could tell if she
moved during the night. She never did anything violent again, “but she had a strange, wild
look in her eyes” and Mom was terrified of her. (This trauma might go a long way in
explaining Mom’s neuroses.)
Grandma would only look at baby Marty from a distance, but gradually she began to take an
interest in things.
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Richard Grayson
She started to help Bubbe (Grandpa said that his mother was the person in the world whom
Grandma loved the most), and finally, one day, she looked out the window and saw that the
hired nurse had Marty outside under-dressed, and she went out to take care of him. From then
on, she accepted him.
A very strange story. I can’t picture saintly Grandma Ethel being violently insane. Grandpa
Herb claims it was from lack of blood, the hemorrhaging at the Caesarean.
Today I sat in the sun, read, and got numerous rejections and sent out the rejected stories again.
7 PM. Alice came over late yesterday; Andreas is on another trip to Europe, so she had the
evening free. Jim never responded to her letter, not even to acknowledge it, so Alice is gamely
trying to put him behind her.
She seems totally happy with her job at Seventeen. Alice and her boss, Annette Grant, whom she
says is “a living doll,” went to see Saturday Night Live together and they had a good time.
Last evening Alice and I decided to see a trashy movie and we went to Georgetowne to see
Lifeguard, which was only good for looking at bodies and laughing at the stilted, predictable
dialogue.
I went to bed at 10 PM so I could arrive early and get to the bank; I’m badly in need of the $150
check from CCLM that should forestall compete bankruptcy for a while. After that, I went to
BC, to get the $6 check from Felicia Weinberg that I needed to have Junction copyrighted.
I also xeroxed copies of the Time magazine coverage of the ’68 and ’72 Democratic conventions,
to refresh my memory for “A Conventional Life.” I’ve got to be careful not to load it down with
news items; I want it to be my impressions (which is why I don’t intend to read the journalism
of Mailer or anyone like him).
This morning about fifteen phone calls arrived for Marc, from the sleaziest, rudest, stoned-
sounding people. I have a feeling Marc is heavily into some kind of illegal activity, most
probably selling drugs.
I just hope he sticks to dealing in the soft stuff. The characters he’s associating with are like the
scum of the earth; they’re so coarse and repulsive. Grandpa Herb and Grandma Ethel were
over today, and Grandpa Herb said he hopes Marc isn’t making a big mistake.
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Marc has always had this idea that you can get something for nothing; he believes in making a
fast buck without hard work, and that can only lead to trouble. I almost feel like referring to
Marc as my “ne’er-do-well brother.” Mom and Dad don’t seem overly concerned.
Marc and his friends gamble every night, playing cards until late; most of them are on
unemployment and are uneducated. Some, like Alan, Steven and Joey are pretty nice guys,
though.
But it’s none of my business anyway. I went to CCLM this afternoon and handed in my final
report to Jane. She took me in to meet Eleanor Shakin, the executive director, and we discussed
various ideas to make the college literary magazine contest more meaningful.
Eleanor left us to take a call from CCLM chairman Ron Sukenick, who later asked to speak with
me. On the phone, I told Ron that the Fiction Collective office move was up in the air and
discussed the state of various circulating manuscripts and the reviews Jon’s Babble has received.
Ron seemed concerned that George Chambers may not want his novel published with us after
all, because of the cost. Evidently Ron and George are friends. (I wonder if that came about
before or after Ron reviewed George’s Bonnyclabber so favorably in the Times Book Review.)
Julie and Jane told me to drop by the CCLM office any time to browse around in their library
with its hundreds of magazines.
I received so many form rejection notices today it was very disheartening. Tonight at dinner
Dad told me he may need me to help him clear out the office this week; he brought home a lot
of stationery for me.
Dad sarcastically said he went to see his “brother” tonight; Lennie says he thinks of Dad as his
brother. When he got home Dad said that Lennie introduced him to his latest “protégé,” whom
he’s taking to The Raleigh next week.
Lennie is a “mentor” to all these cute young kids; except for Mom and Dad and maybe George
Gilbert and Totie Fields, he has no friends his own age. I guess he can afford to buy the love or
whatever of handsome undereducated young men.
I’ve wanted to write a story about Lennie for years, but I don’t because it would upset Mom and
Dad.
It’s 10 PM and I think I know where my adult is.
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Richard Grayson
I’ve been coping better than I expected to. The first week of summer school is over and there
are only five more weeks to go. I was a good teacher tonight and last night, and my students
responded as well as I could expect five adults who’ve worked a long hot, humid day in their
jobs to, and I’m not nervous anymore.
Yesterday I decided to drive to LIU along the Belt Parkway instead of down Flatbush Avenue
so I could get the shore breeze. My heart leapt into my head when a police car began chasing
me with its siren going – but it was after some guy on a motorcycle.
That got my adrenalin going, and in a funny way it released my all my anxieties about teaching.
I parked on Montague Street and had dinner at Picadeli; coming out of the restaurant, I saw
Elihu.
He almost didn’t recognize me. “You look different,” Elihu said. I know he meant I looked
better – and I do: I don’t think I’ve ever looked better in my life.
We had a nice long talk. Elihu teaches until 5:30 PM on Mondays to Wednesdays so I may have
someone to meet before class.
Last night’s class on Bartleby went well, as I said, and tonight’s discussion was even better.
Sometimes I surprise myself by saying smart things. Rereading Notes from Underground, I now
come to it with a writer’s perspective and I pick up technical things in the narration.
Gosh, I would love to reread all of Dostoevsky again, just as I did in Prof. Roberts’ class five
years ago. Now I get ideas and questions for my own work; for example, is honesty – no matter
how self-lacerating – enough anymore? I think not.
Oh, it makes me want to go back to school as a student again. I want to learn so much more. I
have a tremendous appetite for learning.
I’ve been sleeping well and my bowels are back to normal. I even went swimming for an hour
this afternoon just before leaving, and because it was hot, I drove to school shirtless. I’m not
afraid to be myself anymore just because I’m in the role of teacher to older adults.
Yes, I am happy. Now that I am aware of my apprehensions about moving to Albany, I can
work on them; maybe I’ll even take a few therapy sessions in the fall.
I haven’t been writing, but that will come in time – and after all, I did write a 15-pager, a good
one, last Friday.
I feel more comfortable with the idea of living in Albany. Somehow, when my bus to and from
Vermont stopped there last August, I felt I’d lived in Albany before. Or maybe it was that I
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knew I would be living there in the future. Anyhow, I felt comfortable immediately and that’s a
rare feeling for an agoraphobic like me.
Arlyne and Marty were upset because Grandma Ethel so passively accepted her doctor’s
diagnosis of skin cancer, so they got a dermatologist at the same hospital to look at Grandma
Ethel’s chart.
On it, he found three possible diagnoses: allergy to medication, psoriasis, and predisposition to
malignancy.
Grandma Ethel had heard the word cancer and got frightened and neither she nor Grandpa
Herb questioned the doctors. They view physicians (and lawyers and government officials) as
gods, not to be challenged. Arlyne said they shouldn’t see doctors alone if that’s how they are.
I believe, like Wayne Dyer, that doctors must be challenged. I certainly wouldn’t take a
prescription or shot without questioning the doctor pretty thoroughly. Jonny believes that too –
as he proved with that dermatologist, Dr. Frank.
Jerry Borenstein sent me Irwin Shaw’s address in case I want to write him (I may) and said,
“You were marvelous at the alumni meeting.” I was. I am competent, and it’s nice to know
other people think so, too.
George writes that the New York Post article “amazed” him; he also said that he never saw the
Library Journal review of X (it was “recommended”).
Well, now I feel that I have a vacation coming up: three days without teaching. This summer
term teaching The Short Novel may work out after all.
5 PM. Prospective buyers have been coming to see the house all day. The 4 PM couple just left,
and others are scheduled for 5 PM, 6 PM and 7 PM. I bet Mom and Dad will have little trouble
selling the house, though they probably should have asked for more in the ad because everyone
likes to bargain.
Last night’s dinner with Harvey at Camperdown Elm was pleasant if not spectacularly
interesting. Harvey plans to leave Park Slope for Santa Barbara in early September; he’ll stay
with his friend Dick, and together they hope to write a screenplay. It seems like a good move
for Harvey, who’s in a rut here in New York.
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Richard Grayson
I slept wonderfully, having unusually pleasant dreams, including one about a lovable and
precocious child. This morning several letters arrived in response to the dozens I’ve been
mailing out.
The best news came from Michael Alan Fox, Adult Trade Director of Walden Books. Harry
Hoffman, the president of the company, told him to write to me after he got my letter.
Michael said they’re sorry they didn’t previously take note of Hitler and have now ordered
copies of them, which they’ll place in their “large urban bookstores which seem to do well with
experimental fiction.”
So going to the top paid off, at least in one case.
Felicia Eth responded to my letter rather coolly, saying she’d try to sell paperback rights but
“those bugaboos about short story collections are truer than you know.” She’s an asshole who
rejected both of Wesley’s novels; she sent him a carbon copy of my letter.
Lillian Friedman, who does the column for Arno Press’s monthly Books of the Times said that my
title was offensive and my cover was horrible: “After years of buying books for Brentano’s, I
should know” blah blah blah. But she told me to have Taplinger send her the book and she’ll
do her best.
The editor of Western Maryland College’s newspaper Scrimshaw (“Uncle Irving” was first
published in their campus magazine) asked for a copy of the book and she’ll be glad to review
it.
The AWP Job List contained news of a one-semester opening for Visiting Assistant Professor at
the University of Miami. They’re really looking for a novelist, and I have had no luck with
them in the past, but still I submitted their credentials. Supposedly Irv Littman has “pull” with
someone high up at the school; maybe that might help.
Dr. Pasquale and I had a good session today. It’s very hard to rid myself of old neurotic sets –
like the idea that things are either going all bad or all good.
Dr. Pasquale pointed out that I use “selective attention” and focus only on those external events
– like cutting myself shaving, missing a traffic light, etc. – that prove my theory about bad
things happening, while I ignore events that are contrary.
And it’s true: last week I got no mail but I was so happy I didn’t let it concern me. I know I put
too much stock in others’ opinions of me. So when I see my name in Arthur Bell’s Voice column,
I am not just happy because it might mean sales for my book; I look upon it as proof that I’m a
worthwhile person.
[464]
Conversely, if I am rejected for a job at Baruch, I am not just annoyed because I may have lost a
job; instead, I take it as proof of my lacking worth – even though I might have been overlooked
for any number of reasons.
See, I can’t win playing this game. If I get 99 good reviews, that one bad review will still make
me doubt myself. And, as Dr. Pasquale pointed out, even if I could get unanimous praise, I
wouldn’t respect it because I’d say it was coming from people unqualified to make judgments.
I’ve got to become more aware of these things. The control is within me – not over external
events, but in my perception of them. And perception is really all that counts.
5 PM. It’s almost August already. Time seems to be picking up speed and going faster with
each moment.
Last Friday night – going out to have Chinese food; being with Helmut and Avis and Libby and
Tommy; looking at the night skyline from the Promenade – seems like it took place months ago.
And the Friday before that – Avis and I having dinner with Teresa and Don – now feels like it
happened in another century.
I feel peculiar. My limbs ache, my throat is sore, I have little energy – but the feelings are all so
vague. I’m not really sick, yet I don’t feel quite well.
This weekend looms large and empty, and I dread it. Yet I wouldn’t want to be active and with
friends, either. Oh, I know I’ll never be satisfied. No matter how successful I become, it will
never be enough for me.
What is this terrible compulsion to be the best? I see Jonny futilely trying to be “the best
bodybuilder in the world,” and I can recognize the pathos of his situation, so why can’t I see it
in mine?
My mother has told me throughout all my life that my problem is I “think too much.” I wish
my mind could take a vacation, but no, it’s constantly scheming, analyzing, prevaricating,
exploiting. . .
What is the brain’s function, after all? I feel curiously dead despite all that brain activity. I
looked at myself on the photos of the party and I had dreaded seeing myself. But it turned out I
was someone I can barely recognize – I didn’t know I looked like that – tanned, bluff, chubby, so
cheerful-looking.
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Richard Grayson
The camera does lie – or else I’m not looking at the photos in the right way. The pictures were a
disappointment, as usual. No one – not Alice or Avis or Helmut or Teresa – looked as good as
they do in real life.
It’s a waste to take photos for me. I’d rather have my memories, which serve me better.
I called Teresa, and she said she’s not going to British Columbia with Don after all. He’ll be
busy with Times business for five days out of seven, and Teresa decided last night that a
weekend in Banff just wasn’t worth it.
She told me she ran into Slade at a downtown bank yesterday – it was a shock for both of them
– and she told him that he missed the party with me and Elspeth and June. He was astonished
when Teresa gave him her business card with Wall Street Journal under her name.
Slade is still at the same old job with the phone company, and he’ll probably be there for a long
time. He was my idol in college. The first thing I ever had the nerve to say to him was how
much I admired his columns in Kingsman. “Are you a fan?” he asked me.
Slade was the first person to mention Ron Sukenick’s work to me, and other writers as well. I
thought he’d be a great writer for sure. About three years ago, I said as much to Sidney, and he
replied, “I don’t think so; I think he burned himself out quickly.”
Sidney was right, and I don’t understand how I got to be doing what Slade should be doing. Is it
his fear of success? I have it, too, God knows, but my ambitions are limitless, and they scare me
more.
In the past week, I’ve written over thirty pages of new work, seen three new stories in print,
gotten one acceptance – and still I am not satisfied. How can I ever be happy with that attitude?
One day my bookshelves will be filled with magazines and books containing my work, and it
won’t make me one bit happier. So I might as well learn it now: success will not make my life any
better.
Hadn’t I better take that into consideration and plan accordingly? Let’s say I was at the top of
my field. What then? Then, the answer is, I’d really be in a pickle.
So forget about counting credits, totaling up rejections and xeroxing everything I type. Avis
and Helmut and Libby and her family have taught me that life is meant to be lived, that it
doesn’t happen on the pages of books.
Yet I can’t quite believe that. I know I’ll never be happy until I do – but look how happy I look
in the photographs.
[466]
Marc will probably bring Deanna here for the weekend. Jonny hates the idea, and I’m not wild
about her staying over again either, but what can you do?
9 PM. I’ve just come back from the bank, where I paid my monthly loan payment on my
passbook loan, put more money in my checking account, and withdrew $100 so I won’t have to
go back during the brutal early days of the month, when it’s so crowded.
I have $2,000 in savings now, barely enough to last me until (hopefully) my first paycheck in the
fall. I’d take a part-time job, but I feel I’m doing more important things by promoting my book.
I spent hours in the library today, and I ended up sending out fifteen letters to various editors,
columnists and agents. And I mailed out those Vice Presidential press releases this morning.
No tangible results today – and I wonder if Taplinger could miss seeing some of the notices my
book may have received. It seems they caught the Los Angeles Times review only because
Wesley’s screenwriter friend in L.A. clipped it and sent it on to him.
I’ve finished reading Michael Korda’s Success! It’s geared mostly toward the corporate world,
but I found it interesting. I want to succeed and I have optimism, endurance, energy, self-
confidence and self-knowledge. I’m also not afraid of failure because I know I can learn a great
deal from failure.
My failure with the BC publishing and literature conference taught me never to get involved
with incompetent and all-demanding bosses, and that’s when I first learned (thorough my
“Terrorists Threaten to Disrupt Conference” press release) that bold and “crazy” moves stir up
interest and potential publicity.
I want to be rich; perhaps this is the first time in my life I’ve felt this way. Money never
mattered before. I was committed to Art with a capital A and to teaching. Of course my
situation, living in my parents’ house, helped insulate me from the realities of paychecks and
bills.
For that I am grateful. I didn’t have to struggle in squalor, and I don’t intend to live in squalor
now. New York City is a paradise if you have money, and now I want some of that money.
I have nothing to apologize for. I’ve paid my dues with the little magazines paying in copies
and the adjunct jobs that paid $675 a term. And where is it written that one has to pay dues
anyway?
[467]
Richard Grayson
When I picked Dad up at the station this evening, he told me that Ivan sent his regards. Ivan
knew who Dad was and introduced himself as “a friend of Richard’s.”
Ivan told Dad that he and his wife live in New Jersey now. He asked how I was doing, and Dad
told him about my teaching and about my book’s “success.”
Dad said Ivan was dressed in jeans and “looks as though he has a nothing job, in charge of
photostating or something.” Ivan asked if I was still seeing Ronna, and Dad said I was. But I’m
not.
I did call Ronna last night. She had just gotten in, and when I asked from where, she said from
painting her friend’s brother’s house in Sheepshead Bay.
I’m certain Ronna’s pretty serious about a guy; that’s why she’s never home and that’s why
she’s unable to get to rewriting her résumé. Ronna, like her friend Susan, who’s supposed to be
a writer, is a person who Talks rather than Does.
She’ll never get anywhere, and I’m sure she’ll take the easy way out by marrying and getting
stuck in some rut. She’s entitled to a relationship with someone, of course, but she’s not as
special as I once thought she was, and she’s better suited to some boring guy instead of me.
The end of our relationship had little to do with my gayness and much to do with the gulf
between the ways we want to live our lives.
Yesterday at the pool Wesley and Marla agreed with me that the biggest success drives come
from a need for revenge. Wes said that if a person isn’t given enough discouragement by
others, he or she will not be motivated to succeed.
More and more I feel like a successful person, and I want to be around other people who are
achievers. Am I becoming awful? Where’s old lovable self-doubting Richie?
3 PM. It’s a cool, rainy day – the first day of this kind we’ve had all summer. It makes me
nostalgic for September, yet I also miss the sensuousness of summer.
July is ending, and August has sneaked up on us already. A month from today the second
summer session at LIU will be over. I have strange feelings of uncertainty.
Last year at this time, Grandpa Nat had his heart attack/stroke, Uncle Abe died, Avis and
Helmut were here, and I was preparing to go to Bread Loaf. Now I feel uneasy about things.
[468]
Maybe it’s the weather or having to teach four evenings a week, but I don’t feel like myself
anymore.
I am changing, and that frightens me. A good part of it has to do with moving to Albany; I
don’t think I’ve completely accepted it yet, and a part of me still hopes that something
“magical” will happen beforehand that will make Albany unnecessary.
But that’s not likely. Michael Largo of New Earth Books called last night, and he was very irate
– justifiably so, I told him. I explained that there was no excuse for my not getting in touch with
him, but there was no way I could come up with the money for him to publish my book.
I felt awful speaking to him, so embarrassed, but it’s over with now; he got out his wrath and
I’m glad it’s settled. I don’t blame my parents for telling me that they would get me the $3,000
to subsidize the book’s publication but then backing down.
I should have known the money was too hard for them to get now. I take the responsibility for
hurting the New Earth Books collective, wasting their time, money and energy.
It doesn’t make me feel very good about myself, and I couldn’t sleep last night. Then again, I
also thought about how I treated Kristy Rogoff last week. I didn’t respond to three of her phone
calls because I didn’t want to see her and couldn’t bring myself to tell her so.
Both of these incidents happened because I didn’t want to be “a bad guy,” but in the end, I only
made myself feel much more guilty. I need a psychiatrist. I feel very pained.
Carolyn Bennett called and said the Courier-Life photographer couldn’t come and would I
please send some photos over to her parents’ house and she’d get one of them into the paper.
The only photos I had were pretty rotten ones; if only I hadn’t fooled around so much when
Marc took pictures that day. Last night I dreamed that Carolyn got sick and went into the
hospital, making it impossible for her to write her article on me.
My first impulse was going to be, when the article comes out, to send copies of it to everyone I
know. I now see that as foolish and vain; my friends won’t like me any the more because of
some article.
Why do I feel the need to impress anyone? Obviously my self-image can’t be all that great if it’s
necessary for me to gain everybody’s approval.
Meanwhile, it’s been ten days since I wrote my last story, and in that time I haven’t written a
word, nor have any stories been accepted, nor have I seen a new story out in print.
[469]
Richard Grayson
I don’t know how much writing I can do while I’m teaching at night. I feel constrained during
the day. I don’t really like going to bed at 2 AM and waking up at 10 AM. I guess I feel pretty
down on myself in all ways today; maybe it’s my biorhythm chart.
Seven-twelfths of 1978 has slipped through my fingers already. Can moving to Albany make
me any happier? But why use that inappropriate, irrelevant word happiness? Happiness has
nothing to do with real life.
I wish . . . but why bother wishing? I can see I’m not in a good mood, and if it were possible
today, I’d stay out of my own way.
8 PM. It was a sunny and pleasant day today. There were cool breezes that reminded me that it
is August. The summer is half-over and even though we still have the dog days to get through,
I’m already looking forward to the bright days of September and October, always the best time
to be in New York.
I’ve always looked forward to autumn’s crisp weather and the return to activity after a leisurely
summer. But this year will be different: I will not be returning to school as a student this fall.
Occasionally I’ve wondered whether I shouldn’t have gone on for my Ph.D. or tried to get
another degree in anything, just so I could remain in school. But I’m glad I decided to
discontinue my formal education after seven years and three degrees; let’s see how I function
outside of academia.
Speaking of seven years, today I’m beginning the eighth year of my diary-keeping. Seven years
of my life have come and gone since that tentative, uncertain summer of 1979. They’ve been
interesting years (he said with a knowing smile).
I’m not sure I’ve become less scared than I was at 18, or whether I have “become a different
person.” There is still within me somewhere the Richard of August 1969. I’ve lived a cautious
and lonely and reluctant life, and I suppose I shall continue to do so.
I cannot imagine what I will be writing in my diary seven years from now, on August 1, 1983, or
what the person doing the writing will be like. I still cannot believe I’m 25, and I know I’ll never
be 32; that’s impossible.
Alice came over yesterday afternoon, and since Andreas is still in Europe, she went to the
movies at night with me. We saw Murder by Death, which was good for an occasional chuckle,
and afterwards we went to The Arch.
[470]
Alice has become my best friend in recent months, and the person I confide in more than any
other. We talk about our dreams of success as writers, and whether fame and fortune can make
for happiness. (Alice believes that, while I am skeptical.)
Alice tells me she’ll wait for Andreas “forever” and thinks that maybe he’ll marry her after his
mother dies. I wonder if I’ll ever love again. I’ve been avoiding the possibility of another close
relationship for years, and love and sex aren’t all that important to me.
I guess some people think I’m nothing but a saturnine pig, and maybe they’re right. Certainly
I’m repressed and frustrated – but not to the point of it affecting my ability to live. Sometimes
I’m scared that I am a very cold person with no capacity for loving, having only a nice idea of
what love is like.
Still, I’ve chosen the weird kind of life I’m living, and I have no regrets. I had a nice time with
Alice last night, and during the night had two dreams that were so pleasant that the vague
memory of them makes me smile.
One dream had me reaching out to both Ronna and Ivan, and achieving a kind of communion
with both of them; certainly for years I’ve wanted to remain close with both of them, something
I know is no longer possible in the world of reality. I guess that sums up my Gemini/bisexual
need to make contact – or maybe it just goes back to my childhood failure to really get in touch
with my mother and my father.
In the other dream, I was graduating college, and Lyndon Johnson came back from the dead to
address us; he was standing right in front of me and was so tall I could barely manage to see his
head. He made a speech which moved me.
This afternoon I was in Washington Square, sitting on a bench, walking around, watching
magicians, listening to music, looking at people. I discovered Washington Square seven
Augusts ago, and one again it seems a good place to go to seek out life.
I had a late lunch at The Bagel, severed by my friend the waitress whose name I don’t know.
Driving back to Brooklyn, I was signing and yelling like a joyous lunatic.
6 PM. It all seems very unreal these days. I just wish this ordeal would end already. Grandpa
Nat does not seem to be responding, and it’s been two weeks since he had the stroke.
There can be no doubt now that the brain damage which resulted has left him not quite a
person anymore. He’ll never be able to resume any kind of a normal life.
[471]
Richard Grayson
It kills me to see Dad so upset. It’s bad enough that he has to deal with the aggravation of
splitting up the business with Max, but being here, thinking of his father, praying, despairing,
crying – I don’t know how much more he can take.
Everyone’s showing a low profile and trying to help out as much as possible and not add more
grief to the situation. My father has had such a bad year; the whole family has.
First Uncle Monty died, then the business went under, there was all that indecision and
discussion this winter about moving to Florida. Everything seems so bleak, it’s hard not to be
pessimistic.
I had a very bad night; my cold kept me awake. To be sick and unable to sleep in the middle of
the night must be one of the closest things to hell on earth that there is. I feel lost, helpless,
totally without direction.
Writing seems beyond my capabilities now. I’m glad I didn’t have to stay in bed today, that I
could go downtown and sign for my unemployment check, that I could go shopping for Mom.
I even rode the bike for a few minutes this afternoon. But those moments of forgetfulness are
like oases in a Sahara of despair. I wish I could accept things, but so far, I just can’t.
I’m very confused now, so much so that I greatly feel the need to talk to a therapist. I don’t
know what I’m going to do about Bread Loaf, and I guess it depends on events. But I can’t
psych myself up for going there and I’m unable to deal with my anxieties about it.
There’s no one I really can talk to. My sinuses are killing me. I’m sure this cold stems partly
from an unconscious need to cry. But I can’t cry naturally, so in the middle of the night I stick
Q-tips up my nostrils to force sneezes and my eyes water and that relieves the pressure in my
head for a little while.
Every time the phone rings, my heart beats fast. I feel more sympathy for the young victims of
Son of Sam than I ever would before all this. I pump vitamins and milk and soybeans into my
mouth, hoping to keep from getting sicker.
I can’t make the slightest plan. Going to the dentist tomorrow seems to be a major effort.
Mikey wants me to come with him and Larry to the movies tomorrow, and I’m supposed to
have dinner at Libby’s on Tuesday, but I can’t deal with those things now.
I was half-counting on Exotic Beauties Press doing a collection of my stories, but now it looks
out of the question. Tessa Marquis wrote me saying the usual things: they’re strapped
financially, distribution is a problem, etc.
[472]
Harvey says he’s been doing nothing all summer and he’s decided that he can’t write except
under pressure in a classroom situation – which means he’s not a writer. I don’t care much
about the project anymore.
Gary tried to cheer me up, and he was a good listener, but he’s so depressed himself about not
finding a job.
And Betty’s job didn’t work out; it was very unpleasant at that office, and her co-worker, a
fiftyish woman started getting very friendly until Betty finally realized that the woman wanted
a physical relationship, and that repelled her and she didn’t come in again.
Camus said the best way to make yourself useful in a difficult time is to do your job well. I tried
to write a eulogy for Grandpa Nat, but no one else could read it but me, it’s so personal – and I
don’t think I could stand up at his funeral, with his body in a coffin in front of me, without
getting hysterical.
I’ve never really known death – I’ve been lucky – but I don’t know how to deal with it. My
head is pounding. Maybe that’s how I deal with it.
8 PM. Mikey and I were making arrangements to go to Manhattan yesterday when he

mentioned seeing my book listed in the listing of new books in the Times. Sure enough, I had
missed that.
Mikey came over at 6 PM and immediately after we got on the Belt Parkway, we were pulled
over by the police. Mikey’s mother had let her inspection sticker expire in June without
renewing it.
I was impressed with the way Mikey handled the ticket; I even found myself feeling guilty for
taking his car and making the suggestion that we take the parkway, but Mikey himself was
calm and philosophical – and he wasn’t trying to hide any feelings, either.
It started raining as we drove up to Teresa’s. We found her and her doctor friend Diana in the
air-conditioned bedroom. Teresa has the sweetest friends; Diana is pretty, thin (she has great
legs) with a cute lisping Southern accent and sharp wit.
The ladies got dressed and we drove through the park to the East Side. It was fun, like a high
school double date. I liked being out with good-looking people.
[473]
Richard Grayson
We saw Marla and Wes in front of Eric’s Bar – he looked a little nervous and Marla was
stunning in a slinky black low-cut dress – and we went into the back room.
I stopped to talk to Scott Sommer, who didn’t recognize me at first. Scott told me he’s found an
apartment in Manhattan, “and if they don’t sell the paperback rights pretty soon I’m not going
to be there very long.”
We found seats at a table in the back, were joined by Alice, and we ordered drinks. I saw
several of Wes’s friends whom I know by sight – like Steve Zaillian, who sold his screenplay,
and the caustic guy who writes for Time – and there were people there from Taplinger.
Wes came out in pajamas and handcuffs, led by his friend Josh, who was dressed as a hospital
orderly. “You’ve all been asked here because you’ve committed some horrible transgression,”
Wes said, “and now you’re going to pay the price – by listening to me play eighteen songs.”
I thought it was a great show. Wes’s songs are full of intelligent, sensuous imagery, very
Springsteenesque. He plays the piano masterfully, and as Teresa said, “He’s gorgeous; how can
he be straight?”
Alice didn’t think much of Wes’s voice, but I could listen to him all night. Of course that may
be because he’s my friend and I’m just a little in love with him (and he knows it).
Wesley is a great showman. He used stage props effectively (a bus of Elvis, Marla taking
Polaroids of the audience as he sang “Photoplay”) and he ended with a singalong to his “Hard
Drugs”; Marla handed out lyric sheets and little Maalox pills encased in tinfoil.
The place was packed, the sound system was good, and there was a lot of applause. The five of
us had trouble dividing up the bill, and we stumbled out laughingly into the muggy night.
Teresa and Alice hit it off, and matchmakers that they are, they immediately began quizzing
Mikey and Diana on their preferences in the opposite sex. We stopped off at a Baskin-Robbins
for ice cream and we were having a very good time.
But Teresa wanted to go home and Diana had the midnight shift at Columbia-Presbyterian, so
Alice, Mikey and I went on alone to 100th and Riverside and Wesley and Marla’s party.
It was very hot in the apartment, and we stayed only an hour. I wanted to talk to Scott; Wes
gave him copies of his PW and Kirkus reviews, which were very good.
Wes said he was thrilled to see his name in the article about my V.P. campaign in the New York
Post, and I told him he was great tonight. I hugged Marla, lifting her off the ground, and spoke
with Babs Pinkerton and Ray Thomas, whom I think are alcoholics (neither was coherent).
[474]
As Alice said as we drove downtown, Wes and his friends are not really our types: they’re
hipper, richer, better brought-up and more spoiled – but we did enjoy being with them.
Mikey and I drove down Flatbush Avenue after dropping Alice off, and he wanted to stop at
the McDonald’s by Fillmore Avenue. We met Carl and Alan Karpoff’s father there on his way
home; he supervises six of their Brooklyn franchises.
And at the table I opened the Saturday New York Times I’d bought at the Junction and found an
intelligent little piece on me, “A Running Mate in Search of a Candidate,” in their Notes on
People.
9 PM. “Author Richard Grayson Practices His Craft With Little Fanfare” reads the headline on
page 22 of this week’s Kings Courier, Bay News, Flatbush Life and Canarsie Digest. The intro lead I
don’t like that much: “Brooklyn Trivia Incorporated.” But the two-page spread, featuring half
of “With Hitler in New York,” is quite impressive.
My picture is not a disgrace, although I wasn’t wild about the caption: “ACCEPTED AFTER 20
REJECTIONS [my Transatlantic Review story]. . . A highly skilled fiction writer, Grayson inhabits
the nether world of shades, shadows and unsung fictioneers as a very successful writer.”
And Carolyn Bennett’s article begins: “Richard Grayson, at age 27, is a very successful writer.
Not in the world’s terms, mind you, but in that nether world of shades, shadows and unsung
fictioneers.”
My favorite paragraph is the second, which begins: “Grayson is hard not to like. Handsome,
personable and sincere, he exudes a high-energy level, and he is a highly imaginative writer. . .”
I always wondered just what it was I’ve been exuding all these years. And to be called
“handsome” in print, by a nonbiased (lesbian) journalist – well, I couldn’t ask for anything
more. I’d been afraid I was going to be described as “cherubic.”
Carolyn’s article is wonderful, comparing me to Barthelme (I come out on top because my

stories are filled with quiet emotion), tying me in with my Brooklyn roots and giving a
summary of my career that is so impressive it almost impresses me.
Plus we get a plug for Disjointed Fictions. I found the paper when Ronna and I stopped off at the
Junction on our way back from Manhattan.
[475]
Richard Grayson
The lady in the candy store wanted to know why I was buying five copies, and I showed the
article to her, and she insisted on showing it to everyone in the luncheonette! But I wasn’t
embarrassed; I felt proud.
Mom and Dad were thrilled, and even Marc thought it was terrific. Ronna, as usual, was
restrained, but I think deep down it impressed her.
(I was very cruel to her today – for no reason, really – but I’ll write about that tomorrow. It’s
not that it’s not important – it is – but tonight is not the time for recriminations.)
I don’t want to keep crowing over this, but after all the disappointments and frustrations of
recent weeks, it does give my ego a boost. Mom sent copies to her friends the Littmans and to
Grandma Sylvia in Florida, and Marc took the paper along when he went to have dinner with
Grandma Ethel and Grandpa Herb tonight.
I xeroxed copies of the article, and yes, I sent them to people who I know well enough so that
they won’t think I’m obnoxious: Gary and Betty, Vito, Mikey, George Myers, Dr. Lipton, Caaron
(for her I used it as a gambit to get her to write me back), Avis, Libby.
I tried to call Carolyn to thank her, but she wasn’t home; I really owe her one now. I’m sorry for
going on about this at such length, but after all, folks, this is my diary and I’ll crow if I want to.
Besides, it’s good to get it all out now so tomorrow I can completely forget about it. I don’t
want to be someone who believes his own publicity. And of course I have to practice my craft
with little fanfare.
Anyway, it’s a nice lift in this time of uncertainty, insecurity, loneliness, rainy weather, oil spills
off the beach, pimples, sinusitis and angst. (Let’s not forget ennui.) Go to bed, public figure.
7 PM. I’m pleased to report that I’m feeling pretty relaxed now. I worked from 9 AM to 3 PM
today, and it was interesting and not unenjoyable.
It was rather an easy day, for instead of going back to New Haven Manor in Far Rock, Mr.
Farber told me to go to Seaport Manor in Canarsie to assist this woman, Susan, with patients
seeing the g.p. and the podiatrist.
Susan was friendly and easy to work with, and as the patients were all elderly rather than
mental cases, it made things a little more normal. I’m getting the hang of filling out Medicaid
and Medicare forms, and Susan has the Seaport Manor files well-organized and up-to-date.
[476]
It was a bit hectic, shuffling patients between the foot doctor and the medical doctor, but I did
well, I think. Some of the old people are fairly interesting characters.
I talked with a lovely lady of 90, Mrs. Belinsky (like the Russian critic), who has a room with her
husband of seventy years. They seem to fit together so naturally; it looked very tjotjog.
I got a free lunch, which was pretty spare even by old-age-home standards, and finally finished
up at about 3 PM. I guess there’ll be good days and bad days working for Mr. Farber, but I’ve
found it tolerable so far.
Yesterday I saw Grandpa Herb and Grandma Ethel at the house, and when I left for work this
morning, Grandpa Nat was sitting on the porch waiting for Dad. My grandparents were happy
to hear that I’ve got a job.
Last evening I went over to Josh’s for a couple of hours and we sat and bullshitted like old
times; I’m glad we can still do that. (Maybe it’s because I’ve come off my high horse). Josh says
he’s “stagnating,” but he’s doing all right. During the week, he sees Cherille, and he’s got a
girlfriend upstate on weekends, a beautiful artist’s model.
Josh is really pissed at Baumbach for going away without changing his grades; Jon really
shouldn’t have done that. Despite everything, Josh deserves a chance to graduate with his MFA
at least.
We talked about Allan, who’s doing okay, among other things. Maybe I’ll be able to relate to
people better now that I’ve decided not to come off as Mr. Terrific.
In a way this deluge of rejections I’ve been getting has been useful; it keeps me from getting too
cocky and overconfident.
Amazingly, I wrote another (mediocre) short story in the past few days. It’s called “Frieda
Wachsberger Does Not Believe in Happiness,” and the title is probably the best thing about it.
Yesterday I got a letter at the Fiction Collective from the editor of the Westerly Review. He
thanked me for sending him a copy of Sukenick’s 98.6 and told me TWR #2 will be out in
August – which means September, but I can wait.
Today I got this marvelous note from Loris Essary of Austin: “Just want to drop you a note that
I read ‘Summoning Alice Keppel’ in the new Panache and liked it very much. Your piece in
Interstate will hopefully out before September 1.” I can’t believe a person could be that
thoughtful.
[477]
Richard Grayson
And today even the mood in the house seems to be lighter. Dad seems more cheerful and
optimistic, and he’s psyching himself up to go into a new business.
I don’t know if my own sense of renewed well-being is real or illusory, but I’m enjoying it while
it’s here.
Today was an ace day when everything clicked just right. Tomorrow may bring a new disaster,
but I’ll hold on till another day comes along. I feel very fulfilled and very much at peace.
9 PM and I’m ready for bed. Today was a long, exhausting day, and I feel like I’m floating on
the Wreck of the Hesparus or something. I’m not sure I know what I’m writing. And I wanted
to write some fiction tonight yet!
I don’t know what I’m trying to prove or what. I just stood on line at the bank in Kings Plaza
for half an hour (total standing-in-line-at-the-bank time this week: two hours) among all those
nice engaged couples saving up for their weddings.
Going to the bank was a foolish mistake, but I wanted to deposit the check Mr. Farber gave me,
so I could see my big $236.48 balance. I’m wealthy, by Richard Grayson standards, you see.
Anyway, I got soaked walking to my car, which I parked, with little foresight, in the outdoor lot.
Last evening, when I went to get that diet ice cream, I found Alice at the playground playing
paddleball with a fiftyish photographer named Mario. (I had seen Alice there the night before,
too, on my way to Josh’s house.)
I watched their game till its conclusion, and although Alice lost, she’s a very good player indeed
– and is one of the fiercest competitors I’ve ever seen.
Mr. Farber called at 10 PM to tell me to meet him at 9 AM today at New Haven Manor. I was
there this morning on the dot, but he was half an hour late, so I sat in the lobby with the
residents, watching Barbara Walters.
After nearly a week, the residents of New Haven Manor do not seem all that strange, and it
occurred to me, lounging on the chair in the lotus position, my finger in my mouth, that if a
stranger were to talk into the lobby he’d obviously think I was a mental case like the rest of
them.
One very demure lady came out with the following delightful monologue:
[478]
“I have only one ovary left, Mr. Edrich. . . They operated in ’56 – that’s when all the trouble
started. . . Yeah, they’ll cure everyone. . . Yeah, they’ll cure everyone. . . I put my trust in God.
God is my hero. . . I told him my mental capacities are excellent; there’s nothing in my head
whatsoever.”
Anyhow, it was a long day. Dr. Hassan came and this girl Joyce, and I set him up with patients;
it was a real hassle completely going over the files. The filling out of the Medicare and
Medicaid forms is so dull; it’s not hard once you get the hang of it, but the work is so boring, I
began to feel my patience wearing thin.
Finally, at 4 PM, Dr. Hassan saw his last patient, and as soon as Mr. Farber took care of firing
Joyce – which he’d told me on Tuesday that he would do; of course all day I didn’t let on and
when she came out of the medical office with red eyes, I still pretended I didn’t know what was
going on – he had me for some kind of important session.
This whole week of work, Mr. Farer said, was to give me “an overview” of the way the business
operates. Now what he wants me to take charge of is the x-ray work and the dental work at
New Haven Manor. He told me he needs me to work on my own and do an effective job so that
he doesn’t have to check up on me.
Mr. Farber said it’s a very marginal business and it’s important that I get as many patients x-
rayed and to the dentist as possible. I’m going to meet him Monday at New Haven at 9 AM (I
declined an offer to work on Sunday) and he gave me a check for the week: $62 and change.
I drove home in one of the heaviest rainstorms I’d ever seen; the whole peninsula was flooded.
I noted that I was paid on the books and that Mr. Farber lives in Bayswater right next to Far Rock.
That’s useful for the future, because something isn’t right about all this.
10 PM. I know I’ve licked my depression because I’ve written two seven-page stories today.
One, “A Hard Woman,” was a straight-laced character sketch (using a fairly old-fashioned
device to set the “scenes”); the other, “When the Values Go Up, Up, Up,” was zany, probably
too immature and satirical.
But I’m writing again, and I believe in myself, and that’s the important thing. I was just reading
an interesting article on drama in the Times, about
post-Einstein theater.
I think fiction writers can no longer pretend we live in a Newtonian universe where cause leads
to effect. No, things just happen today. The other three Great Jews said:
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Follow Jesus of Nazareth and live a good life and you will be rewarded with the Kingdom of
Heaven; follow Karl Marx and live the socialist life and we will all be equal and happy on earth;
follow Sigmund Freud and unearth your past life and things will get better.
But Christianity, communism and psychoanalysis have all been discredited by now. Einstein’s
special theory of relativity hasn’t been: things seem to happen at random, for no apparent
reason.
Life is much more uncertain and dangerous, but it’s also much more interesting.
I spoke to Avis, Helmut, Libby and Mason in turn today as Avis called from Penn Station on
their way upstate. I hope I’ll see them on the day before Avis and Helmut leave for Europe.
Avis and Helmut have made my summer, whatever else happens. I’m going to miss them
terribly.
Last night I had a long conversation with Alice. She’s decided to write a book. June convinced
her that they both have power as editors at Seventeen and that they should use it.
Alice figured a book interviewing teenaged models would be a natural for her, so she started
calling editors, using her title and telling them her idea. She was surprised at the positive
response she got.
Alice had lunch with the juvenile editor at Bantam the other day and will be meeting with
others soon. Alice is also anxious to leave Seventeen for greener fields and will be having lunch
with Aaron Schindler, the big cheese at Family Circle to see if he’s got anything (or knows of
anything) for her.
Alice has totally given up on her show-writing partner Kenneth; she can’t wait for him to get
moving on the play, so that whole thing is over. Alice likes writing lyrics, though, and wants to
do a musical with someone.
Josh called this afternoon and we went to Kings Plaza for lunch. He’s getting more frustrated at
his job every day he works at the hospital. He’ll send out the new résumé soon, but he doesn’t
have high hopes.
Stephanie, Josh’s 30-year-old girlfriend (she’s got a 10-year-old daughter and a husband who
lives with her best friend, “a Norwegian goddess I want to fuck”), is in love with him, and he
doesn’t like that.
Today Josh paid me what was for him a high compliment: he said in a way I was more of a reel
than he was. I would never settle for a “straight” job on a magazine or advertising.
[480]
When Josh says he’s poor and earning $200 a week, when Alice and Scott and others tell me
they can’t be satisfied with their salaries which are more than I’ve ever dreamed of, I get
depressed and feel that I’m so far behind other people my age.
I show no signs of upward mobility; I live with my parents and subsist in New York on my five
dollars a day. But I wouldn’t trade this life for $200 a week and a Manhattan apartment. Three
hundred dollars a week? Maybe. No, not really.
All I really need is the freedom to write. And I have that, largely due to the understanding of
my parents. It’s only recently that I’ve begun to realize how incredibly supportive they are, and
how much I owe them.
Now I’m well enough physically and emotionally, to deal with the problems of sex. I realize, on
a hot and humid day like today, how much I need to be with a guy. All those muscles and
shoulders and chests and legs I see all day: I look at them without any guilt, just simple,
uncomplicated longing.
I got a letter from this guy, Steve, whose ad in the Voice I answered. He sounds really nice: 24,
5’9”, 135 pounds, into Germany, the ocean, writing. I tried calling him several times today but
got no answer.
10 PM. Ten years ago, August 8, 1969, a Friday, I bought a diary and sat on the grass at
Brooklyn College (in a spot which no longer exists, having long since been taken over by a
“temporary” building), I proceeded to write diary entries for the first week in August.
Today People magazine called Taplinger to ask for a photo to accompany their review of my
book. Wes said the photo may not appear but apparently the review will.
“Under ‘Picks and Pans’?” I asked Wesley.
“I think it’s gonna be a ‘pick,’” he said.
I guess they wouldn’t ask for my photo if they were going to pan it. This is unbelievable. I did
write the woman at People who called Wes, but I never thought it would amount to anything.
If for any reason the People review doesn’t appear, I don’t want to be devastated. This is getting
scary. I may actually get the thing I’ve wished for: isn’t that supposed to be the worst thing that
can happen? But I’ve got to focus on the little realities of my life or I’ll go mad.
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The University of Miami’s English Department chairman wrote to say he’s interested in me for
the vacancy next spring; this was before I wrote Dean Jerry Katz, Irv Littman’s close friend.
They asked to see my book, so I sent it on down to them.
Star-Web Paper #7 arrived today, about four years after “Notes on the Type” and “Mark the
Public Notices” were accepted. It was nice to see the latter story in print, however; I wrote Tom
Fisher and told him I gave him an acknowledgement in Hitler.
Last evening George Drury Smith of Beyond Baroque phoned from Venice, California. They were
typesetting their new issue and discovered they’d lost my contract and the statement I’d written
about my two stories.
I told George I’d get them out to him right away, and I also mentioned my good L.A. Times
review; he was impressed. (I’ve discovered it never hurts to blow your own horn – most of the
time, anyway.)
My Bulletin Board ad appeared in the Village Voice today (I wonder if anyone will see it) along
with a scathing review of the latest Fiction Collective books and venom about the Collective
itself, which James Woollcott dismissed as “an academic vanity press.”
Now that I’m on the other side, I can’t help seeing the Fiction Collective differently, and I can’t
help feeling superior to them. I want as wide an audience as possible now – and I’ve got a
feeling my work is going to be, if not less experimental, more accessible.
I’d love for Baumbach to come across the review in People. But it may not appear, and it doesn’t
make me a better writer if it does appear.
I spoke to Vito, who’s moved to a new East Side apartment. I can’t imagine how he affords $360
a month rent. He got all excited about my news.
Jay had news of his own when he called: he and Rita were married last week. It all happened
very quickly, Jay said, and it still hasn’t sunk in – especially since he’s in the city this week and
Rita’s upstate.
This evening I went to see Aunt Betty in the hospital. On Saturday she was dressing Uncle Jack
when he wobbled and they both fell to the ground. She smashed her hip against the hospital
bed and had to be operated on Sunday. Aunt Betty looked awful; she was in excruciating pain
despite heavy drugs.
I brought her water and propped a pillow under her. She said it was a freak accident – but look
how it ended. She can’t move her toes, and it will take weeks of therapy before she can walk
again.
[482]
That made me realize that nothing is certain in this world. I stopped off to see Grandpa Herb to
tell him how his sister-in-law was doing. Grandma Ethel was out playing cards, of course, but
Dad was there because he wanted Grandpa to fix the pants he had botched in his first attempt
at alterations.
3 PM. This depression has been going on for weeks now, and it seems to lift only for an hour or
so a day. Everything seems to be going wrong at once, and I’m under a great deal of stress.
My nights are very long. I can’t seem to get a decent eight hours of sleep. I awake again and
again after unpleasant dreams, and during the day I crave nothing so much as sleep.
My wisdom tooth is killing me; yesterday I was in so much pain I actually had to moan. I went
to Dr. Hersh this morning, and he said it’s probably best that it comes out. I’m going to wait a
couple of days to see if the swelling and pus and soreness go away; otherwise I’ll make an
appointment with the oral surgeon.
I’ve been rinsing it out with warm salt water and applying oil of clove, which soothes it a little.
But it makes me irascible, the pain, and I’m already depressed.
No mail for days. I feel like nothing is happening. If only I could write a story (this is the
longest I’ve gone without writing a story in three years) or see one come out in print.
My car is acting up again, vibrating crazily when I stop, sputtering when I accelerate. I just
don’t know.
And Mom and Dad are at the doctor now. I’m sure that Dad needs surgery. Mom says she’s
“worried,” as if this all happened suddenly!
He’s had that growth for over five years, and three years ago I pleaded with him to see a doctor,
to no avail. His cowardice may cost Dad his life, and that outrages me.
I’m thinking of canceling class tomorrow night. If I can finish teaching Conrad’s The Secret
Sharer this evening, there’s no sense in going ahead with Lawrence’s The Fox when their
midterm is on Monday.
Oh, I’m so disgusted with living and with myself and with the choices I’ve made. Every
Wednesday at this time I am writing about how unhappy I am.
Something’s wrong, and I’m not sure I can work it out myself. I know that if I do, I’ll be a
stronger person, but I’m not sure I’m equipped to deal with everything that is troubling me.
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I would very much like to be in therapy, but I have only $290 in the bank as it is, and I can’t
afford therapy. Ironic, isn’t it, that just as everyone is beginning to think of me as a success, I
feel like more of a failure than ever.
Or is it more than just ironic? Am I reacting to the Courier-Life article negatively as well as
positively? I see now how celebrities can be so sad.
I feel I can’t live up to the image of the “handsome,” “personable,” “sincere” man (man,
“Grayson”) who “exudes high-level energy.” I don’t know what it is I need, but I know I need
something.
Last night, teaching Mann’s Tonio Kroger, I spoke to my class about “the agony of the artist.”
But I think my troubles are that I’m a human, not an artist. I just know how to express my
sufferings, and in a way that’s a consolation that some others do not have.
I don’t know very many untroubled souls today. So I’m not crying out as a special person – I’m
not one – but just because everyone else is in pain, that doesn’t take away from the hurt I feel.
I would like this to be 1979 and I would like to be looking back at this time with greater
understanding than I have now. Because, simply put, I’m not sure of anything.
Sure, I’ve solved the aches and pains that afflicted me ten years ago, the things that led to my
breakdown. Thank Gold and life and myself and whatever that I don’t get anxiety attacks
anymore.
But in a way getting an anxiety attack (or a toothache?) is the easiest way of dealing with my
problems. My central problem here and now is that I am troubled, yet I can’t quite define my
problem – unless the problem is simply life itself.
5 PM. A strange day. I’ve just come back from making the funeral arrangements for Uncle Abe,
who died this afternoon in the hospital. I went with Grandpa Herb and Uncle Irving, driving
them in Grandpa’s car to Far Rockaway, to the Riverside chapel.
It was all very matter-of-fact. I was glad to go because I think it’s important to learn how to do
something like that. We chose the cheapest casket they had, a plain wooden one, for $185.
I wanted to make sure they didn’t rip off Grandpa Herb, who’ll be the one responsible for the
bill. So I told the funeral director we didn’t need a limousine or other frills.
[484]
There’s no point in it to my mind. But still, when they added up all the times, it came to $1,300
and they want Grandpa Herb to give them a $1,000 check tomorrow.
God, it seems so expensive to die. I asked about a less expensive funeral, and the man, a guy
my own age, said, “Sure, for $400 we can take the body, put in the grave in a cardboard box.
But that’s not a funeral, it’s a disposal.”
It was eerie to go down in the elevator, the man, Grandpa Herb, Uncle Irving and I, into this
room where all the caskets were. Some were plush and magnificent and cost $1,000.
Grandpa Herb told them man, “Well, it’s his young kids’ money, and we don’t want to take it
away from them,” and Irving said sharply, rightly so, “You don’t have to explain it to them.”
We filled out all the forms: giving Uncle Abe’s next of kin, his parents’ name (I knew Bubbe
Ita’s maiden name because of my research on the Katzman genealogy).
Uncle Abe belonged to the Knights of Pythias, and they have a plot for him out in New
Montefiore Cemetery, in Suffolk (near where Uncle Monty was buried last year).
Back at the apartment in Rockaway, Grandma Ethel was very upset; it was she whom the
hospital called to tell the news to. Aunt Tillie and Aunt Minnie were crying, but not as much as
Grandma Ethel.
They’d all seen him in the past two days and he was really bad. Mitch and Eddie couldn’t be
located, but Aunt Betty managed to get hold of Mitch’s girlfriend Katje, and finally she called
us.
Luckily Mitch had planned to come back to Brooklyn tonight; he doesn’t have a phone where he
goes to school in Jersey. Eddie is at work, or he was then.
Abe suffered so. He got sick eight years ago, then his wife died suddenly; these last three years
were pure hell for him. Tomorrow at noon is the funeral.
Dad just spoke to Grandma Sylvia; Aunt Violet came back to New York today, but Grandma
Sylvia is managing on her own. A man who also lives at the condominium drove her to the
nursing home today.
Grandma Sylvia says sometimes Grandpa Nat makes sense when he talks to her, and other
times he doesn’t. He waved to her when she left today and then went back to watching TV.
I feel crushed by the weight of all this pain, but unlike the way I felt a week ago, I don’t feel like
giving up. I was looking forward to meeting that guy Steve tomorrow and now that’s
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Richard Grayson
impossible. Probably I’ll never get to meet him now. Tonight I’m obligated to Laura and
Harvey go to Ron’s house, and I will go but I’ll try to leave as early as I can.
Today was so humid and cloudy. Last night I dreamed Marc and Deanna got married and had
a baby. Mom says that dream may come true: marc’s talking about marriage if he can set
himself up financially if Dad’s deal with Jimmy ever comes off.
I think Marc and Deanna just may just be able to have a good marriage. She’s utterly naive, if
not dumb, but a sweeter person one could not imagine. Deanna could become someone like
Grandma Ethel, with almost a saintly personality.
Of course, saintly people are prone to headaches, upset stomachs and high blood pressure
because they never can express their anger.
I feel so confused now. All these unexpected things have happened this summer. Now I’m
supposed to be going to Bread Loaf and I’m not sure I want to go there.
But maybe getting away is exactly what I need. Today I did a self-interview, a half-serious
parody of literary interviews. It’s a style – the whole question-and-answer mode – that I find
easy to make fun of and work with. It’s just flexing literary muscles rather than literature.
5 PM. See, I knew I’d be feeling better. I did force myself to get out of the house yesterday
afternoon, and thank goodness for that. I drove up to Morningside Heights to attend a poetry
reading at Columbia.
I was early and I walked around Broadway; I had forgotten how fond I am of that
neighborhood. The reading was in the Dodge Room of Earl Hall, and there was punch and
cookies, and young people with whom I could feel some sort of kinship.
The poet, Daniel Halpern, editor of Antaeus, who has rejected many of my stories, is a baby-
faced young guy, chubby with an Afro. He seems very shy and engaging, and his poems were
all good. It’s clear he has a respect for words, the one thing all decent poets have in common.
Halpern said he hadn’t written in a year until recently, and then he started writing a poem a
day. I understand how frustrating it must have been for him. Anyway, I enjoyed myself and
left feeling much better than when I had come in.
[486]
I wish I could’ve expressed it to the poet, how good he made me feel, but I’m too shy when it
comes to telling the truth. Anyhow, today I wrote him a letter, thanking him for doing good
things for me with his poetry.
I lingered on campus for a while, scribbling into my notebook on the steps of Low Library; then
I went over to Hungry Mac’s and had dinner. I must go up to Columbia more often.
At home, Marc and I tried to convince Mom and Dad that only an idiot would get married these
days. I believe that most people get married for only one reason: fear of loneliness.
Mom kept saying how ridiculous my arguments against marriage were, and then Grandpa Nat
walks in. “You’re a man who’s been married for over 55 years,” I said, putting the question to
him. “If you were young today, would you get married?”
Grandpa Nat said, “You’ve got to be crazy to get married.”
I turned to Mom as the others were laughing and said, “I rest my case.”
Tonight Mom and Dad leave for ten days of looking for a business in Florida; Dad is pessimistic
and Mom is desperate to move down there. Whatever happens with them, I know I can see my
way clear on my own.
If anything, this last week has proven that working

9-to-5 is not the hell I’ve always pictured it as being, and I’ll gladly work full-time to support
myself if that’s necessary. There will always be time to write.
Last night and this morning I worked on and finished an entirely new version of “The Popish
Plot.” It’s less marketable than the first unfinished version, but it’s more me: playful, ironic, a
collection of incidents and anecdotes replacing the function of plot.
Last weekend I was on the wrong track, trying to study and replicate the stories of Ann Beattie
and other “successful” short story writers, when it’s impossible for me to imitate them
successfully. I’d rather work at being a first-rate Richard Grayson than a second-rate Ann
Beattie.
So I won’t get my stories in The New Yorker. Or the American Review, either; I got another
rejection from them today. Luckily I was in a confident mood and immediately sent them a
new submission. I am prepared to keep doing that until either the magazine or I stop
functioning.
Today was a warm, sunny day, and I lay out on the beach at Rockaway – yay! – tanning my cute
little body and reading Gorky’s My Childhood. Look, life is not so bad. I expect depression at
this point in my life, and I know there will be good times, too.
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Besides, it’s the only game in town at the moment. Life is unfair, but once you’ve accepted that,
it’s a lot easier. I wouldn’t trade places with anyone else for a minute.
Tomorrow I have to work, and Friday as well. It’s a drag, but if I weren’t working, not working
would be the drag. (The paradox of human nature.)
4 PM. About an hour ago I was in a car accident. It happened right on my block, on the corner
of Fillmore and East 56th, and I believe it was my fault.
I was making a left turn and a car seemed to come out of nowhere. Perhaps it came “out of
nowhere” because I was thinking too much.
I was coming from the copy center and I was curling the copy center owner’s words around in
my head: “You’re a celebrity now.” He had seen the Flatbush Life article. And then we crashed.
My car’s side went into his car’s front. Neither of us was hurt. The guy was in a hurry, we
exchanged names and phone numbers, he said he’d call (he doesn’t have collision), and that
was that.
He’d thought I was going to go through the intersection; I’d assumed he was; and over-polite,
we both stopped and smashed into one another.
At home I told Dad, who immediately started screaming, screaming and stamping his feel like a
madman. It seemed he’d just had a big problem with a pipe bursting by the pool. The more he
raged, the calmer I became.
Mom came up to scream at me: “You’re making Daddy sick; he might have get a heart attack.”
I assured Mom that if he wanted to rant and rave and make himself ill, it was his own choice.
So, without Dad’s advice, I settled with this guy on my own, giving him $40. I was probably at
fault – although I believe it was a mistake I am entitled to. We can say I was sideswiped in a
parking lot or whatever, and we’ll collect, though my insurance rates will probably go up.
I don’t care if I’ve done something foolish and irresponsible. Dad didn’t want to help me, and I
did it by myself and I’m willing to take the consequences.
[488]
I don’t really need that car anyway. I really don’t. Strangely enough, instead of feeling
depressed, I feel quietly confident. I feel like an adult. The other driver was very nice and calm
about the whole thing and so was I.
Mom and Dad will rant and rave, as they are now, about my being “an imbecile, a moron,
stupid, and a jerk,” but I’ll try not to let their words affect me. I am going to Albany in the
winter and I don’t need a car up there.
I can manage here without a car until then if I have to. I can handle anything, any crisis,
anybody’s death but my own. I see that I’ve handled this accident well. It hasn’t really upset
me; it’s only a piece of bent, twisted metal, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to let a piece of bent,
twisted metal make me ill.
It’s also shown me that dreaming about being a celebrity can be, quite literally, dangerous. I see
now, also, that while I get furious with Ronna for being so low-key, she is right to act so
unruffled all the time.
I’ve been mimicking my father’s Type-A behavior, the Type-A behavior that effectively, if not
totally, ended Grandpa Nat’s life. If I don’t learn this lesson, it will cost me much more dearly
than a ruined fender and bumper.
Does my accident a year and a half ago matter now? Not one bit. And there’s no sense
engaging in that useless exercise of “If only’s.”
I got a letter from Avis today, and she’s definitely going to be home for Christmas. She doesn’t
think any drug charges will be brought against her, either. And though she hates her job and
her boss, she’ll stick with it. Avis would love to get pregnant, “but now is not the time.”
I also got a letter from the president of some New York publishing firm, Taplinger. He read my
story in Epoch and asked if I’ve got a book for him.
Midnight. I’ve just gotten home. Mom was on the phone with Dad when I walked in. Marc
and Jonny are out. I’m certain Mom misses Dad very much; in thirty years, they’ve never been
apart for very long, and they are terribly dependent upon one another.
Today was a gorgeous day, sunny and mild. For the last four weeks, each Tuesday or
Wednesday has brought some good news about my book: the Arthur Bell column notice in the
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Voice, Wes’s calls with news of the reviews in the L.A. Times, Cleveland Plain Dealer, and
(hopefully it will come out) People.
Obviously I can’t hope for anything as good this week, but being human, I can’t help hoping.
I’m definitely running out of ideas to push my book. I sent out half a dozen letters today, but
I’ve done just about everything for the time being.
I do feel guilty about not working actively at some kind of promotion, and I found it a bit
difficult to just relax today. I got one surprise call: from my old public school and junior high
school buddy, Jerry Lowenstein.
He saw the Post article and thought he’d look me up; he, too, still lives in the neighborhood
although he’s planning to get married soon to a girl he’s been going with for five years.
Jerry went to LIU but never finished (he got an Incomplete in English with Dr. Tucker), got
interested in radio, ran Crazy Eddie’s Kings Highway store, and for the last three years has
been selling insurance.
We talked about old times and people from the old days, and Jerry asked me to have lunch with
him on Thursday. We don’t have much in common, but I have little to do these days, and it
should be fun to talk over old times at school.
Dr. Lipton wrote me a wonderful letter and even sent me a check for one dollar as a
contribution to my Vice Presidential campaign, saying he hopes it will get me to New
Hampshire – “or at least Vermont.” I must visit Dr. Lipton soon.
The University of Portland Review’s spring issue arrived with my story, “A Distant Death” (not a
good one, but very traditional, with a protagonist based on Ronna’s mother) inside.
I spoke to Ronna this afternoon; she was working on a story for the Canarsie Digest that she had
to hand in later. She still hasn’t rewritten her résumé or checked out any newspapers.
Yesterday I told Alice I didn’t really care about seeing Ronna, even as a friend, but I must really
like her because she’s on my mind a lot. Ronna said she almost called me yesterday; she was
feeling very sentimental after finding her 1974 diary and reading about entries about me (“most
of them good stuff”).
I was heading for Josh’s at 6 PM, and I knew Ronna was planning to meet Jordan for dinner in
the Heights and then spend the night either with him or with her sister, so I offered to drive her
there.
I hadn’t seen Ronna in months. She looked well but older; her hair is going gray and getting
thin. On the drive to the Heights, I asked her about her love life.
[490]
Jordan is in love with her, but she doesn’t want anything permanent so she says it’s just as well
that he’s returning to law school in Boston in two weeks. Her romance with that other guy
never really happened, and now their friendship isn’t so solid.
I told Ronna I had an affair with a 19-year-old boy (of course I was thinking of Bill-Dale). Why?
Part wish-dream, part to gauge her reaction (she was very cool about the whole thing), part to
assure her that I’m not interested in her sexually anymore. Perhaps we really can be friends; I’d
like that.
I visited Josh’s Hicks Street apartment, which is not my sort of place (I’m too middle class) but I
found it comfortable and not at all as cramped as he says it is. We then went over to Simon’s on
Bergen Street.
Simon’s apartment had been broken into today, along with two others in his brownstone, by
kids from the block – one of whom was caught by the cops. Simon is insured for theft and we
were planning how he could make some money from the insurance.
He finally agreed to say the following items were taken: Josh’s saxophone, Simon’s flute, two
watches and a clock radio. The last two items actually were stolen.
10 PM. I’ve just been reading an article in the Sunday Times magazine section on the logician
Saul Kripke, the most brilliant of American analytical philosophers at 36, and Gary’s second
cousin. (He’s the nephew of Gary’s father’s cousin Doris, whom I drove to Gary and Betty’s
wedding.)
As a fiction writer, I’m fascinated by what I can understand of Kripke’s truth theory, and I have
a gut feeling the man will become a towering figure in philosophy, another Descartes or Hume.
Can we quantify language and human emotions? I’m much too stupid to even ask that
question, but I’d like to learn more. Kripke is a true genius, the kind of man who makes me
glad I let my Mensa membership lapse.
At age three, Kripke was aware of difficult philosophical concepts; at six, he taught himself
Hebrew; by fourth grade he had “discovered” algebra and read all of Shakespeare. I’m in awe
of such pure brilliance, the Einsteinian kind.
Now I may be a clever fellow, but as Soames Forsyte said of one of is duller cousins, I’ll “never
set the Thames on fire.” I don’t regret not being a real genius, but I wish my talent were more
substantial and less superficial.
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Richard Grayson
I have no doubt that I’ll be a success, but in the end the world will have changed little for my
being here. Who is it that defined true genius as influencing those who’ve never even heard of
you?
Realistically (but what does that word mean?), I know I’ll never get there. I have the energy and
the talent, but no solid concepts – no new ones, anyway. Still, I’m a fairly nice fellow and I
would like to try my best.
It’s been a dreary, rainy weekend. I ventured into Manhattan both yesterday and today,
attending a rained-out “festival of soap opera stars” in Bryant Park, wandering through
bookstores, looking at people on the streets, being handed cards that urge me to see the
“beautiful girls – belles mustaches – only $10 – nothing extra.”
I talked to Gary and also Alice, who had been crying after one of her semi-annual spats with
Andreas.
Grandpa Nat gets no better, and I guess I’ve pretty much accepted the fact that the man I knew
is gone. Perhaps this will make is death, whenever it comes, a bit easier to adjust to.
I’m practically ready to leave for Bread Loaf. I spent several hours getting my manuscripts in
order today. I’m going to have to buy a few things tomorrow, but I’ve got pretty much
everything.
Part of me wishes I could stay here and be comfortable in familiar surroundings for the next
two weeks. I hate leaving my routines, I worry about missing my mail, and about having to
share a room with a strange person (for example, when can I be alone to exercise or, yes, to
masturbate?).
I’m not looking forward to the regimen of meals at specific hours and no bathroom to myself
and other barbarities – including lack of TV, radio and newspapers. I’m going to have to give
up some freedom and do things on other people’s schedules.
Actually, as I write this, I’m experiencing the sinking feeling that I will hate the Writers’
Conference. I don’t expect it to be very useful to my work. I couldn’t imagine Virginia Woolf of
Henry Miller or Joyce or Kafka or Proust or D. H. Lawrence going to something like Bread Loaf.
I’m not really excited about anyone on the staff. They’re all competent craftsmen and
craftswomen, but no one who astounds me. (I can’t even read John Gardner – and until recently,
when I heard the name I would invariably think first of the Common Cause guy.)
And I dread the seven-hour bus ride, and the hour before it, and the hour it will take to get to
the Bread Loaf campus. I’ve always had a phobia about traveling.
[492]
Now I don’t expect to have any serious panic (I expect mild anxiety attacks, but I’ll survive
them, and re-experiencing them will probably do me some good). But it’s the annoyance of it all.
I know that another part of me loves the sense of adventure involved, though. And if I don’t
like it there, I can always get the next bus home.
4 PM. I’ve just been reading over my diary entries for the first three months of 1971. I was
practically rolling on the floor with laughter at my attitudes and what I thought was important.
But aside from being sophomoric (which is altogether fitting, considering I was a college
sophomore at the time), my writing is filled with a delightful naïveté and innocence.
Those were wonderful times: I was falling in love for the first time, I was a big shot in student
government, I had nothing to do but schoolwork and attending to the romantic lives of others.
Things were so simple then. Nixon and the war was bad; anyone who was against you was a
“fascist”; nobody had heard of decadence; you either loved somebody or you didn’t; no one
worked or bothered to think that someday the boom would end.
For me, and I think for the others I mention in the diary – Shelli, Ronna, Ivan, Elspeth, Elihu,
Jerry, Leon and the countless others I keep name-dropping – it was a magical time of being half-
child and half-adult, of having no responsibilities and no burdens.
The things I fretted about back then now seem so absurd, yet somehow touching – and the joys
of discovering personhood seem fresher than ever.
I’m impressed at the readability of my 1971 diary, and I’m more than ever convinced that I have
the raw material of a fine novel, if only I could find the right form.
The Hamilton Years was perhaps only a fledgling effort to see if I could get all the material down
on paper. I must soon attempt a second version of the novel. For half a year I haven’t been able
to read through the first version – but now I’m so far removed from the actual events of 1971-
1973 that I can work on transforming them into fiction with more perspective.
I do have a nice little story about growing up in college, and it’s just possible that it may be of
interest to others.
Reading my diary from five and a half years ago was kind of spooky in that I wonder how I got
from there to here. And it struck me that I’d love to re-live those days; in fact, if I were allowed
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Richard Grayson
to live my entire life over again, doing the same things I did, I wouldn’t hesitate a minute before
saying, “Yes, I’ll do it!”
I fell asleep watching The Blue Angel last night and woke early today, breakfasted, cleaned,
went marketing and then into the city to see The Ritz, which was good for several chuckles.
Caaron wrote me again, and I enjoy her letters. She’s been depressed over having no job; I think
it’s the old out-of-college blues. Caaron sent me a photo of herself, and while she cautioned that
she doesn’t “look so fuzzy in real life,” I can see she’s pretty in a dark, petite way. I wrote her
back already. As always, am I too obvious?
Also, the main brought my final transcripts from BC; I have indeed graduated with an MFA –
and with a 3.83 index, it turns out. I’d love to take courses again this fall; I noticed that the
Queens College adult education program is offering a certificate in gerontology, and that might
be worth looking into.
I’ve always been interested in old people because of the special relationship I’ve had with my
grandparents. I can sense a lot of changes to come in my life, and by now I’ve almost convinced
myself that the family moving to Florida may be the best thing that could happen.
For I’ll be forced to live on my own and support myself; otherwise I might not have attempted it
so soon. (Really, so late.) The idea of living alone, taking care of myself and being a real adult
at last is very exciting.
4 PM. I feel kind of down – not depressed, just a bit sad. I got a course at the School of Visual
Arts and I turned down two courses at St. Peter’s College in Jersey City in the hopes that I can
get two CUNY courses, either at Brooklyn, Kingsborough or Queensborough. I have been
reappointed at BC, and there seem to be enough courses so that I could teach two – or at least
one.
This adjunct business is a terribly nerve-wracking way to live. What if I did myself in by
turning down the courses at St. Peter’s? I wish I knew what I was doing.
The president of the School of Visual Arts, David Rhodes, was a blue-jeaned man not much
older than I am. We had a pleasant talk and I made a good impression, and he approved me to
teach Humanities 108, Tuesdays and Thursdays, 9 AM to 10:20 AM.
The course pays $1,200, which is very good. I’ll have to commute in the rush hour two days a
week, but I suppose I’ll manage.
[494]
It was a cool day, almost unnaturally cool, and today I didn’t feel the same pleasure as I did in
the hint of fall’s arrival as I did yesterday.
On the way back from Visual Arts, I dropped by Taplinger to see Wes, who showed me the
manuscripts he was working on, one of his last projects before he leaves.
Taplinger is gearing up for their fall season; they’ve got Scott’s book and another novel, which
is a book club selection – and now With Hitler in New York is just another book from last season.
Small press publishing is so much more humane. It hit me today – and this is the cause of my
sadness – that Taplinger never really intended to push my book. They’ve been amused by the
publicity I’ve gotten, but nothing more than that, not really.
Even if People comes out with a rave review, that won’t sell any copies. They never got the book
to the bookstores and now it’s too late. I wonder if I could buy the paperback rights to my book
and publish it under my own imprint.
The only way my book could ever make it is in paperback – and I think I could do a good job by
myself. I tried so hard this summer and I did get results, but not good enough results.
It’s hard for me to think that I’ve failed and realistically I know that I haven’t. But now summer
dreams turn into autumn reality, and I’ve got to get back to teaching. I don’t mind; I’m looking
forward to my class at Visual Arts.
Yet I feel I’m in for the biggest letdown of my life. I’m scared. I have to worry now about
paying rent and bills of all kinds and shopping and cleaning and everything.
Well, maybe it’s for the best. I might start writing again. I guess my efforts to promote With
Hitler in New York are coming to an end. As I said, maybe I can go back to writing now.
Hey, I got a letter from the Virginia Center for the Creative Arts; the mansion at Mount Saint
Angelo burned to the ground a few weeks ago. No one, thank God, was injured, but some
Fellows lost everything they’d brought with them: manuscripts, clothing, personal effects.
If I had gone there as scheduled, I would have lost all my diaries. So stop being a gloomy
Grayson, Grayson. You appear to be leading a charmed life. I think I’m going to make a
contribution to help the people who lost things in the fire.
Susan Lawton sent me the sheet that someone printed the Page Six article on; it’s the work of a
nut who doesn’t know me. I called him and he said he just thought that it was a funny article
that illustrated one of his crazy points.
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Richard Grayson
Judith Appelbaum, co-author of How to Get Happily Published, wrote that she’s going to use my
story of the letter I sent to Harry Hoffman of Waldenbooks in their next edition of the book.
Jerry Lowenstein canceled our lunch today, which was just as well.
10 PM. A good deal has happened in the two days since my pen has last met these pages.
(Pompous opening?) I’m tired now, but it’s a triumphant weariness because I’ve been busy and
life is going on.
Yesterday morning I was awakened by a call from Louis Strick, president of Taplinger
Publishing. He’d received my letter (“your diffident letter,” he called it) and the newspaper
article and a few stories that I’d sent him.
He explained that he took over Taplinger a year ago and is changing it from a house dependent
upon library sales into a trade publisher. He asked me to come to his office at Union Square; I
met him today at 2 PM.
Louis Strick is a handsome, instantly likable man of 53 (though he looks much younger). He
said he responded to the Brooklyn Jewish themes in my work; he grew up on Avenue D and
East 46th Street, went to P.S. 208 and was in the second graduating class at Midwood.
He got involved in publishing because he’s always been interested in writing. He and Arthur
Cohn were the first to publish Goodbye, Columbus and Gaddis’s The Recognitions in paperback.
He’s married for the second time and has a five-year-old daughter; from his first marriage he
has a son, Wesley, who writes for Rolling Stone (who will be joining him as an editor) and a
daughter, Ivy, my age (whose first novel he’s publishing this fall).
He’s friends with people like John Ashbery and Ted Solotaroff. He explained that Taplinger has
always operated in the black, and now that he’s in the driver’s seat, he intends to turn it into a
major independent publisher – in the face of the concentration of conglomerate takeovers and
“bottom-line” decisions.
“I take risks – calculated ones,” he said, “and I can afford to publish books that I like.” He
showed me his fall/winter catalogue, which seems fine; it’s obvious he cares a great deal about
the books he publishes, like an old-time Alfred Knopf or Bennett Cerf.
Mr. Strick told me I was “very talented” and that I shouldn’t worry about not writing a novel:
“If you write good stories, that’s fine.” I guess he thinks my work is saleable; he’s more
optimistic than I am.
[496]
I gave him all my published stories in my binder, and he’s going to read them over the weekend
in Fire Island. If he likes them, he’ll get in touch with me next week.
Being with Louis Strick was an interesting and pleasant experience even if nothing comes of it –
which is what I have to believe will happen.
I’ve got to be complacent about this because real life isn’t supposed to work out this way. I
never expected a New York trade publisher would ever want to touch me – not, at least, until I
was more established in the small presses.
And you’re supposed to go through a zillion rejections; the head of a publishing firm isn’t
supposed to contact you. It’s very dreamlike. I can’t believe he thinks I’m that good.
Secretly, you see, I feel that if I had a book published with Taplinger I’d be a real writer. I mean,
I’m beginning to feel disdainful toward the small presses already. No, not disdainful – if it
weren’t for little magazines, I’d be nowhere.
But I can’t help feeling This is the real world, a business, not something subsidized by the
government or a university or an art-loving individual.
Oh, I can’t think about it anymore at all – not one more word.
I had two brilliant classes on The Metamorphosis and The Fox last night and tonight; I’ve been
very pleased with my class (which is now two-thirds of the way through the term).
Grandma Ethel may have to stay in the hospital beyond next week, and that’s making it rough
on Grandpa Herb, who’s not taking care of himself well.
Dad went to see the chief of neck surgery at Brookdale, and I think this doctor will do the
operation, but he’s going on vacation next week.
I’ve been writing, oddly enough, and it’s been 95°each day. I feel a bit like a stranger towards
myself.
4 PM. So much has happened in the last 24 hours. It’s all a blur, really, and there’s no time for
anything to sink in, but I’m sure these events and the impressions I have of them will be with
me for a long time.
After writing yesterday’s entry, I smoked some hash with Bob and Charles, then fell into a sort
of restful semi-sleep. At 5 PM David came back, and I persuaded him to drive into town. It was
[497]
Richard Grayson
a relief to get back to the real world. I hadn’t realized (how did I miss it?) that we are on the top
of a mountain.
The drive into town was fun; we smoked a joint on the way and that really relaxed me. The sun
had come out by the time we pulled into town, and that made it pleasant.
Middlebury is so beautiful; it makes you think you’re in some kind of fantasy place. The stores
on Main Street are so neat and snug, whether it’s the health food place or the drugstore with a
real soda fountain and popcorn machine or the boutiques.
We stopped in at Lazarus’ Clothing Store, where David looked at the jackets, comparing them
to the ones he and his father make; I know that syndrome.
There’s a creek running right across Main Street, and it’s beautiful to stand on the bridge and
watch the water flow on the glistening rocks. We stopped at Tony’s Pizza for some drinks.
I think it’s cute that even here, there are such obvious ethnic types like Lazarus and Tony doing
their thing. Vermonters impress me with their courtesy and their progressiveness – there are no
roadside billboards and the soda cans have press-ins, not flip-tops, and there’s a five-cent
refund on the aluminum.
David and I ate in the Rosebud Café, a marvelously hip place with a nice atmosphere: stained
glass, weathered wood, antique stoves. I had a sandwich that was delicious, white meat turkey
with mayo and lettuce on pumpernickel in a basket of potato chips and pickles. I had Red
Zinger herb tea, and they served it with honey, not sugar.
The drive back to Bread Loaf was so relaxing, I couldn’t believe it. Driving really fast on the
curves was exhilarating and David’s tapes were playing and the sun was setting and I felt better
than I had since coming here.
We made it back to the Little Theater just in time for John Irving’s reading of the start of his
forthcoming novel The World According to Garp, which sounds like it will be hilarious; I wasn’t
bored for a minute. I walked back in the dark with Kevin, Bob and Charles.
Traipsing up the road to Gilmore somehow reminded me of that recurring scene in Buñuel’s
The Discreet Charm of the Bourgeoisie. I looked up and was amazed – almost intoxicated – by so
many bright stars, something I’d never seen before in my life.
Last night I went down to the study with Rick and Greg and David, and we sat by the fire and
read each other’s work. I think it’s neat to be living in a house where twelve guys in their
twenties are all reading To the Lighthouse. (Idea for story: A dozen guys, each reading a different
Virginia Woolf novel, are living in a house in the woods. Title: “Virginia Woolf Is For Lovers.”)
[498]
I slept well, and although I had an attack of severe nausea this morning, it didn’t last long. Carl
Dennis (who showed me his Braziller-published poetry books) drove to the “main” campus and
I had breakfast with Leslea Newman.
I attended each lecture today. Toni Morrison spoke about a “useable past” in fiction and read
from the new Song of Solomon. Marvin Bell gave a brilliant lecture on receptivity being
important to creativity and seemed to stress instinct, readiness, and continuous working – he
said the more you do something, the better you get at it.
John Gardner got me appropriately riled with his talk of “Moral Fiction,” attacking post-
modernist textured fiction (Gass, Barthelme, Sukenick, Barth) for not having any values or
philosophy at bottom.
I had a discussion group with John Gardner from

2 PM to 3:30 PM and he was fascinating; I did my share of talking and got him to admit that he
was using overkill, that of course texture is important – but only if it’s “in service” (my words,
with which he agreed) to character, plot and values.
Gardner is a strange-looking man with that Veronica Lake-like blond hair but he’s sweet and
smart, and he’s leading me to rethink some of my preexisting ideas about fiction. And that’s
good.
4 PM. I didn’t work today either. Last night Mr. Farber called while I was out and then I called
him twice and he wasn’t in, so we never got together, which is probably just as well.
I haven’t been feeling well all week: just krenks, nothing serious, but I really didn’t feel up to
going to Far Rockaway this morning.
Later today I have an Alumni Association Finance Committee meeting; I got a notice last week
from David Pollard that it will be held in Ira Harkavy’s law offices. But I don’t think I shall go.
I hate to give in to my sinusitis (the pressure behind one eye is driving me crazy) but I don’t feel
like giving much of myself to committee meetings today.
I did not stay up to watch the balloting for President last light; it was obvious that Gerald Ford
would be nominated, which he was, at about 2 AM, by a rather small (as these things go) over
Ronald Reagan.
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Richard Grayson
Reagan and his “running mate” Sen. Schweiker held a tearful press conference today to thank
supporters; it was quite touching in a way. It must be hard to devote a year or more of your life
in question of something only to have it denied by a narrow victory by the other side.
Ford picked Kansas Sen. Bob Dole as his candidate for Vice President; it was somewhat of a
surprise, and it will probably make for a rather dull campaign. One of the reasons I plan on
skipping the Alumni meeting is that I want to watch the acceptance speeches tonight.
I slept well, and I had one particularly pleasant dream in which Ronna presented me with a
baby. Does a paternal instinct actually exist somewhere within my foolish heart?
Gary called from his sister’s house last evening and he said he’d never been happier in his life.
He and Betty have found their “dream apartment” in a North Brunswick development and
they’ve set a date – October 10th – for their wedding.
Gary loves his job and he’ll be moving into his new apartment next month, with Betty following
after their wedding. I used to put down Gary’s dreams of connubial bliss in suburbia, but it
seems to be what he needs.
I almost wish I were Gary and could be satisfied with something like that. But for now, I’m
willing to risk loneliness, financial instability and emotional security to get where I want to go,
to do what I want to do.
Basically I’m doing that right now. Alice phoned yesterday and put June on the phone; June is
now working at Seventeen too. June is Steve Sasanoff’s brother Richard’s wife and the editor of
the Flatbush Tenant, a newspaper distributed to tenants (who else?) in buildings in – you
guessed it – Flatbush.
She had asked Alice to do an article on Junior’s Restaurant, but Alice won’t be able to do it
because her brother is coming in for the weekend.
So I said I’d do it, and this morning I went down to Junior’s to interview the Rosen brothers,
owners of the place since it opened in 1951. They weren’t very cooperative, and the 1,000-word
article I’ve written is a puff piece – but it’s supposed to be, June tells me.
Also, I’ve fictionalized a customer and a waitress who gave me very quote quotes. I’m sure
Alice’s article would have been a dozen times better. It’s very hard for me to write that kind of
an article.
Fiction is a lot easier; in this kind of piece, my voice is strained and somewhat unnatural. Still,
I’m supposed get $25 if they print it, and that’s pretty good.
[500]
8 PM. Today was dark and cool, although it’s clearing now, just as the sun is being lost. I look
out my window and see only a few wispy dark clouds. The street lights are already on.
I spent all day today indoors, reading when I wasn’t exercising, eating, or flossing my teeth. (I
have to go to the dentist tomorrow and I don’t want to hear a lecture about how bad my gums
are.)
The summer is ending; my tan is fading; already kids like my cousins Wendy and Jeffrey are
returning from camp. Night falls earlier now.
I was just imagining how it must be on Bread Loaf Mountain now. In some respects I wish I
was back there again this year. It’s a very pure kind of life, there in the woods. I regret having
not gotten away all this summer.
As I mentioned, I’ve been reading an awful lot: criticism of Katherine Anne Porter, Richard
Wright and Carson McCullers for teaching the last three short novels in class, and Jerry
Klinkowitz’s criticism in The Life of Fiction.
The more I read, the less well-read I discover I am. I’d love to read more Porter and Wright
(I’ve read all of McCullers’ books) and I need to read for myself the books of Ishmael Reed,
Hunter S. Thompson, Michael Stephens and others.
With no Sunday papers to distract me, I’ve gotten a great deal done. I’ve been making notes for
my teaching, too. And I’ve even been writing a bit: nothing great, but the mind is flowing
smoothly.
I’ve been so absent-minded with everyday things, however. I’ve been giving $2 to pay $3
checks at Junior’s; I let the elevator pass my floor at LIU without getting off; last night I left the
freezer door open and all the ice cream melted.
I am beginning to express to myself my doubts about going to Albany, and I need to resolve
them. In a way, I almost hope that Louis Strick reluctantly decides he can’t get enough good
material for Taplinger to publish my book, for that would make it so much easier to go to
Albany.
I made the decision to move because there was nothing else for me to do; it looked as though I
was just going to continue to publish in little magazines for no money and little recognition,
with LIU a dead end, and living with my parents getting intolerable.
I can’t, of course, say how I’ll feel when Mr. Strick turns me down, but I hope I will take it
philosophically: easy come, easy go. And it does seem too easy to be really worthwhile.
[501]
Richard Grayson
This is known as “preparing yourself to get bad news” – or maybe it’s sour grapes in advance. I
do, really, want to keep myself honest. Bruce Springsteen keeps himself honest by playing
Buddy Holly just before he goes on at a concert.
I should read more work by writers I admire, like Kafka. Maybe in graduate school in Albany, I
can get it together; personally and career-wise, being away might give me enough distance to
begin a novel.
I could very easily see myself becoming jaded and shrill and unbearable if fame and/or fortune
came too quickly. Or is Albany a cop-out, a way to hide from the world and my place in it?
Yes, I do have mixed feelings about having a book published; it would complicate an already
too-complicated situation. I’d have to start being a real adult.
Which reminds me, it’s just about ten years ago that my breakdown began. I remember that
skinny little 17-year-old kid from 1968: he was so fucked-up and he was a coward, but I don’t
blame him for retreating from the world.
I’m hardly in touch with what he/I felt ten years ago. I didn’t begin my diary until August 1969,
remember? When I finally complete a whole decade of these pages, when I come to the diary
page marked August 1, 1979, where will I be then?
4 PM. I’ve just come back from that job interview at New York City Community College. I
stopped in first to visit Dad’s cousin Dean Fred Klanit, who was very friendly.
In passing, he mentioned that he keeps a file on adjuncts who teach more than two courses at
CUNY; it’s a bad idea “because it puts a black mark next to your name.”
I was interviewed for an hour by Fannie Eisenstein, Dean of Continuing Education and
Extension Services, as well as three others. I think I made a reasonably good presentation, but
I’m sure I don’t want the job of Evening Coordinator.
There’s a great deal of detailed work involved, and I’d end up becoming just another
administrative bureaucrat. Also, the salary isn’t great, there are no benefits, and I would have
to stay virtually alone in the building at night.
They told me they weren’t considering women for the job because of “the frequency of purse-
snatchings and sexual assaults.” I don’t like the area near the school in downtown Brooklyn
and I have no business wasting my creative energies on such a job.
[502]
I’ve got to realize that there are going to be offers for jobs and fellowships that I cannot accept;
it’s a lot better than if it were the other way around.
Last night I arrived at Josh’s before 8:30 PM and I waited for him and Simon to come back from
dinner. Simon was hired as the night cook at Parker’s, a new overpriced French restaurant on
Atlantic Avenue.
I drove Simon home, as he didn’t want to come with us to Manhattan. His neighborhood is
frightening at night; I didn’t even like driving through it.
Josh and I parked in the Village and walked around for an hour. We ran into Helene, a friend of
Simon’s, and chatted with her.
She went to Visual Arts and said that most students won’t take my course very seriously. They
all think they’re super-hip, which makes me a little nervous. (Last night I had my first anxiety
attack about teaching there.)
Josh and I went to Kenny’s Castaways, and by chance they seated Josh and me near the tables
where Wes, Marla and their friends were sitting. Marla brought out a copy of my book and I
autographed it for Jack, that guy I met last fall that Saturday when Wes and I were editing the
stories.
We sat through several horrendous acts; each performer seemed to be a parody of himself.
When Wes finally got on, I was glad to hear Josh say that he was okay; I know nothing about
music and it’s hard for me to separate my feelings for a friend and an objective appraisal of his
talents.
Wes’s songs, like Springsteen’s, haunt me. I love his rich images and his piano playing and his
hip, soulful voice. But maybe that’s only because it’s Wes. If I’m not in love with him, I’m
pretty close to it; all afternoon I had a sort of dull but pleasant ache when I thought about his
playing tonight.
Later Wes asked me about the Village Voice Bulletin Board ad and he laughed when I told him
about it. At the end of the evening I kissed and hugged Marla. I can’t help feeling very fond of
her, and I know her friendship toward me is genuine because she’s one of those rare people
who are guileless.
It was a nice drive home last night, dropping Josh off in the Heights and then heading down
Ocean Parkway. I love Brooklyn in the summer, especially late at night when it’s quiet and few
people are about.
[503]
Richard Grayson
No review in this week’s People. I am saddened by the knowledge that nothing more will
happen with my book. It’s getting too close to fall to get reviews in newspapers and magazines.
I would have loved to have the satisfaction of seeing just one copy of my book in a store or a
library, though.
I haven’t sent out any letters in days, and I feel rather discouraged.
3 PM. It’s a dark August Vermont day. I’m alone in the house now, sitting in the parlor. The
remains of a fire are crackling and a rare car has just passed by the dirt road in front of the
house. I can hear birds singly sharply.
Charles estimated that this house and the property around it would be worth from $20,000 to
$30,000 on the open market. It’s strange for me to be here, lying on this sofa, the breeze from
the open door startling my leg. I feel peaceful.
This week at Bread Loaf has been good for me, I think. Perhaps I haven’t exploited the
Conference staff and my position as a Scholar. I have barely spoken to John Gardner or Stanley
Elkin (who’s dying of multiple sclerosis like the character in his last novel) or Mark Strand or
Charles Simic (who told me he just got a card from Jon Baumbach in England).
And my work hasn’t really gotten criticized by anyone. But still, I’ve taken advantage of other
things that Bread Loaf has to offer.
The multiplicity of writers, good and bad, published and unpublished, young and old, male
and female, has made me realize that I’m certainly not alone. That is both a relief and a
discomfort.
The relief comes from knowing all these wonderful, sensitive people who are struggling, as I
am, to express themselves and to perfect their craft. But the fact that my quest is shared by
many others also makes me feel less unique, and invariably, less special.
My voice is my own, true, but there are so many here who are just as good or better than I am
that I despair of ever gaining recognition for my writing.
So what if I’ve published thirty stories in literary magazines? Tim O’Brien published a novel
when he was younger than I am, and the novel was well-reviewed and made money and is
taught.
Still, who is Tim O’Brien? I just passed him walking back here on a narrow trail in the woods.
He was sitting on plank over a stream with that witty divorced teacher from Plymouth.
[504]
Tim O’Brien isn’t great; even John Gardner isn’t a great writer. (Tim told me he shares that view
about John.) But I can’t believe that a writer has to be great or he’s a failure. If I end up
believing that, I will end up frustrated and bitter.
I will settle for little successes and try to be the best writer of whatever it is that I write that I am
capable of being. Probably some people’s dreams of literary stardom have been shattered here; I
heard that Gardner told some people to just give up writing.
I never expected to be a superstar, though I’ve wished for it, and while it troubled me an hour
ago when the agent Richard Marek told his audience that short story collections are impossible
to sell, it was no surprise to me, not even when he said that the stories “must have appeared in
The New Yorker, Harpers and Playboy and not in places like the Transatlantic Review.” Ha, that’s
my most prestigious publication.
Hilma Wolitzer’s lecture was quite useful to me. She started “late,” at 35, and she’s lived a very
quiet and ordinary middle-class Jewish life in Brooklyn and Long Island, a life that must be
similar to the sedate life I’ve led.
But she said one did not have to experience the unusual to write about it; we are all unique and
some of us have great imaginations. The important thing, she said, is to be the kind of person
whom nothing gets by, on whom nothing is lost.
Maxine Kumin lectured on workshops and exercises in poetry – that was useful to me, too, I
think.
I had lunch after Kumin’s lecture (I couldn’t touch the chipped beef because the look of it was
repulsive) and then went to hear editor and independent publisher Richard Marek.
I feel like I’m storing up psychic energy here that will be released in the stories I write when I
get back to Brooklyn and resume my routines.
The summer is almost over; indeed, with my crew-neck sweater and my sweatshirt, I already
feel that it’s fall. I think it’s been a good summer – the best one ever, perhaps – in spite of
myself.
Life has a way of forcing you to grow up.
5 PM. I don’t quite understand what’s going on in my life, and I feel at a loss to cope with the
changes. It’s obvious something is up with the Farber job. I guess he’s decided to fire me, but I
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wonder why he hasn’t told me of his decision and why I haven’t received the money owed to
me.
I shall call him tomorrow night definitely – unless I hear from him sooner. I’d really prefer not
to work tomorrow anyway, as June called again last night and said she’d pay me $15 if I do a
story on the Fiction Collective.
Tomorrow I have to write it and get photos she can use in the paper. It shouldn’t be too hard to
write the article, and I do need the money badly.
Right now, in terms of money, I’m basically back to where I started four weeks ago. I have $125
in the bank now; these past few weeks I’ve been spending eight or nine dollars a day and this
has got to stop.
For one thing, I’ve got to limit dining out. I know I treasure the times when I can go to a
restaurant and be alone, but I’ve got to sacrifice that so I can make my money go further.
Maybe I’ll stop buying the newspaper every day and cut down on buying books. I’ve got to
reserve most of my money for my work: xeroxing stories, buying paper and supplies and
postage stamps.
And movies over three dollars are out. If I can hold myself to a tight budget, I may be able to
make it until. . . until whatever happens, happens.
It destroys me inside every week to see Marc’s $75 unemployment check arrive. What I could
do on $75! I could live like a king. And Marc does nothing and makes even more money by
drug dealing. He flashes around $20 bills like crazy.
And he bitches to Jonny for my asking him for five dollars for food shopping last week, saying
I’m “cheap.” When you work for an hour and you know you’re going to paid only three dollars
for it, you tend to get cheap.
Five years ago I had $40 a week and I didn’t know where to spend it all. Now I’m sorry that
Dad was so generous with my allowance then; it’s made it that much harder to adjust to the
way I have to live now.
I went for a job interview at Redbook today – as a full-time clerk/typist at $130 a week – but I
failed the typing test, doing only 43 words a minute with ten mistakes.
I feel ashamed to have failed, even though I probably wouldn’t have been suited to the job at all
if typing was all that was involved. Failure is a difficult thing to accept in oneself, to say “I have
failed” and not try to water the phrase down.
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Maybe I did fail the typing test, but that proved only one thing: that I cannot type as well as
Redbook wants their employees to type. It is no reflection on me as a person. (Saying that seems
so obvious. Then why can’t I trust it?)
Gary phoned last night. He wanted to make sure I wasn’t hurt about his not having asked me
to be his attendant: “But with three brothers-in-law and a cousin who can afford the tuxedo
rental. . .“ he started, and I interrupted him:
“Gary, you know me, I’m thrilled just to be a guest at your wedding. I don’t care about
ceremony.”
Of course I’m relieved not to be a part of the thing. (Is that totally true? Would I have liked to
be asked, anyway?) I’m glad I can wear my suit again. (Yes, on the whole I am very glad not to
be an usher.)
Bill Hudson of Dogsoldier wrote me that “The Unknown” will definitely appear in his sixth
issue, sometime after the first of next year; that’s something to be grateful for.
I was perhaps more productive this past week than ever before, yet today I feel totally bereft of
creativity and writing talent. Why am I so hard on myself?
Things are so up in the air now, and I don’t have the familiar to hold onto anymore, not
Brooklyn College or my family or my home or Ronna or Gary or a teaching job.
And still, after eight years, I still fear another breakdown.
5 PM. Today it’s been raining and bone-chillingly cold, more like the end of November than the
end of August. I really would like to get on a bus to New York tomorrow. I’m bored by now,
and after today I feel I’ve accomplished everything I wanted to at Bread Loaf.
Yesterday afternoon I fell asleep on the couch downstairs and later Charles came in and we
bullshitted for a while. He says he’d like to work on a fashion magazine and he told me that the
trouble with Vietnam was that we didn’t go in there to win.
I imagine a lot of young people are pretty conservative today. In 1969, when I was subject to the
draft and marching against the war, guys like Charles and Kevin were only 11 or 12, and there’s
a big difference between us. I don’t think they perceive me as an older person, though they kid
me about it.
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Actually, I’m at a peculiar age. I don’t quite have all the trappings of adulthood around me, but
I’m far from being a college kid. If I teach again this fall – I hope to – doubtless I’ll find that my
students have gotten still younger than they were last year and the year before. But white,
upper-middle-class kids like Charles and Kevin are pretty different from my students at LIU.
Dinner last night was filet of sole, and I didn’t touch it. I probably would have lost weight here,
but to compensate for all the poor meals, I’ve been loading up on sugars and starches.
I sat outside the Inn with Kristy Rogoff last night; we showed each other the contents of our
wallets. Kristy is sweet, but she seems younger than she actually is.
Later, I met some old lady from Brooklyn, a retired high school teacher who was once a short
story writer – she got honorable mention in a ‘40s Story Magazine contest that Norman Mailer
won – and now is working on her poetry, which is probably bad.
She gave me the password “Sholem Aleichem,” and when I responded warmly, she said, “A
landsman, eh?” I’m almost ashamed to say how pleased I was to meet another Brooklyn Jew. It
shouldn’t be that Jews are sort of a secret club with its own password and special handshake
like the Phi Beta Kappa one Prof. Fife taught me, but I like the sound of Yiddish.
And Hilma Wolitzer’s reading – from her novel about middle-class New York Jews – also made
me feel good. Hearing about lifestyles and characters familiar to me got me thinking about my
parents and grandparents and friends and Brooklyn stuff.
We went to the Barn afterwards, to an Elvis Memorial Pre-‘60s Dance, but I was a little too tired
to get into it, though I did get pleasure out of watching Alice and David rock-‘n’-roll together.
After French toast this morning, I went to John Irving’s workshop, which was fairly interesting,
and then to Geoffrey Wolff’s, a nonfiction one, which also was pretty good. Richard Marek, the
literary agent, was leaving for New York, and I had to restrain myself from shouting “Take me
with you!” as he got in his car.
Miriam from Texas and I sat outside the Inn and sang, “I wanna go home” and played with
Dudley, a cute little boy who assured me that I would not melt in the rain. After lunch, I went
back to the Barn with Marie Flagg, another fiction writer, and Leslea Newman, who’s really
cool.
So far there’s been only one nervous breakdown here, but he came back and is now rooming
with the staff psychologist. This afternoon Tim O’Brien read, as did two other Fellows, and I
caught a lift back in Greg’s Jeep.
I’m definitely going to leave tomorrow. There’s nothing more for me to do here. I’ve gotten way
more than my $135 worth and I’ve enjoyed it, but enough’s enough.
[508]
3 PM. I’m feeling less depressed today. By a freak of nature, we actually had some sun for a
few hours on a Saturday, so I sat out for an hour.
My throat feels better, and I slept well, except when I got up in the middle of the night and felt
like Anthony Newley singing, “What kind of fool am I / Who never fell in love?”
The other night I wrote a letter to Bill-Dale after reading his first letter in my diary from last
year. He surprised me by writing back.
He and Chuck (who got thrown out of his own parents’ house) were both also thrown out of
Bill-Dale’s parents’ house. I guess they’re lovers and it was too much for the parents to handle.
Bill-Dale is living, incongruously, at a friend’s fraternity house at Rutgers until the semester
starts, and Chuck is living in a nearby dorm for international exchange students.
Anyway, Bill-Dale enclosed a New Jersey Monthly magazine article about himself and send he
wants Wes to send him a copy of my book. (He says Wes “sounds cool.”)
Bill-Dale wants me to come to visit him, but his timing is lousy. He starts school next week, and
I’ll be busy starting this week. He writes, “You are by far the most interesting person I have
ever encountered.”
Anyway, I see now that a guy who was so hesitant to have sex with me is having a romantic
love affair (getting thrown out of parents’ houses must make it seem that much more romantic)
– while I remain unloving and unloved.
But what the hell, right? I’ll find someone eventually.
Of course I’m seeing Ronna tonight and that also triggers memories – and she’s got a lover now,
too. And I don’t.
But I have a full life, more invitations than I can handle, and after all, both Bill-Dale and Ronna
have to be at least somewhat interested in me as a person.
Dad’s been away for nearly two weeks and he seems to be doing fairly well in Florida working
for Ivan’s family. I miss Dad, of course, but I have not really noticed his absence because I’ve
been so busy and because so much else in my life remains the same.
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On some level, I’ve been pretending that Dad’s dead – not because I wish he were, but to see if I
could adjust to that tragedy. But of course it’s not the same because even though Dad isn’t here
anymore, I know I could always see him if I wanted to.
Dad may be coming up next week anyway, to see about taking on another line as a salesman;
then Mom will go down to Florida with him for a while.
I’ve got to get moving in my search for an apartment. It would be so much easier if I knew
where I’d be working and how much money I’ll have coming in.
Mom bought me a digital alarm clock today. I’m going to have to adjust to getting up at 6:30
AM to get to Manhattan on time. Since I’ve been sleeping as late as I’ve wanted to for the past
six months, waking up early may prove difficult. At least I won’t have to compete with anyone
for the bathroom at that hour.
I spoke with Alice, who’s excited about the house on Capitol Hill that she and her brother are
planning to buy as a shrewd investment. Alice will eventually be so wealthy she won’t know
what to do with all her money.
I got an odd letter from Cosmo editor Myra Appleton. I’d asked her to review my book, and she
wrote back, saying she would be happy to look at any article I wrote on speculation.
I wrote to Rita Mae Brown and Terence Winch, both of whom review books for the Washington
Post; perhaps they would be interested in seeing Hitler. I got a strange card from Opal Nations
in Italy and some nice words from Thomas Michael Fisher of Star-Web Paper.
I wish there was some word from Avis as to when she’s planning to arrive in New York.
This looks as if it’s going to be a busy and exciting week. Maude will be coming back after three
weeks’ vacation and hopefully our regular mailman will return from vacation, too. Odd how
one gets accustomed to routines.
6 PM. Last night I felt restless even though I got over the bad feelings I had yesterday. But I
somehow felt a bit unanchored as I walked along the boardwalk in Rockaway, up Beach 126th
Street and past Mason’s house.
There was a fog and the Ambrose Lighthouse was flashing. It was chilly enough that I had to
zip up my sweatshirt. The sand looked so new and there was so much of it (see, that’s what the
[510]
Army Corps of Engineers can do for you); somehow it seemed like a moonscape under the new
pinkish street lights.
The boardwalk and the benches were all new as well, and they smelled – well, they smelled like
this house smelled the first night Marc and I slept in it twenty years ago, just about this time of
year in 1958.
On CBS there was a special last night: 1968. They put it on especially for the tenth anniversary
of what they called the most decisive (and divisive) event of that year, the Chicago “police riot”
during the Democratic Convention.
I cried at the old footage as I’d cried when I first saw the scenes of the streets of Chicago in 1968.
That’s when my breakdown really took hold. Dr. Stein came over and prescribed Librium, bed
rest and hot baths.
Last night, watching the TV show, I got a new perspective on my feelings at that time. I was
young and against the war and of course I identified with the protesters who were being
clubbed so brutally.
But I was also very confused and guilty and very afraid of the world. Didn’t the pictures of
Chicago tell me, that neurotic 17-year-old, that the world was a horrible place?
Now that I look back, I see that Chicago in August ’68 had a lot to do with my not leaving the
house for nearly a year; it reinforced my agoraphobic feelings.
But it is late August 1978 now after all, and this morning, when the doorbell rang, and I was
awakened from a dream about getting rejections, I knew that downstairs a mailman had my
little book, Disjointed Fictions.
I went to the door half-naked and nearly signed the wrong form. It was half an hour before I
opened it because I was scared, but finally, in the presence of my parents, I did finally open the
package. And I was very pleased and still am at this moment.
It’s my book, Disjointed Fictions: from the transfer type that made the cover to the typing of each
letter of the stories. I was the one who selected the stories, placed them in the order I wanted,
wrote my biography on the back (though George, bless him, had it typeset really nicely).
George selected a nice red cover and a grey undercover and put a design, a small box
containing a hand with fingers crossed (symbolic of disjointed and hoping for the best), on the
front – that set off the otherwise dull lettering in the title and my name.
Mom and Dad liked the description – “To my parents, Mr. and Mrs. Grayson” – though they
didn’t quite get the joke (and I see where it’s a little hostile).
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My name on the spine was written facing up rather than down, but that’s a minor point. I
didn’t have any typos as far as I can see, and I’m proud of that.
I read the stories in the book and I am proud of them, too. I actually enjoyed every story; if I had
just stumbled upon this book, I would have said, “I wish I could write like this.”
So I am very proud. I don’t have anything to apologize for.
Also today, I welcomed Grandma Ethel home from the hospital, spoke to Ronna and Alice and
Gary, watched the new Pope (a fairly unknown Italian cardinal, now Pope John Paul I), felt a
cold coming on, and smiled a lot more than usual.
5 PM. A terribly gloomy day. They say the air quality is unhealthy, and I feel it. My sinuses
throb; I sleep leadenly. I awoke this morning filled with charley horse in my neck, my back, my
shoulders – the result of yesterday’s heavy lifting.
All night I had erections that made me so uncomfortable that finally I had to sleep without my
briefs. What I hate most is when I have a rock-hard erection and have to go to the bathroom
very badly at the same time:
I stand over the toilet, waiting for gravity to do its work, but more often than not, after several
minutes I still point to a spot on the ceiling and I have to urinate using really hard hand
pressure on my cock to keep from splattering all over the bathroom.
I don’t know why I’m writing about this.
Last evening I wrote a short and probably very poor story. I have very little inspiration these
days, but it doesn’t bother me. Yet there are times when I think I am not living if I am not
writing.
I spoke to Mandy last night when I called Mike’s house and he was in the shower. Mandy is
getting used to her new, better-paying job in a small office, but she says that she thinks life was
not meant to be lived traveling on the subways each day to work in Manhattan.
Everyone on the train looks so depressed in the morning, Mandy said, “But what can you do?
The money has to come from somewhere.”
[512]
She and Mike have taken a place for their wedding – Temple Sholom, in Mill Basin – a year
from tomorrow. Originally they had planned to wait until Mike has a job, but they realized that
could be quite a while and that they could make do on Mandy’s salary if need be.
The job situation today is very depressing. Mandy said she and Mike are happy that Mikey is
finally doing what he always wanted to do and is starting law school, but she said Stevie Cohn
graduated from law school in Philadelphia last year and the only job he could get was part-
time, a few hours a week at $5 an hour at a local law firm.
Mandy said that Mikey told her and Mike that he’s been going back and forth between his
apartment on West 23rd and the beach, and that Larry’s been looking for his own apartment.
When I told her I’d bought them an engagement present, Mandy yelled at me – typical of her.
She and Mike are so unpretentious and comfortable. One hesitates to predict this couple or that
one will be one of the few to make a marriage work, so I won’t. . .
This morning I awoke with great aches and pains, as I said, but after a shower-massage I felt
better. I went to the New York Public Library on 42nd Street, checked out their collection of
literary magazines, looked at an exhibit of early American manuscripts and literary curios, and
took out two more volumes of Anaïs Nin’s diaries, which I’m really getting into.
This afternoon I went to visit Grandma Ethel, who looks drawn and who has lost weight.
Grandpa Herb called the doctor while I was there, and the lab tests turned out well. Grandma
Ethel’s cholesterol is low, the x-rays clear, and there’s no trace of diabetes.
But the angina is very painful, a steel vise of pain in her chest, her shoulders, even her jaw. The
nitroglycerin tablets relieve the pain, but they give her headaches. We watched Dinah Shore
and then I left for home to join my parents for dinner at the Floridian.
It’s really depressing to watch the decline of our favorite neighborhood restaurant. Tonight it
was emptier than ever, and everyone there seems to be in a state of despair. Four years ago we
would have had to stand in line for twenty minutes before getting a table, but now all the
competition has taken their customers away.
8 PM. It was good to see Avis and Helmut yesterday. They had both just bought jeans and
boots. We went uptown to Teresa’s and on the way they told me about their trip.
Ellen and David have moved to this terrific farmhouse outside Charlottesville, on a very quiet
dirt road. Avis and Helmut arrived in the middle of a heat wave and there was a tornado that
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tore down a 100-year-old tree, knocked out the electricity, and moved an iron in their room
about ten feet.
Then the four of them went to the Outer Banks of North Carolina, where there was nothing to
do but lie in the sun. All of them got terribly sunburned and they were grateful that it rained on
the third day.
But Avis said she had a nice visit with her sister, and she repeated Ellen’s invitation for me to
come down and stay with them. I thought I might make the visit to Virginia with Elihu, but
Avis said Ellen thinks Elihu is such a night person, he might be very bored there, especially
with no TV.
Elihu had a pretty hard time visiting the McAllisters when they were living in Middlebury
(hard for me to understand after being there; I think it’s wonderful), so Ellen and David had to
spend all their time trying to entertain him.
Teresa wasn’t in when we arrived, but a note on the door told us to ring next door. Wanda, the
Haitian pianist who teaches at Rutgers, told us that Teresa and Jane, her old roommate from
Palo Alto, had just gone to the store for some groceries. Avis, Helmut and I sat in Wanda’s
living room as she graciously entertained us and told funny stories about faculty meetings.
Teresa and Jane finally got back from the store, and we had cheese and crackers and drinks.
Teresa’s grandfather finally died a couple of weeks ago and she had to go visit her grandmother
later that evening.
Grandpa Virgil died at home and it was pretty awful. Teresa said he looked like a monster the
last few days. But dying was all he wanted to do; at 87, he had just tired of life.
Don wasn’t around last night, for some reason. Jane, it turns out, works with him in the Times
Book Division, selling video cassettes to teachers – so that’s how Teresa met Don.
Jane is very sexy in a big-boned, freckled California way; she said she’d send me some
workbooks on teaching basic writing skills that might be valuable to me.
While I was chatting with Jane and Helmut, I could hear Teresa in the background telling Avis
about her problems with Don. His wife isn’t making it easy for him to get a divorce, and if she
ever finds out about Teresa, that will only make things worse.
Don’s daughters want to visit him in the city, so he’s either got to “borrow” a friend’s
apartment or else he and Teresa might get a bigger, three-bedroom place. (Teresa would stay in
Williamsburg with her parents when Don’s daughters come visit.)
[514]
But I think Teresa really likes her building. People kept dropping in: Lance from next door, to
borrow a pot (his roommate – lover? – Ari was cooking dinner); and Connie from downstairs
came by to check out Teresa’s new stereo.
Teresa said she’d tried to call me while I was in Vermont and Jonny just said, “Oh, he’s gone.”
Avis and Helmut said goodbye to Teresa, and she returned my camera, and the three of us went
downtown and had dinner (my idea, their treat) at 125 Prince Street in Soho.
Helmut has really gotten himself hooked on TV and I told him I’m going to test him on
commercial jingles. They gave me Libby’s tent and camping equipment, which I put in my
trunk so I can return it to Libby’s house when I’m in the Slope this week.
Helmut was anxious to take a ride on the Staten Island ferry, so we put the car on it. I hate the
ferry, but it really wasn’t so bad. I thought I might have an anxiety attack, but I didn’t even
though I tried to induce one. You really don’t feel any motion on the ferry at all.
We drove back over the Verrazano and I dropped them off at Avis’s parents’ apartment in
Sheepshead Bay. Back at home, I read the Sunday Times and finally fell asleep.
Helmut’s flight, which was supposed to leave tonight, was delayed until tomorrow morning by
the London air traffic controllers’ strike.
Avis phoned early this evening and we went to dinner at the Arch. She wanted to hear all
about Bread Loaf and I told her everything; it’s fun to be able to tell someone about my trip for a
change.
While we were waiting for a table, I noticed Ronna’s sister in the restaurant lobby. I went over
to kiss her hello, and I told her how beautiful she looked. She did – she’s tanned and she’s lost
weight; Sue’s face was always pretty.
She told me that they’ve moved, that she’s graduating BC in January as a Health Science major,
that she had a summer job at the city Health Department. Ronna, Sue said, was at Susan’s
house with Susan and Evan, and Mrs. C and her boyfriend went with Billy to Montauk on
vacation.
Of course, I didn’t mention Ronna to her sister; instead, I told Sue about Vermont, and when the
hostess called “Grayson” to say that our table was waiting, I just said, “Give my regards at
home.”
Over dinner, Alice told me about her nightmarish weekend in Washington. That guy she
corresponded with, Bill Hartford, has something wrong with him. His face, Alice said, was
actually so grotesque-looking that she couldn’t eat in his presence.
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He must look very gruesome – I can’t imagine it – but Alice said his face gave her nightmares.
Alice tried to be her natural irascible self (if she was kindly, Bill would have been even more
hurt) and let him down as gently as possible.
“It’s not a question of his being unattractive,” Alice said. “To me, he was repulsive.”
Good news, though: Doubleday is definitely interested in doing Alice’s book.
7 PM. It strikes me that I do not know how to proceed with my life. It is the end of August, the
end of the summer. Wednesday is September and where am I?
I have a whole week in front of me and absolutely no structure to it at all. I am not going to
school, I am not working, I am not traveling, I am not involved with anyone.
I write – but that’s not enough for me. Maybe if my family life were fixed, I could begin to
make decisions. But my parents and brothers are, if anything, more up in the air than I am on.
And we’re running through money with little appreciable income. If I were sure Dad and Mom
were moving to Florida by a fixed date, I would make plans. What plans, I don’t know.
For the first time in my life – with the exception of 1968, when I had my breakdown – I find
myself facing a September without classes and books and learning.
This is preposterous, I want to say. But that does no good, nor does my envy of Ronna
beginning graduate school or Mikey beginning law school.
Oh, I’m relatively certain I’m not going to crack up; no doubt I’ll fall into something. For one
thing, the lack of money makes doing something a necessity. But I’ve never lived life like that:
“falling into things.”
Thank the Lord I have my fiction and this diary to preserve my sanity. Oh, how does one go
about preparing oneself to be a cult figure? I want to be famous and rich and have admirers
and produce good work and be a part of the world stage.
I want to play a role in literature, in politics, in society. Now I feel cut off from the world. It’s
as though I’m trying to get across my message (what Sam Levenson spoke about at
commencement) and there’s nobody there to hear it.
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I’m not making contract with anyone. Today I had lunch at the Burger King in Hewlett (the one
I mentioned in “Roman Buildings”) and behind me on line were a beautiful blond couple about
17.
They were so cute and so fresh-faced, so boyish and girlish and playful that I cherished the
moment that I shared a bemused smile with them over somebody making a scene in the
restaurant.
I wanted to be them, to be a part of things and 17 again, to feel the first pangs of living as an
adult. Now, at 25, I’m already old.
I’m a baby still, emotionally, that’s true – but I’m a world-weary, cynical, old-maidish,
avuncular baby. How I’d love to be innocent again. Why, I’d even love feeling that stifling
adolescent guilt again!
But I fear I’m growing repetitious here, and I can’t stand that. I pleased myself (but not enough
– it’s never enough) by writing a story yesterday, “The Domino Theory,” the most Kafkaesque
of my stories.
Last night Alice and I went to the movies, to see The Omen, which bored me a little and
frightened me not at all. Before we left, Alice had me call up the home for the blind where Jim
works and pretend I was a person with a blind uncle and find out the address of the place.
I did so, mostly because I love impersonating people over the phone. Alice wants to “prove her
love” (no, strike love – she’s adamant that she does not love Jim, she just can’t get him out of her
mind) by showing up at Jim’s place of work.
I think I convinced Alice that in the long run it would only be self-destructive, but she’s such a
baby about her crushes that I expect her to go there during the week.
Unlike me, who goes away at the slightest hint of rejection, Alice has no idea when to take no
for an answer.
I was at the beach for a bit today with Mikey and his mother; they’re both getting settled in at
their new apartments. Now that he’s no longer working, Mikey has little to do but await the
start of law school next week.
He said Mason is home, but he didn’t speak to him. I wonder how Mason is keeping himself
together these days.
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10 PM. Life seems good tonight. I feel very alive.

This evening I taught my last class at LIU, finishing up Seize the Day and delivering an
impromptu lecture on Post-War American Fiction And Where It Is Going – probably pompous,
but I enjoyed myself.
Then I drove into the Village to talk to Laura at the bookstore. She just came back from her
vacation and looks tanned and rested.
Jon Baumbach is back in Brooklyn, and when Laura called him up, he said, “Did you hear what
Grayson did?” (So I’m Grayson now.) Jerry Klinkowitz felt he had to tell Jon about the story I
wrote about him.
Jon was outraged, but after a while, he calmed down and decided he’d had pretty good luck
lately, what with the Guggenheim, and eventually he rather liked the idea of being a character
in a story.
Laura thinks Klinkowitz enjoyed turning the knife a little; he must dislike Jon a bit, or why
would he have accepted the story in the first place? Anyway, I wrote it, but Jerry is the one
who’s publishing it.
Laura said Peter Spielberg looked like he’d been going through a depression when she visited
him at Wellfleet. But he has his writing routine, and he’s happy that Twiddledum Twaddledum
just found an English publisher.
Peter is a bit pissed that Baumbach got this Sukenick protégé from Colorado to take over the
first-year MFA program class; I keep up on these things, but I’ve never heard of the guy. He
may be a great teacher, but I’m probably just as qualified.
Laura said she doesn’t want to teach composition at Brooklyn, but Stanley Hoffman has first
dibs on the creative writing class she wants.
I was in Boylan Hall on Monday and noticed that two evening writing courses have no
instructor, so I wrote to Neil Schaeffer, the SGS deputy chair, about my teaching them.
Of course my name is mud at the BC English Department, but what do I care? I’ve got to live
up to my reputation as a man with chutzpah.
Harvey recently called Laura because he thought he was dying of leukemia; it turned out, as he
discovered in the emergency room of Methodist Hospital, that it was only a virus.
[518]
Laura told me to tell George to send six copies of Disjointed Fictions to the store. I had called
George last night; he was groggy from too much Contac taken for his bad hay fever.
George told me he’d sent me a letter about the book; he’s pleased with some parts of it and
displeased with others. Neither of us feel comfortable discussing “business” over the phone, so
we stuck to small talk.
I told him that if he takes a table at the New York Book Fair next month, I’ll man it (person it?).
So much for literary gossip, although at the bookstore I did run into Prof. Jones from
Philosophy (I have a slight crush on him; he’s 30, blond, tanned, well-built, very cute and gay)
and Lynne Rosen, whom I hadn’t seen in years.
She’s still working for Social Security and isn’t sure what she wants to do with her life – maybe
(what else?) “go back to school” She saw the thing on Page Six in the Post and knew I’d been
with the Fiction Collective at one time.
She still sees Renee, who’s working at Downstate and has been living with some guy for years
now. What surprises me is that people I don’t really know seem to notice me. In a way, a small
way, I’m already something of a public person.
But who cares what people say about me? It’s only a few people who count. One of them, Dr.
Abraham Lipton, sent me a reply to the Courier-Life article and letter I sent him. My old
psychiatrist said he would be “honored” if I would visit him to chat for a while.
Last night I stayed up till 4 AM and wrote a soap opera parody, which I sent off to TV Guide.
2 PM on the last day of August and the start of the Labor Day weekend. My head is very heavy;
it must be the humidity affecting my sinuses.
Yesterday afternoon I drove out to Rockaway and went to the library there. The new Publishers
Weekly had the fall announcements. Taplinger had a full-page ad, and Ivy Strick’s The Home
Makers got a fairly good review.
It’s still pretty sad that hardcover books have such a short life span. Crad Kilodney encourages
me to write an article about my experiences with commercial book publishing and my own
attempts at promotion.
[519]
Richard Grayson
I’ll get around to it eventually, maybe in a month or so when I’m sure it’s really all over. I still
have hopes that People will come out with a review, but if it’s not this week, then my hopes will
fade considerably. Today I went into Waldenbooks and saw that all five copies are still unsold.
Enough about my writing career for now. Why don’t I just resolve to forget about it for the rest
of the weekend and concentrate on other aspects of life?
After dinner at McDonald’s yesterday, I visited Grandma Ethel and Grandpa Herb. Grandpa
has been having trouble sleeping.
“I think a lot about D-E-A-T-H,” he said. “I spell it so your Grandma won’t know what I’m
talking about.”
Grandpa Herb is 75 now, and he’s going to die within the next few years, so I guess it’s natural
to have that fear. He says he can’t explain it to me because I’m too young.
And I am. For all my brave talk, I can’t imagine what it’s like to be old and approaching death.
Grandpa Herb has seen his much younger brother die and now his older brother is completely
senile and helpless.
Grandma Ethel says Aunt Arlyne’s mother Hannah is also going senile; she forgets and calls
Arlyne or her sisters three times a day.
When Grandma went out for her nightly game of canasta, where she can’t lose or win more
than thirty cents a game, I stayed to watch TV with Grandpa.
He gave me a 1979 proof set of coins for Marc, and after an hour I left for Brooklyn. It was a
gorgeous drive home from the beach.
I called Avis and spoke to her father, who said that she mailed her passport to Frankfurt so she
could go to Israel, but now she may not have gotten it back in the mail. I’m a bit worried about
Avis.
After marking half of my Visual Arts class’s papers, I realized that they don’t write much better
than my remedial students at LIU or Kingsborough. There are comma splices, fragments, run-
ons, awful spelling, no apostrophes on possessives, poor transitions, weak sentence structure,
and an absence of specifics.
I’m going to have to teach grammar; they’ll complain, but they need the discipline.
This morning I got our early and did errands, getting money at the bank, decongestant at the
drugstore, gas at the gas station, and stationery supplies.
[520]
Next week I’m going to begin searching in earnest for apartments. Hopefully, I will hear from
one of the CUNY colleges about some additional courses. I didn’t get the job at NYCCC, thank
goodness.
Mom is very glad that Dad will be coming home tonight, as she’s missed him terribly. Next
week she and Jonny flying back to Miami with Dad to stay with him for a while.
Mom again brought up the idea of my taking an apartment with Marc, but I told her I didn’t
want to have to put up with drugs, Deanna’s constant presence, loud music, and Marc’s
creepier friends. I love Marc, but our lifestyles are irreconcilably different. I want privacy,
anyway.
I’m looking forward to my session with Dr. Pasquale tonight. Afterwards I may drop by
Alice’s, where some of Peter’s friends are gathering to watch him as an imposter on To Tell the
Truth.
9 PM. It’s September already.
Coming up is Labor Day weekend, then Jonny goes back to school (I think he’ll be grateful for
it). The next week is Rosh Hashona, and I should find out if I’ll be teaching this term. And then
it will be autumn.
This summer has been a remarkable one. Not everything that happened was good, but I feel
I’ve grown. Grandpa Nat’s illness has taken a terrible toll on all of us, and the crisis is far from
over, but I could accept it – indeed, at this point I’d almost welcome it – if he died.
Grandpa Herb told me something that Dad has been unwilling to: Grandpa Nat’s nursing home
is costing Dad a great deal of money.
Grandma Sylvia is still unwilling to leave Florida. Grandpa Herb says she’s wrong if she thinks
that when her brothers Daniel and Bernard come down in a few months, they’ll be at her beck
and call.
“They have their own lives,” said Grandpa Herb, and he knows the brothers all pretty well
from when they were kids and lived next door to each other.
Grandpa Nat doesn’t really know what’s going on anymore, and I can’t help thinking how
simpler things would have been had he died. But back in July, I prayed for him not to die.
I think I’d like to see him again, although I know it would scare me and though he probably
[521]
Richard Grayson
wouldn’t know me. It might be best just to remember him as he was when I saw him last
spring.
Grandpa Herb says he’s got a lot of problems left from Uncle Abe’s death. He’s been running
around to the Transit Authority, to Social Security, to the Veterans Administration and other
places, trying to see what money there is. Mitch and Eddie, Grandpa says, are so negligent.
Mitch is breaking down emotionally, and Grandma Ethel wants him to see a psychiatrist. His
girlfriend wants to leave him (if you ask me, that’s probably a blessing, as she’s a stupid,
shallow girl; Abe never liked her, and neither do my grandparents).
Mitch is not going to school anymore, and he and Eddie don’t get along at all. Grandpa Herb
feels they need some guidance, but he doesn’t know from where they can get it. They’re on
welfare now.
Last night Marc took Grandpa Herb and Grandma Ethel to Oceanside for dinner, and Marty
gave Grandpa Herb Arlyne’s old car, the ’73 Mercury Montego, which has only 12,000 miles on
it. (As the owner of a ’73 Mercury, I say good luck to him.)
Today, after she got back from shopping, Grandma Ethel made me dinner, and I tried to repay
her by washing the dishes. She said Wendy had a fantastic time on her cross-country trip but
didn’t grow even a quarter of an inch. Last night Wendy’s boyfriend, 16, called; I think he’s a
little person, too.
I think I forgot to note in my diary that on Monday I had my first moped ride, after I got back
from the beach. Marc rented a moped from the place on the corner and let Deanna, her brother
and me ride it around the block. It was noisy and I was unsure of myself at first, but gradually I
speeded up and could control it.
Vito called again last night, and I’m glad we’re getting close again. I liked his remark when I
told him Avis and Helmut left for Europe on separate flights: “Yeah, well, they probably don’t
want to leave the kids in the lurch.”
Vito won’t take me to a gay bar. He says he doesn’t want me to have a gay experience, but I
told him I would like to have a relationship with a guy. I really had this crush on Vincent, the
waiter at Bread Loaf, and now that I know Libby’s friend Tommy is bisexual, I’d like to get
closer to him.
I’m convinced it will happen, too, sooner or later. I’m not going to fight my feelings – any
feelings, for that matter – any longer. That’s one of the things I learned this summer.
I coped so well with Grandpa Nat’s illness and Uncle Abe’s death and the blackout while Mom
[522]
and Dad were away. I learned a lot from Avis and Helmut’s visit and from my stay at Bread
Loaf.
I’m closer to being a mensch than I ever have been. I’m beginning to like myself again, to trust
my feelings and my strength. If I haven’t been as productive this week as I might have liked,
well, that will come eventually, too.
4 PM. Yesterday’s depression was short-lived. I feel proud that I’m learning to control my
depressions. They aren’t as frequent or as deep as they used to be.
I’ll never completely eliminate depression from my life, of course, but I know more now how to
lessen its effects and its duration.
Yesterday I got this book by Dr. Manuel Smith, Kicking the Fear Habit. He advocates the counter-
phobic behavioral approach that I now subscribe to. I only wish that ten years ago I had known
about it. But I don’t regret anything.
My tooth stopped bothering me. I bought a shirt in Macy’s and ate out, I read, I chatted with
Evie and Jonny on the porch, and I was very relaxed and about to make a cup of tea for myself
when the phone rang at 9:30 PM last night.
It was Marc, and immediately I knew something was wrong. He and Deanna had gone
shopping at Kings Plaza and when they returned to level 6 in the parking lot, his car was gone –
stolen.
I told him to go down to the security office and I’d be right over. Dad, when he heard the news,
acted true to form. He raged at everything anybody said, so much that I refused to take him
with me.
Dad again has this attitude: Why me? “Of all the hundreds of cars in Kings Plaza, they had to
pick Marc’s,” he moaned. I don’t see that as a very helpful attitude.
Nor is Dad’s trying to assess blame: “Deanna and her shopping! It’s her fault!” “The mall’s
security! That lousy place!”
As my lenses were in the Aseptor, I put on my glasses and drove to the mall. Marc and Deanna
were in the security office and they were searching all levels for the Camaro.
[523]
Richard Grayson
But the security people were swamped: a heart-attack victim had to be taken away in an
ambulance, a robber resisted arrest and bit a guard (whose shirt was splattered with his own
blood), a half-dozen other crises.
I went to a pay phone and called the police; then I phoned Mikey, who said he’d drive over.
Meanwhile, another girl came in and said that someone had broken the lock and ignition in her
car, also a blue Camaro.
As it appeared unlikely the police would get there – they were changing shifts and there would
be a delay – Dad, who’d come over, drove Marc and Deanna over to the 63rd Precinct.
Mikey and I followed them there and saw that it was all reporting bullshit, so we left and drove
around the likely dumping grounds of Gerritsen Beach and Bergen Beach, spotting nothing.
Perhaps someone had ordered a blue Camaro and it was stolen for him. Maybe it’s at a
neighborhood chop shop. Anyway, I thanked Mikey for driving in from Rockaway to help; it
was very nice of him.
At midnight I went to bed. When I was in the mall earlier yesterday, I left my car door
unlocked, as I always do. But of course no one would steal my heap of junk.
Marc treats his car royally, shining it, waxing it, take care of each little scrape – while I just let
my car deteriorate. Maybe I’m not so stupid, after all, in viewing the car not as a possession but
as a convenience to get me from here to there.
In a way this proves that there are no real possessions; we expect we “own” things, but we
don’t – we can’t. Because of this theft, I feel less smug, and feeling less smug is always helpful.
(In his letter Bill-Dale said he hated smugness and loved “whatever its opposite is” – yet he also
said he was “smug about bisexuality being the ideal state.”)
Marc is depressed, of course; he had a lot of money and a lot of himself invested in that car.
Let’s hope the police find it.
I spoke to Grandma Sylvia, who was positively kvelling over Disjointed Fictions; she even found
her name in it. She told me, “I just know you’re going to be rich and famous. I only wish
Grandpa could read this book.” Her reaction was the nicest I’ve had.
I found a campaign poster of that BC student government ninny Bruce Balmer. Below and
above his photo were BRUCE BALMER and FOR THE DEATH PENALTY. Only in small
letters did it say what he was running for: state senator. God. And Chester Kravitz is running
for assemblyman.
[524]
5 PM on Labor Day. I’m not looking forward to going back to work tomorrow. I regret the end
of summer. Dr. Pasquale said that when I first came to him in June, I had been worried about
how I’d fill up my time. It turned out so well that I learned to love not working.
If I had my druthers, I wouldn’t be teaching at all this term. Well, maybe that’s not true. I just
don’t like feeling so harried. I’d like to have just a couple more weeks of summer without any
worries about working.
Last evening was perfect. Mikey came over at 6 PM and we went over to Avis’s parents’ in
Sheepshead Bay to pick her up. Then we had a good Italian dinner at Collaro’s on MacDonald
Avenue.
I became slightly silly afterwards as Mikey drove us into Manhattan. We were all collapsed in
laughter as we went over the bumps on East Houston Street.
I called up Alice, who told us we could come up; Peter had gone to Philadelphia to review a
show and wouldn’t be back for several hours.
Alice showed us a copy of her book, Roller Fever, which doesn’t look nearly as bad as Alice had
said it did. The paper is cheap, but I’d be proud of it if I were Alice. It’s the selection of
Scholastic Book Club this month and they expect it will sell 300,000 copies.
Avis had brought $35 worth of grass she’d bought from Marc (I was the delivery boy) and Alice
brought out her rolling paper; she’s begun to smoke since Peter moved in.
Mikey abstained, as usual, but Avis, Alice and I got fairly stoned. When we’d come in, Alice
had been working on an article idea about different celebrities who came from Brooklyn, so we
spent time trying to think up names.
Avis and Alice are such opposites: Avis, the last of the flower children, moving to Israel to try to
“find herself,” a committed socialist and very Europeanized after all her years in Germany;
Alice, the quintessential tough New Yorker of the ‘70s, hard-driving, interested in getting
ahead, getting rich and getting famous.
I don’t think they can understand each other, and yet they’re both good friends to me. Avis
disapproves of much of our lifestyles: she makes fun of Brooklyn, American TV (what else can
you do with it but make of fun of it, I guess), and “dressing up.”
She said she’ll always live in the late ‘60s and early ‘70s. I like having Avis shake up some of
my values; we have spirited arguments about politics, but I love a good argument.
[525]
Richard Grayson
I think Alice thinks Avis is pretentious, but when we’re stoned, we all get on well as we did last
night.
Mikey? Mikey is always there, it seems, but never noticed – until you realize he’s gone away.
He’s cynical – in college his byword was “It sucks” – but more honest than anyone and about as
down-to-earth and decent a person as you can find living on the island of Manhattan.
I love the view from Alice’s window, especially the Empire State Building (the lights were all
white last night). I love being in the city at night in summer; even Avis admitted it felt magical.
Alice told me she went to see Sean Wilentz at the bookstore. He’s got a job as Assistant
Professor of History at Princeton and is taking his dissertation to publishers.
Sean said they’ll carry Alice’s book, and when Alice asked him about my book, he said, “We’re
sold out on Disjointed Fictions.” Alice said no, she meant the hardcover Hitler; Sean had never
heard of it and he asked his father to carry it.
Alice, in matchmaker mode, said Scott Sommer did call her friend Ellen, and she’s trying to fix
up Renee’s ex-boyfriend Billy up with Kathy Winters after Billy asked Kathy to go to bed with
him.
Well. Summer’s over. Tomorrow I have my class at SVA, a rush-hour subway ride, and maybe
that interview at Brooklyn College if I can reschedule it.
I’m probably going to very disappointed when People comes out without the supposedly
scheduled review of my book, but perhaps I’ll be too busy to be depressed.
[526]
A Year in Rockaway
1980
Crossing Miami Gardens Drive at 5:30 PM with the bag of groceries in his arms, Grayson
suddenly had one of those moments when life seems to make perfect sense.
It was warm, but with a breeze. Everything was clean. His mother and grandmother were in
the car. He felt wonderful: he wanted to remember the moment, the scene in front of his eyes,
forever.
And when he felt foolish about that, he stopped thinking.
On the way home to Davie, they got lost – his mother’s fault – but Grayson did not mind and
found his way back. They went to dinner at the Luvin’ Oven in Cooper City with his brother
and father.
Grayson’s father had to use an extra napkin at meals. Because of his surgery in 1978, some of
his salivary glands were exposed, and so when he ate, the side of his face would water
uncontrollably. Grayson had gotten used to seeing his father constantly dab at the side of his
face when he ate.
It was a fairly pleasant meal, Grayson glad that his father wasn’t talking about business.
Grayson did not want to know anything about his father’s business. His father seemed to be
taking on dozens of new lines: outerwear, suits, jeans, big and tall men’s clothes that looked
ridiculous.
Grayson hoped his father would “make a living” in Florida. Jonny seemed to be enjoying
college, and that pleased Grayson. Even Grayson’s mother seemed more relaxed, less of a
perfectionist. She didn’t have a cleaning woman in Florida, yet she managed. Perhaps she
would even lose weight.
At night Grayson slept soundly, heavily, and was hardly able to rouse himself in the morning.
It was cloudy and Grayson frittered away what was left of the morning.
[527]
Richard Grayson
He took a drive up 441 past the Seminole reservation with their $5-a-pack cigarette stands,
bingo parlor (the Indians did not have to pay taxes) and crafts center. Davie was filled with
cowboys and Indians, he reflected. Literally cowboys and Indians.
Broward County seemed to him more Western than Southern. If he had to live in Florida, he
would prefer Dade County: more cosmopolitan, more urban, busier.
Grayson spent the afternoon finishing Heller’s Good as Gold, one of the best novels he had read
in years. And it had gotten bad reviews, too – that made Grayson feel better about the
Minneapolis Tribune review of his own book. As did Leo Castelli on Dick Cavett saying that one
New York Times writer had once called Roy Lichtenstein “the world’s worst painter.” Grayson
liked to think he was in good company.
For dinner that night his parents took him to Pumpernick’s in Hallandale. It was a shock to see
so many old Jewish people who all seemed to come out of Heller’s novel. The waiters were all
gay. Grayson had an egg salad platter and two delicious dark rolls. The rest rooms were
labeled Guys and Dolls.
Despite himself, Grayson felt comfortable at Pumpernick’s. He was a Jew. Jonny remarked that
he felt more comfortable being Jewish in Florida, because so few people – at least in Davie –
were.
They went to the dog track in Hollywood after dinner and Grayson enjoyed himself. He bet
two dollars on every race and won back a dollar on the third. The greyhounds looked like
nervous little animals; one couldn’t feel affection for them. The styrofoam rabbit they chased
was much cuter, and he came in first in every race.
Grayson didn’t have the brains to gamble because he constantly second-guessed himself. He
came home feeling that it had been a full two days.
8 PM. I slept soundly last night and woke up feeling fine this morning. It really was a 48-hour
virus, I guess. Look at it this way: I have survived the illness I feared the most by myself, and
from here on in, it looks as though I can handle anything life throws at me.
In the last month I’ve gotten over my two last fears: flying and vomiting. I don’t really have to
be scared of anything again. Nothing that isn’t real, anyway. I went out shopping this morning
and bought $35 worth of groceries and supplies, so I’m well-stocked-up.
[528]
Avis phoned from work, wanting to know how I was feeling. She told me that Simon, like Josh,
has decided to take the NYU computer course in the spring. It’s a shame they’ve got to do it,
but they’ll probably be making a fortune while I’m still starving.
I did get a $15 check from Permafrost in Alaska for a story, but such checks are few and far
between. Again, I’m facing a real money shortfall. I may have to sell the General Telephone
stock Grandpa Nat got me for my bar mitzvah. I can’t sell my other stock because Dad is the
custodian (they were given to me when I was a minor, too, but Grandpa Nat didn’t bother with
legal niceties).
Well, I’ll just have to manage. I did manage to clean up the apartment today and to plow my
way through stacks of mail. Susan Schaeffer invited me to a publication party for her new book
at Books & Company on February 7. Kevin Urick wrote me a letter, praising my book. Scott
Sommer says he’s been trying to get me for months (I’ve been trying to get him for months – and
I still can’t).
There were notices about the annual meeting of The Authors Guild and ballots for the board of
directors of Associated Writing Programs. Aspect and Dark Horse came, as did numerous small
press books. The Fault had my blank “perfect poem” as part of a very funny issue.
Marc came over with Curt at about 3 PM after Marc had taken photos of Grandpa Herb’s car for
the insurance company. Curt spent most of the time trying to turn me on to whippets; I kept
refusing, and he started getting desperate.
He said they’ll open up a new world for me as they did for him. I think I want to stay off Curt
O’Malley’s world, thank you. I did smoke some Afghan crazy weed with them, but I wished
they would leave and finally they did.
Gary called, saying he’d settled in to his new apartment. I don’t know if it will be as easy for
him to be getting used to being single again. Mikey also called; he’s busy studying for the bar
again.
I phoned Ronna, who’s still unemployed. For the three weeks Jordan was home from Boston
during his semester break, Ronna did no job-hunting, and she’s going there to visit him this
weekend. Ronna said she ran into Harry, who said he bought my book (God bless Harry).
Ronna and I might get together on Thursday night; I’ll call her.
Little by little I’m getting used to New York and winter again. While I miss Florida and my
parents, I realize that I do have a life here. Maybe it’s better than that my parents and I remain
far apart; I feel closer to them this way. (An oxymoron?)
I really don’t have anything to do for the rest of the week, so I’m going to try to enjoy it. I
suppose I should give Brooklyn College a call next week, to see about a job.
[529]
Richard Grayson
Tonight’s the Iowa caucuses, the first non-event in the ridiculous political calendar. I’m a
political junkie, so I’ll watch the results, knowing it’s important only because the media says it
is.
It’s 32° and windy now, a far cry from a week ago when I had the air conditioner on in Florida,
but I’ll survive. In two months, it will be spring, right? I’ve missed four weeks of winter
already.
8 PM. I’ve just come in from dinner at my grandparents’ and washed up, put on my thermal
underwear and athletic socks, put my lenses in their Aseptron, set the alarm for 6:30 AM, and
gotten under three blankets.
It’s cold – about 20° -- and the temperatures are expected to remain frigid throughout the
weekend. The north wind makes my apartment very cold. Last night, when I came in, I met
Gussie, my neighbor, on her way out to catch a plane to Fort Lauderdale, and I wished I was
going with her.
Two weeks ago I was sunburned and sleeping with the window open. I’m giving definite
thought to moving to Florida; I’ll talk about it with Dr. Pasquale. Mom phoned last night and
we talked for fifteen minutes.
Jonny is quite happy at school. Last week he did a scene from Waiting for Godot in his acting
class, and everyone thought he was marvelous. And after another scene this week, a girl in his
class said to him: “If anyone here can make it in the theater, it’ll be you.”
I always knew Jonny had it in him. And maybe he doesn’t dislike me so much: Mom said he
gave my book to several of his friends (they liked it).
I was awakened at 6 AM by a call from WMCA radio. Steve Powers was off, and Barry Farber
interviewed me. Mostly he read my press release about the Ethel and Herbert Sarrett
International Fan Club.
I did talk, though, and I had him in stitches. When it was over, he called me “mah new best
friend.” Marc taped it and later played it for my grandparents, who found it hysterical. The
Voice never called me back on it, and I don’t want to push it; I don’t think they’ll use the story
and it will probably never find its way into print.
[530]
But I keep learning: this has been my week to be on radio twice. Actually, I’ve guested on a
number of radio shows Lee Rogers on WIND, Chicago; Bill Phillips, WROK, Rockford; Ira
Lebin, WBAI; and now Barry Farber on WMCA.
I’ll be making my TV debut on PBS with the adult home show – which reminds me, I got a call
from Special Prosecutor Charles Hynes’s office today, asking me if I know Mr. Farber’s (not
Barry!) home phone number in Rockaway.
Speaking of phone numbers, I just got off – half an hour has passed since I just wrote that before
– with Beth, a 19-year-old Pratt student whose Voice ad I answered. Weirdly, she lives just
twenty blocks from here – on Larry’s block, Beach 138th Street.
She’s Jewish, has a condo (her parents do) in Bal Harbour, Miami Beach, and wanted a bi guy. I
think we might turn out to be friends. She’s bubbly and cute and intelligent. Beth. Who
knows? She said she’s gotten hundreds of replies and has already found one guy who’s really
cute: “I think you’d like him, too.”
Of course, she may never call again.
Today I didn’t do much: I ate lunch out at the Ram’s Horn, read A Critical Assembling (most of it
is junk; I think a few people had some intelligent things to say, and I liked the punchy sentences
in my own piece on young writers), washed seven shirts, had antifreeze put into the car.
I got a letter from Libby, who’s taking secretarial courses at the local community college. She
says Grant may have sold a song; he’s supporting her now. Libby likes the Los Angeles
weather better than Portland’s.
Dad just called; he has the flu, as do his sister and mother. But at least it’s 75° in Florida (I know
that probably doesn’t help when you have the flu, but what the hell, I’m cold now and I think it
does).
My first W-2 form (from SVA) arrived today. I wonder if I should itemize this year.
2 PM. I don’t know when I’ve ever been so depressed. It’s beginning to seem that there’s
nothing to live for anymore. I’m not interested in eating, sleeping (I can’t do those things
anyway), work, sex.
[531]
Richard Grayson
I don’t even make my bed anymore. I’m so incredibly depressed and dizzy. The whole world
has been floating by for days. Last night the vertigo got very bad. I couldn’t even lie in bed. I
felt very alone and I tried to cry, but not much came out.
In the early morning, about 5 AM, I managed to get a few hours’ sleep, and I had lovely dreams
about being with my family in Florida. When I got up, I was so dizzy I was scared. I called my
grandparents, who told me I was panicking.
But I wanted to see a specialist. I made an appointment with Marc’s doctor, Dr. Brownstein,
and Grandpa Herb brought the car over. I was very dizzy and sick driving out to Bay Ridge.
In the doctor’s office, he did some tests and said it’s just labyrinthitis caused by a bad sinus
condition. He gave me a penicillin prescription and one for Actifed, which I already had.
I filled the prescriptions and put $300 in my checking account so that I could cover the $50
check I wrote the doctor as well as this month’s rent. Now I’m here.
In the mail: My loan was rejected, I got a note from a magazine saying they had no money to
publish poems that they’d accepted, and Miami-Dade Community College said they do have
part-time openings that pay $750 a course but they need to interview me to see if I’m qualified.
Also, a 13-year-old girl in Wisconsin wants to know what I’d do about inflation.
I feel empty, and it’s scary because I don’t feel scared. I feel isolated, without hope, unable to
work or eat or do much of anything. It’s as if there’s no way out, so what’s the sense of hanging
on? I wish I had the courage or the cowardice to stuff all the Triavils, Actifeds, Antiverts and
penicillin pills down my throat.
I’m tired of all this coping. Sure, I eventually bob up a little, but that’s only because I can’t stay
that depressed for long. I do feel that I’ve got nothing to live for.
Eleven years ago tomorrow was the nadir of my 1968-69 depression, and I don’t want to face
that kind of hell again. Life seems more and more a simple cycle in which false expectations,
hard education, and darkest despair go round and round – until it is simply too painful for me
to make the swing from despair back to expectations again.
Great expectations? No more. I’m too tired, too sick, too cynical and too smart for that stuff. A
pity I haven’t got something a little more terminal than labyrinthitis. All in good time.
This diary isn’t going to be finished. Part of me has known that since Christmas, or maybe
before that. Yep, I’m checking out of the hotel, leaving the station, ending the lecture, finishing
the last bottle, walking out of the theater during intermission.
[532]
I have little desire to see the 1980s turn into whatever they turn into. I had one second chance,
and I made it through the 1970s. Why spoil a good thing?
Contemplating suicide tends to relax me. I’m sure a genuine attempt, if failed, would give me
enough spirit for another go-round, but what would I do for an encore? “Goodbye, cruel
world”? Ah, Grayson, always the sardonic wit. But the pain, my friend, is very real.
3 PM. I’m still dizzy, but I’m trying to function. The penicillin ran out, and I’m not taking
Actifed because it makes me sleepy. It’s a beautiful day – sunny and 50°– and I’m writing this
by my open window. There just may be a spring this year after all.
This last month, since I’ve returned from Florida, has been one of the most difficult of my life.
I’ve had to cope with health problems, money problems, career decisions and pressures, and
basically I’ve been on my own.
I can’t wait for February to end; it’s been a horrible month. Tonight I’ll do my best to teach for
Touro at Beach Channel High School, and I’ll try to manage teaching tomorrow morning at
SVA. I just hope I’ll be up for Alice’s party and the WNET taping this weekend.
Last night Scott called to see if Avis and I wanted to have dinner with him. He was his usual
charming, self-centered self (although he did say his father heard me on Barry Farber). I
phoned Avis at work and she said to make it another time, as she, along with Simon, is coming
down with a cold.
Teresa also said she wasn’t feeling well when I spoke to her at work today. Teresa told me that
Avis had said my apartment is “too neat, it’s like somebody’s mother’s place.” But Avis herself
is such a slob; Teresa said she could tell that the way Avis left everything after spending the
night at Teresa’s.
I enjoy keeping a clean and orderly apartment. I hate clutter and dirt. Let Avis and Josh and
Simon and Ronna live like slobs; I refuse to apologize for being neat. I’m annoyed with Avis,
who’s always judging.
This morning I went to the Dime and took out another savings book loan for $200; I want to
keep most of my money in Citibank now. I have no money at the moment, except for $40 in
checking and $10 in savings.
[533]
Richard Grayson
I went across Flatbush Avenue to Herzfeld & Stern, where I sold seven shares of CBS and one
share each of Martin-Marietta and Viacom. Next week I should get a check for that for about
$400 – and I’m going to need it.
Marc came over last night and said he’d give me money if I needed it. Marc said I should ask
him rather than upsetting Mom and Dad. I guess I’ll have to manage somehow. Right now I’m
not in debt at all, and so I don’t feel too bad about borrowing money.
It’s always going to be a struggle. Maybe I should take on odd jobs instead of teaching – you
know, drive a cab, be a waiter, clean up apartments. If I have to write, I’ll write.
Felix Stefanile wrote an essay in Sunday’s Times Book Review in which he said that the best
advice he could give a writer is: Get a job. I don’t want to rely on grants or cushy jobs on the
literary circuit, and it seems almost impossible to make a living from my writing.
But I would rather be broke than prostituting myself for Hollywood; I don’t want to produce
junk for some dumb public to swallow whole.
Most writers, throughout history, have had to work to support themselves, and maybe getting
out of academia into something with more of a future will be good for me – not only financially
but for my writing as well.
Harry Smith asked in Small Press Review: “Can you name a great poet with a Ph.D. in English?
Or a great novelist with an MFA from a writing program?” I aspire to be more than a
Baumbach or a Sukenick, authors who write books no one but themselves and each other read.
I believe I’m better than that.
So I can’t count on NEA, Guggenheims, Yaddo, MacDowell, readings at the 92nd Street YMHA,
or any other gift. At least I’ll have the satisfaction of knowing I’ve done it all on my own. And
right now I do have that satisfaction.
8 PM. It’s been a bizarre evening. This afternoon I was contacted by a 12-year-old boy who
said he was a guest writer on the Soho Weekly News. He was interested in the Fred Silverman for
President “campaign” and took me very seriously.
In the course of the conversation he asked me whether I’d considered supporting Gov. Cliff
Finch of Mississippi. Anyway, I went out and forgot about it.
[534]
When I returned home, I got a call from someone who said he was Gov. Finch’s staff. He said
the Governor (whose term has just expired) would be very interested in getting my support. I
didn’t quite understand.
The campaign staffer told me they were in Georgia, where Gov. Finch was fixing somebody’s
roof as a publicity stunt. He told me that Fred Silverman wasn’t going to run (big surprise!) and
that he wanted me and the Governor to get together for a meeting.
Finch will call me tonight, he said, when returns home to Jackson.
I was bowled over. The Governor of Mississippi calling me to ask my support for his
Presidential candidacy? Is he off his nut or what? The call sounded legit, but again, I didn’t
think about it until the kid from the Soho Weekly News called again and said he learned I was
now supporting Finch. I told him yes, I was.
This was unbelievable, but then Josh suggested that someone was pulling my leg. I’m not sure.
It’s like something out of Good as Gold. Apparently Gov. Finch is coming to New York and
needs bodies at a press conference. Or something.
Frankly, it’s wackier than anything I could possibly dream up as one of my publicity students.
It’s surrealistic. Anyway, onto saner matters:
I had only three students show up for the Touro class at the high school last night, but I had a
good class nonetheless. David Wolfe didn’t get back to me until midnight when he told me to
cool my heels for a few weeks. Peter’s talking me up to both David and Don (Peter just read my
book and was surprised that it was that good) and I guess something will come of it.
I had my SVA class write this morning – they complained my topics were boring – and Pete
Cherches met me for coffee afterwards. He too finds it hard to write when he’s working – and
he’s at Baruch or Brooklyn College every day.
I showed Pete the “perfect poem” issue of The Fault in which we both appeared, and we chatted
about literary politics and the poetry scene. He’s rushing to get the crime issue of Zone out by
April, when the Book Fair will be held (at NYU’s Loeb Student Center this year).
I decided to go to the New York Eye and Ear Infirmary after lunch because I was feeling quite
dizzy. I paid $17 to get a clinic card, and I was lucky enough to be assigned #1 in a crowd of
people waiting to see a doctor. (There’s always a first time…)
The Chinese doctor I saw questioned and examined me and said I didn’t have labyrinthitis
because I didn’t show the standard symptoms: rapid eye movement, ringing in the ears, loss of
hearing.
[535]
Richard Grayson
He didn’t think it was sinuses either, and he ruled out any psychosomatic factors. The doctor
said it was probably a virus, in which case it would slowly go away by itself. He told me not to
worry about the dizziness, as the body will adjust to compensate for it.
I’ll go back to the clinic next week. He did say there was a possibility it was vestibular
neuronitis, with the nerve pressing against the inner ear. But my ear looked clean to him, and I
obviously didn’t have a brain problem.
Part of me wonders whether I’ve got M.S. or some degenerative nerve disease; I’m more than a
little scared. Yet doesn’t some part of me want to die?
I got The Madison Review with my story “That’s Saul, Folks.” Remember how happy a story
coming out would make me feel? Now I hardly take notice; it’s just another piece to xerox and
file away.
I got a cruel rejection (“Who cares?”) and nothing else of interest in the mail, unless you count a
newsletter addressed to Rocjard Grauspm. Obviously somebody had their right hand on the
wrong typewriter keys.
Noon on a rainy, mild Wednesday. The day has just begun, really, but I wanted to record what
I’m feeling, because I’m afraid it might go away at any time and that my despair will return.
For once I feel I can see the light at the end of the tunnel, that this great depression will
eventually end, and I’ll come out of it – cliché time – a better person. If nothing else, it’s got me
writing again.
Writing is the most important thing in my life. I got a lot of writing done after my other great
depressions: in the winter of ’68-’69, when I was stuck in the house; the fall of ’71, when I broke
up with Shelli; and the fall and winter, ’74-’75, when I stopped seeing Ronna and stopped
therapy and had to work for the first time in my life.
Remember how depressed I was in the fall of 1971? Because Shelli broke up with me, it seemed
as if my life was over. I kept getting sick. I lay in bed, inert and crying. I thought I was having
a breakdown.
But look what happened to me during that same time: I conquered my fears of going into the
city. I remember the sweet triumph of driving to Manhattan on a Sunday morning and going to
see Sunday, Bloody Sunday at one of those theaters on Third Avenue and 60th Street.
[536]
I really found myself again back then; I learned about herbs; and I even flew back home from
Washington on Thanksgiving weekend, which seems to have been the turning point. I came
out of that despair and was stronger and wiser.
I’m sure the same thing will happen with this. I may not be lucky, but I’m a resourceful and
tenacious person, and I will learn from this. I am going to have setbacks, I know – tomorrow I
may plunge into darkness again – but I’ll survive and even do better than mere survival.
I’ve just got to hang on. If my years of diary-writing have taught me anything, it’s that life is
constantly changing and that nothing is permanent. This isn’t going to be the last of my
depressions, either; they are a part of life.
Dr. Pasquale has faith in me; my parents do; my friends seem to. Remember that quote from
Aeschylus I used to love, about the pain drop by drop becoming – against our will, through the
awful grace of God – wisdom? It is wisdom I need.
My apartment seems somehow cozier this morning. Sleeping till 10:30 AM seems more a sign
of renewal than inertia. I was buoyed by John Anderson’s near-victories in Massachusetts and
Vermont; maybe he can make it. His slogan, like that of the ’69 Mets, is “You gotta believe.”
I gotta believe that life won’t always be like this for me. I can get from here to there. I’m
stronger than I think. I won’t always be dizzy. (I’m almost certain it’s my sinuses or an allergy
now.)
I won’t always be poor. (Listening to my grandparents tell me of their financial fluctuations

over fifty years will help me remember this.)
I won’t always be alone. Life will get better, I believe.
* * *
10 PM. All things considered, it has been a good day. I got my SVA check, and I got a haircut,
and I had a turkey sandwich for dinner. My class went well tonight. Next week is Open School
Night at Beach Channel H.S. so we get a vacation. This means only two classes before the
spring holidays.
I can finally believe that spring and Easter will come. Actually I have an ideal schedule now. I
like my SVA and Touro classes, and I have time to enjoy myself. The only thing I don’t have is
money.
I called a yeshiva in response to an ad. The rabbi wanted to pay me $240 a month for 28 hours
of work. I told him the salary was too low. Taking such a job would be bad for my self-respect.
I’ll get something better.
[537]
Richard Grayson
The earliest Mom could get plane reservations for me to come down was March 31, but I’ll be
flying with Dad, who’s coming in to New York for the menswear show.
6 PM. Ordinarily I’d be teaching tonight but the high school’s Open School Night has given me
a break.
Winter has returned. Those high winds that knocked my phone out Monday night have kept
my apartment very chilly, and a snowstorm is predicted for tomorrow. In nineteen days I’ll be
in Florida, though, and when I come back it will be well into April.
Last night I went over to my grandparents’ for dinner, bringing along my laundry. It was a
pleasant meal, as they did not harp on me too much about money.
I came home to listen to the results of the Florida, Georgia and Alabama primaries; Carter and
Reagan won all three in landslides. The Kennedy campaign has collapsed, Anderson can never
be nominated, and as usual, I have no place to go electorally.
I got into bed and read seven or eight little magazines which had been piling up on my desk; it
made me feel good to stay in touch with the small press scene. Most of it is poetry that is highly
competent but unspectacular.
I woke early because I knew that the phone repairman was coming, and sure enough, he was
here at the stroke of 9 AM. He was inside and outside several times, and finally the phone was
restored to working order.
I left my frigid apartment for the Paerdegat library, where I devoured magazines and
newspapers; then I had lunch across the street at the Arch, went shopping at Waldbaum’s, and
came home to exercise, watch soap operas and send off résumés after looking at the new AWP
Job List.
Bill-Dale sent me the latest chapter of his novel. It’s good, but he seems to be fighting villains
who are so banal that it hardly seems worth it. I mean, suburban Republican sports addicts
who put plastic on furniture are such easy targets. As are clingy girls who want nothing more
than to trap a husband and live in a suburban cottage.
Of course, I’ve never experienced suburban life, and besides, I’m beyond the adolescent
rebellion stage. My parents now seem to me people who worked very hard, tried their best,
and were always supportive of me.
[538]
Of course Mom and Dad are a bit meshugenah, but then who isn’t? It can’t be easy to be a
parent. One thing I’ve learned is that you do learn just by living longer. I’m almost 29 –
imagine! – and not an adolescent anymore. I’ve kept some of the artifacts of adolescence, but
these too, are wearing thin.
Speaking of adolescents, I got a call from James, that 12-year-old boy who’s with Finch for
President. He called to tell me Finch finished fourth in Georgia, with 1% of the vote. James is
beginning to be a pest; he asks me all kinds of questions until his mother tells him to get off the
phone.
Odd, I just realized that Bill-Dale is closer to James’s age than he is to mine. I don’t think I want
a closer relationship with Bill-Dale; like Justin, he would demand too much and not know when
to leave me alone.
I don’t intend to call Justin anymore, though I’ll be friendly if he calls or if I see him at Avis’s.
Like Avis, I’ve come to the conclusion that Justin is too immature, too chatty, and too
brimming-over-with-exuberance for someone like me. I need cynical friends like Alice, Teresa
and Josh.
I’ve been dizzy today, but then again, I haven’t been taking my pills. How do I feel, besides
dizzy? Cold. Washed-out. Lonely, a little. A little apprehensive. Worn down. But there’s still
hope.
6 PM. I feel like a mess. I’m coming down with a cold, I’m dizzy again, I’m fatter than I’ve ever
been, and my face is all broken out. I haven’t slept well in days and I feel like my whole body is
rebelling against me.
Last night at the airport I met a remarkable woman of 70, who looked 50; her skin was clean and
unlined, her body slim and smooth, her eyes perfect. She was full of energy and explained that
years ago she was an invalid, unable to walk.
She went from doctor to doctor, and no one gave her any hope. Then she decided to change the
way she lived: “to cleanse my body of its poisons.” She cut out smoking, all meat and fish,
milk, butter and eggs.
She began eating only organic foods and drank as many as forty glasses of carrot juice a week.
Today she’s more active than most 40-year-olds, playing tennis for three hours every morning.
[539]
Richard Grayson
This woman radiated health and contentment. I told her she must be doing something right to
have gained that kind of control over her body and mind.
We were both waiting for the delayed Fort Lauderdale flight at Delta, which didn’t come in
until after 1 AM. I saw Dad coming, and my companion said, “He looks very young.”
After I kissed Dad hello, she came over to him and said, “You have a lovely son.” Why did she
think so? I’m overweight, I have bad skin, I look lousy and I’ve been ill for months. For the
first time I’ve begun to look my age.
Maybe living all those years in my parents’ house and behaving like an adolescent kept me
youthful. Now I feel like a broken-down wreck. I’ve abused my body terribly, eating junk
food, sugar, meat, saccharine.
No wonder I’m an emotional wreck as well. I feel as though I need a complete change in
lifestyle. I don’t want to end up like one of those chain-smoking, pot-bellied, dead-to-the-world
people you see buying garbage at Waldbaum’s.
Granted, I never smoke or drank – as usual, I’m being too hard on myself. I have tried. Now I
feel as though I’m coming down with a cold and if that happens, I may not go to Florida after
all. I don’t want to aggravate my condition by flying with a cold. That’s how I got into this
mess with my dizziness.
Hell, I don’t know what I want. That’s my big problem, as I mentioned yesterday. I feel so
unattractive – I’ve made myself so unattractive – I can’t imagine anyone wanting to get involved
with me. I have no self-confidence anymore. My pleasures are shallow.
Last night I went to Simon’s to join him, Avis and the two Germans – Hartmut and Martin – for
a dinner of Peking duck. The Germans were very interesting people – Martin has traveled all
over Europe, Asia and Africa – and I enjoyed being with them, although I felt a bit out of it
when everyone spoke in German.
We all went for a ride in Manhattan. I lost a hubcap on the South Street viaduct; that road is
just impossible. Then after we had ice cream in the Heights, I dropped everyone off and went
to the airport via Atlantic Avenue.
There was a long wait, and I walked a mile in the cold to the International Arrivals building so I
could get the Sunday Times. Dad looked tired but tanned; he said it’s been very hot in Florida
and he was unused to the cold weather here.
We didn’t get back to my place till 2:30 AM. It was freezing in the apartment, so Dad must have
been really cold. He had to get up at 6 AM to go to a Sasson meeting before the Coliseum show.
Dad took my car into the city.
[540]
I woke up at noon from a fitful sleep and later took a walk on the boardwalk to my
grandparents’. Today was the first real spring day, and there were throngs of people enjoying
the outdoors, but I felt too enervated to really let myself enjoy it. Then Grandpa Herb drove me
and my laundry home.
9 PM. The air conditioner is on, but it doesn’t work all that well. My parents have installed
huge fans on the ceiling of their bedroom, Jonny’s, and the hallway but not this one.
I just walked outside for a minute. The sky is cloudy and there’s a ring around the moon.
Today was another hot day.
Last evening we at Valle’s in Hallandale; we had an hour’s wait and the food wasn’t that good.
Then we went to the Lauderhill Mall to catch the 10 PM showing of Coal Miner’s Daughter with
Sissy Spacek, which I enjoyed.
I couldn’t sleep last night; I kept wool-gathering. I’ve been feeling fat since I came down here. I
see all these skinny kids and wonder why I’m not like that. Then it occurred to me: I was like
that ten years ago when I was 18. But now I’m a little more than a year away from my thirtieth
birthday.
Granted, I eat too much – but even so, I’ve got to realize that I’m not a kid anymore and I don’t
have a kid’s body. Even at this age, I’m starting to develop little aches and pains, like my neck
problems.
This afternoon I went to see Grandpa Nat at the nursing home in North Miami. I found him
slumped in his chair. He didn’t have his teeth in and he kept chewing on some piece of meat.
When Cousin Scott was here, he didn’t even recognize Grandpa. He has aged very much;
there’s also that vacant look in his eyes.
I talked with him as much as one can talk with him. Although I explained who I was, he didn’t
really seem to understand. He told me, in answer to my questions, that he was fine, that being
old was terrible, that he liked Florida and liked to have visitors.
Only once did I see a glimmer of the old (younger) Grandpa Nat’s expression: when I said,
“You must be about 80 now.”
He scoffed, “Nah, what are you, crazy?”
[541]
Richard Grayson
Afterwards I went over to The Moorings but Grandma Sylvia was too deaf to hear me ringing
the bell. So I had lunch at the counter of Pumpernick’s – we couldn’t get in there last night –
which has the New York Jewish wiseass atmosphere I like. My seatmate and the waitress and I
discussed the impending New York transit strike.
Then I drove up A1A by the beach. All those honky-tonk motels attract me, as do the young
boys and girls on spring break, tanned and youthful and full of energy.
Since I’ve been in Florida, I’ve felt interested in sex again, and even though I have no sexual
outlet here, just having the feelings makes me feel more alive.
I went out to the beach at Dania. It was late afternoon and cloudy, so there weren’t many
people out. Why is the water here such a silvery-green rather than the blue-black ocean we
have in Rockaway?
I love driving around Dade and Broward Counties. It makes me feel like an explorer or
somebody trying to soak up the atmosphere of a place.
South Florida is filled with an extraordinary natural beauty. The tropical climate makes life
much different than in New York.
This morning I sat out by the pool, but the sun’s rays were almost unbearable. I have been
feeling a bit dizzy, too, though I promise not to complain. My face and body are now deeply
sunburned and my hair is streaked blond again.
After three and a half days in Florida, I do feel better. I finished Endo’s Silence, a magnificent
novel. It made me think a good deal about suffering. I still don’t know what the purpose of my
life is, and I fear that one day I will be like Grandpa Nat and I’ll have lived eighty years without
finding out why I’ve been alive.
2 PM. As my visit to Florida ends, I can’t help thinking of the way I felt when I was about to
leave here eleven weeks ago. I thought I had a good spring ahead of me.
I figured I could choose courses from among BC and Kingsborough, I had two Touro classes
and my SVA one, and so I was assured of more than enough money.
Everything fell apart almost immediately upon my arrival in New York, when I got that terrible
stomach virus. After that, everything seemed to go wrong. I became ill and wasn’t able to
[542]
teach; the BC and KCC classes never materialized; and I was more unhappy than I ever had
been.
What a rough winter it was. And I can’t shake the feeling that the worst is yet to come. Will I
be sick again when I return to New York? Will I be able to find enough money to live on? What
do I do if my car dies? I won’t have the mirage of an idyllic Florida to keep me going.
I’m scared of the future. This recession will be rough for everyone, but I have no idea how I’ll
survive. On my wits, I suppose.
Last night we went out to Heidi’s, dining amid familiar faces: the owners, Dad’s salesman
friend at the next table, the counterman from the Mill Basin Deli. There was an anniversary
party in the back, with live Jewish music.
My left contact lens has been bothering me; it’s got some kind of film on it, making my vision
blurry. This morning, for the second day in a row, I got up with diarrhea.
While I was eating breakfast, Gary phoned from Fort Lauderdale Airport; he’d come down on
the spur of the moment to stay with his Uncle Izzy in Miami Beach.
When I opened the door of the house, I saw my parents and Jonny walking back. “Guess who
called?” I said cheerfully, and then realized from their expressions – especially Dad’s – that
something was wrong.
“What’s wrong?” I asked. Dad remained silent, but Mom said the car got stuck again. For
some reason I felt it had been my fault because I had been cheerful. Once inside the house, Dad
raged and you couldn’t fun away from him fast enough.
I had forgotten how he could be. Living on my own, I’m not subject to anybody’s moods but
my own. When I’m happy in my apartment, the mood is completely happy.
Also, Dad’s behavior shows me how I react to events beyond my control – and it isn’t a very
effective way to act, besides its unpleasantness. Dr. Pasquale keeps telling me I’m making
progress, but I don’t see it and I wonder if he’s not just saying it to make himself feel we’re
accomplishing something in therapy.
Now I see clearly what kind of a pessimistic, negative background I come from. No wonder I
get depressed so easily. Like my father and his parents, I can be fine when things go well – but
I can’t handle misfortunes: I tend to lose all my self-confidence. I dwell on my “mistakes.” I
castigate myself for my “inadequacies.” And I feel helpless to control my life.
I wish I could believe good things are headed my way, but all I see is more struggling and more
pain. No light at the end of the tunnel. What a crazy time to be unhappy in!
[543]
Richard Grayson
4 PM. I’m in my usual pre-flight panic, this one exacerbated by a bad sinus condition that
caused waves of dizziness last night. So I stuck two Q-tips up the old nose and got out a lot of
mucus. Now I have a bad taste in my mouth. Feh.
If I sound more down-to-earth than usual, it’s because I’ve been reading Flannery O’Connor’s
letters, The Habit of Being, which I found last night in the Broward Mall. Her style is wonderful,
and since I’m mostly a mimic and a thief, I may be trying it out.
She was a gallant woman who bore her burden gracefully. But O’Connor had something she
believed in; not for a minute did she doubt the Church. I, on the other hand, have no faith to
fall back on.
Last night, at dinner at Danny’s we discussed the Grayson traits of negativity and despair. Dad
himself brought up his reaction to the car breaking down. I asked him if blaming himself for
something he had no control over helped the situation.
“I can’t help blaming myself,” he said. Which was no answer. Mom said she’s been trying to
talk Dad into seeing a therapist, but he says that while he probably needs therapy, he can’t
afford it and spending the money would make him feel like a schmuck.
Mom said that Dad laughs when his mother despairs over some insignificant situation but then
does the exact same thing himself. “What’s the alternative?” I asked. “Suicide?”
Dad was silent. Poor man, he hates himself terribly. Jonny said he felt life was just getting
better and better with each new day, that there were great possibilities if only you had a
positive attitude, etc.
Dad and I replied that that was because Jonny is 19 and hasn’t really lived yet. I felt that way
when I was younger, I suppose Jonny should, too. Give him some happiness; I had my
LaGuardia Hall days.
Dad says he feels worse than I do because he’s 53 and what has he got? I reminded Dad that
when he was my age, he had it a lot easier than I did, and Dad agreed; he had a rich father he
was working for who didn’t want him to work too hard.
Mom’s parents are just as negative as Dad’s; if it were up to Grandma and Grandpa Sarrett, no
one would do anything because it might cost money or mess things up. No wonder Mom
became a compulsive cleaner and I ended up with agoraphobia.
[544]
Jonny says Marc is the happiest of us all because “he’s got that positive attitude.” I think Marc’s
happiness is caused by all that pot, hash, cocaine and Quaaludes he consumes. Marc called to
say he’s going to California next month with Curt and his wife. And also that they have a plan
to rent roller skates out of Curt’s van on Oriental Boulevard in Manhattan Beach.
I stayed out in the sun between 11:30 AM and 1 PM, then went for a drive through Davie after
lunch. God, I love Florida. Whether I end up living here or not, this place will always be a
magical haven for me.
I watched a baseball game yesterday, and that made me feel that it’s going to be spring in New
York, too. I have a 10:10 PM flight that is supposed to land at Kennedy at 12:30 AM.
8 PM. It feels like a long time since I’ve written in my diary. But the last two days and nights
I’ve been desperately trying to keep busy, and for the most part, I’ve succeeded in keeping
depression away.
I do have a terrible sinus headache now which is causing a lot of dizziness. Also, I don’t think
my car can last much longer, but I’m trying to keep up my spirits.
I called Janice, who is very, very ill. She’s now working for Con Ed in their cultural affairs
division, but she’s so weak from the chemotherapy that she works only a few hours every day.
For weeks Janice was unable to do anything but lie in bed and cry and think about suicide. She
said she’s been very disappointed in some “friends” who have left her since she’s been ill.
Alice says Janice looks awful, and of course people tend to avoid others who may be dying –
and Alice thinks that Janice is. I offered any help I could give her.
Larry and Mikey picked me up on Saturday night and we drove out to Franklin Square. First
we had dinner at Coco’s, this awful restaurant, and then we went to visit Mike and Mandy at
their new house.
It’s a gorgeous old house; the rooms are small but they have four bedrooms, a giant back yard
with a screened-in porch and a swimming pool, lots of land out front, and a garage.
They’re into antiques and are both very handy around the house, so they’re making it a cozy
place to live in.
[545]
Richard Grayson
Mike is head of the adolescent male division at the mental patients’ ward at Kings County
Hospital, though officially he’s on the staff of Downstate as an assistant professor of clinical
psychiatry. Mandy is still at the same office, though her firm will be moving to Great Neck
soon.
We had a nice old evening, reminiscing about the college days and this person and that one and
what became of them. Mikey, Larry and Mike and Mandy are all pleasant, unpretentious
people, and I enjoyed being with them.
Larry dropped me off at 1 AM and I slept late yesterday, too late to go to Prospect Park for the
softball game. The weather has been sunny and in the 70°s. I spent yesterday working on
sending out résumés and answering want ads in the Times.
Late in the day I went to Kings Highway to hang out with Josh and Fat Ronnie. We sat in my
car and watched the goofy people pass and cracked adolescent jokes.
Ultimately we decided not to do anything, but I had fun anyway. Josh is very dissatisfied with
computers; he feels it isn’t really an alternative for him. I promised Josh that if I ever “make it”
(as what, I don’t know), I’m taking him along with me.
This afternoon I got up early and started working on my list of 20 Things to Do; I accomplished
most of them.
After lunch, I went over to the Reading Center at BC to hang out with Pete Cherches and his
friend Harold, who’s now an intern at Kingsborough. Pete gave me a copy of Crime Zone,
which looks great. Crad Kilodney writes that he’ll be visiting New York soon, and I can’t wait
to see him.
In the library this afternoon I found a review of my book in Choice – only it was in Grindal’s
(the mystery writer who uses my name as his nom de plume) name. It said in part:
“Fiction as joke, word play, vehicle for whimsy: these are the hallmarks of Grayson’s stories . . .
merely cute, ingenious . . . One is left with the impression of a writer whose forte is the one-
liner, a Bob Hope who would be a Saroyan.”
8 PM on the third day of heavy rain. Nothing happened at all this weekend; I stayed home
almost all the time. I did speak to people on the phone, though.
[546]
Mark called and reiterated Consuelo’s invitation for me to come to live with them if things
really get rough financially. I appreciate their kindness, but it would never work out for me to
live with married friends with two kids.
I phoned Gary, who was depressed after a day when his family descended upon him in New
Jersey. Betty has been calling him too, and she said something to the effect that if it weren’t for
Gary’s family, they could have made a go of their marriage. I tried to cheer Gary up.
Curiously, earlier in the evening I had been reading my 1970 diary. Gary was then going
through hell in basic training at Fort Polk, and Mark was introducing me to student
government, journalism and poker. It’s nice that a decade later Gary and Mark are still part of
my life.
Then Janice called, and we made up that I would drive her to the Foundation Library on Friday.
I slept well, dreaming of good times in the old neighborhood with Alice and her mother. I
drove into Brooklyn about noontime and went to the bank at Kings Plaza.
At BC I dropped in at the Reading Center to see Pete. He was upset because they may have lost
out on a wonderful loft they were planning to rent for their Zone art gallery.
Back home, I got letters from Tom Whalen and Rick Peabody and a note from Georg C. Buska, a
small press writer and editor who years ago sent me into a tailspin when his rejection said I had
no talent for writing short stories.
Buska’s note said he’d been seeing my stuff around and has been enjoying it and he wanted to
say hi and see how I was doing. That was a great triumph for me: I won over someone who
didn’t believe in me.
I also got an affirmative action form from Murray State University. As I was looking it over,
who should call but Dr. Wilder, chairman of the English Department at Murray State.
He said they had narrowed their search to three finalists, that I was one of them, and that he
wanted me to come to the campus for an interview this week. They would reimburse me for
half the expenses, he said.
I’d have to fly to Nashville and someone could pick me up at the airport and drive me to
Murray, which is 110 miles away. “We’re pretty isolated here,” Dr. Wilder said.
I told him I’d have to call him back. Now comes the question: Do I go on the interview? There
are a number of factors to consider. First of all, I don’t think I could get the job.
[547]
Richard Grayson
I know what kind of appearance I make, and for Kentucky, I’m too young, too New York, too
Jewish, too gay and too casual.
Would I want to live in Murray, Kentucky? Of course not. But I’ve been so depressed that I’ve
been feeling I’ve got to accept an offer outside the city.
Am I afraid of the trip? Not really. It’s an inconvenience, but I’m not scared of flying anymore.
What’s the salary like? Between $10,000 and $12,000, which isn’t very good. True, you can live
cheaply there, but would it be worth it?
I called Avis and she said I should go, just to see what it’s like. I called Janice next and at first
she said I should probably go, but then she stopped and said, “Richie, I think you can make it in
New York.”
Then I called Mom and she said that moving to South Florida is one thing, moving to Kentucky
quite another. Dad and Josh both said the same thing: “Are you crazy?”
God knows why I feel I have to poll people; in effect, all these opinions cancel each other out
anyway. Maybe I’m lucky that Alice, Teresa and Ronna weren’t in when I phoned them.
If I turn this down, will I blame myself when I can’t find anything here?
Hell, I don’t want to take that job – but I feel I probably should.
Friday, May 2, 1980
9 PM. I’m feeling rather relaxed now. Last night I thought to myself, “Well, you’ve gotten
through one-third of 1980.” Somehow I managed. There were some very rough times, and I
expect more rough times ahead, but I can see all of this despair coming to an end.
Trite and clichéd as it sounds, I have grown a great deal in the past four months. I’ve just got to
face it: this is a difficult time in my life, but eventually I will come out of it.
Avis has been very depressed lately. She thinks she’s getting much too dependent upon Simon.
Of course she’s always had the tendency to attach herself to a man, whether it’s been Scott, Alan
Karpoff, Helmut or Josh.
And Avis can’t take a chemistry course at LIU as she had planned this summer, which means
that nursing school has to be put off again.
[548]
Ah well – tomorrow she’s going to help Simon pick out a suit for job-hunting in the computer
field. Neither one of them has any conception of fashion, so I’d love to see what they end up
with.
I slept well and felt better this morning; the bright, sunny day helped. After breakfast, I drove
to Canarsie and picked up Janice at her house. She looks bad: drawn, thin, walking with the aid
of a cane. I didn’t want her to tire out, but she knows how to pace herself.
We drove into Manhattan, stopping at Sloan-Kettering (Janice calls it “Sloan Catering”), where I
picked up her portfolio, which was left over from an art show in the recreation department.
Then we went to the Foundation Center at Asian House across from Carnegie Hall. We had a
barely edible lunch and went to the Center’s library.
For two hours, while Janice researched possible funding sources for the Brooklyn Boys Chorus,
I looked at grants and wards available to writers, most of them already familiar to me.
I did find my name in a book, where I was listed as one of the 1977 Bread Loaf Scholars. I
managed to amuse myself until 3 PM, when Janice finished. She pushed down the seat and lay
back as we drove home, stopping off at Con Ed in downtown Brooklyn so she could pick up her
paycheck.
Janice seems so fragile now; I think she may be dying. She told me, though, that she’s getting
better and that when she was really bad, she could think only of suicide and didn’t do it
because of her daughter.
She said she’s learned that one’s health is the only thing worth worrying about: “Before I was
sick, I could not even imagine this kind of pain.” But mostly she’s still cheerful, punning,
insightful.
Janice told me that Dolores is divorced now. Her husband has custody of their son and lives
with a woman in Florida. Dolores is alone for the first time in her life, and it’s very difficult for
her.
I dropped Janice off at her house, where Ingrid came out to help her with her things, and then
went to my appointment with Dr. Pasquale.
I told him I was feeling that I’m a very self-destructive person, so we examined areas where I
felt I had behaved that way. What we came up with was in Dr. Pasquale’s words, “behavior
that isn’t remotely self-destructive.”
[549]
Richard Grayson
As usual, he said I’m being too hard on myself. He thought I had made a very reasonable
decision in regard to not going for the interview at Murray State, that it wasn’t a self-destructive
act.
I consulted others, Dr. Pasquale said, weighed various factors, and made my decision. Not
calling the college back was discourteous, but it certainly won’t affect my career adversely.
Why is it I keep thinking I’m the world’s biggest fuck-up? Even my posing nude for that book
last week doesn’t seem to have any negative consequences. So why do I insist on being so self-
critical?
Friday, May 9, 1980
1 AM. I just got home after a long and satisfying day. It was satisfying because I kept busy and
got involved with people and activities. Thinking back on my life, I see that the happiest times
where when I was most involved: at Brooklyn College, in particular.
Back then, I was so wrapped up in student government, the peace movement, and various
causes and the LaGuardia social scene that I didn’t have time for self-pity.
Up at 8 AM today, I relaxed a little and then went to work, designing and typing up a new
résumé. I wrote several letters and jotted down some ideas. After exercising, showering and
eating lunch, it was
1 PM before I got out of the house, but I had already accomplished a great deal.
So when I got the Post and didn’t see my name in it, I felt only slightly disappointed. I got my
laundry, filled my prescription for Actifed (though I haven’t been dizzy in weeks), got gas, and
read in the public library.
The mail brought another rejection, this one from Western Michigan University. Now my only
shot at a full-time academic job is at either Florida Keys Community College or LaGuardia
Community College, and I don’t expect to be a finalist in either place. Okay – I can handle it.
I got a press release from WNET/13: From Back Wards to Back Streets will be shown on TV here at
9 PM on Wednesday, May 21. I also got a sweet post card from Debby Mayer, thanking me for
the good words I had sent her about her story in Zone.
At the Junction, I xeroxed my new résumé, which is the most comprehensive one I’ve ever
made. I’ve stressed other things besides my academic background: my Fiction Collective and
Alumni Association Bulletin editing experience and my working on the Conference in 1977.
[550]
I walked around BC, remember how hectic life on campus was ten years ago during the strike
in the aftermath of Kent State. I got good nostalgic feelings and was in an “up” mood when I
went to Dr. Pasquale’s office.
There, I discussed some of my (lessening) ambivalent feelings toward “calling attention to

myself”; I told him about my posing nude. I expressed my fears of one day becoming
psychotic, and Dr. Pasquale showed me that those fears are just fears.
He knows I still don’t feel comfortable enough to discuss my sexuality with him, but talking to
him about other things made me realize a fear I have: that if I finally go all the way and have
sex with a guy, living out my fantasy, I will somehow become a different person, a “faggot”
who will go completely out of control.
Control again. Everything with me comes down to that. But I do think I’m starting to get a
handle on things, and I left Dr. Pasquale’s office in a good mood.
I drove through Prospect Park to Avis’s; we had made up to drive to Teresa’s together in her
parents’ car. Avis’s parents have bought a condo in South Florida (she didn’t pay attention
where) and will take title this summer.
We dropped Ari off at a party in the Village and continued uptown. I probably annoyed Avis
by not merely helping her with directions but by giving her advice on how to drive more
aggressively in Manhattan.
She again started telling me how depressed she is that she can’t “plan a future” with Simon. He
admitted that he feels a bit “smothered” and he wants her to pull back a little. Avis feels an old
pattern in re-emerging: “Nobody will give me a commitment.”
I didn’t know what kind of commitment she meant. “Marriage?” I asked.
“I don’t know what marriage is,” she replied. And then she said she would stay with Simon
until they did get “something permanent going” or “until he gets tired of me.”
I asked her if she couldn’t imagine another possibility, and she said she didn’t know what I
meant. “Well,” I said, “you might get tired of Simon.”
But Avis couldn’t imagine that happening. She knows she’s insecure but can’t seem to do
anything about it. She worries that Simon and Josh talk about her.
When I told her Josh never mentioned that to me, she said Josh wouldn’t tell me because he’d
know it would get back to her.
[551]
Richard Grayson
No one was home at Teresa’s, so we let ourselves in with Avis’s key from the transit strike (one
of the reasons she had come was to return it) and hung out there.
Teresa arrived with her sister and her sister’s boyfriend, who met when they were on opposite
sides of a juvenile court case in Queens: Lucy prosecutes them and Kenneth gets them off.
Barbara came down – she looks very done-in by the bust-up of her marriage – and Diana
dropped by, and then Shirley, Fern and Robin, three women who are taking half-shares in
Teresa’s Fire Island house (alternating with Teresa, Diana and Barbara) arrived. Avis and I
witnessed a raucous scene as they tried to divide up the weekends.
Teresa was in a good mood as she had been on all three 6 PM newscasts (there’d been a
derailment on the LIRR), and of course that she’s leaving for Greece on Thursday also made her
cheerful.
It was another of the many pleasant evenings I’ve spent at Teresa’s: coffee and cake, nice
people, a lot of laughs.
Unfortunately, Roger Greenwald never showed up; he called Teresa to say he couldn’t get out
of Toronto on time and would be here on Sunday night. I got on the phone and he told me how
grateful he was that I’d found him a sublet in Manhattan. I’d solved Roger’s problem and
Karen’s as well.
Avis and I left at 11:15 PM, dropping off the women downtown, and I got home just a little
while ago.
3 PM. Miracles do happen. Last night I felt wretched was just about to give up writing
altogether. This morning, after a great night’s sleep (I dreamed of Helmut and the old
LaGuardia Hall gang), I got a call from Nancy Englander of the MacDowell Colony. They had a
cancellation and wanted to know if I could come for June. Hell, yes!
I told her that I couldn’t make it until June 5 because of my Touro College class, but she said my
studio would be ready by June 2 and it would wait for me.
Everything changed for me. MacDowell may be the answer to my prayers. It will give me
almost a month of time to write, until no disturbances or worries or distractions. I’ll be in New
Hampshire, in the country, and I’ll get free room and board.
[552]
Most of all, it will give me time to think over what I’m going to do with my life. I am a writer;
not everybody gets invited to MacDowell. I will meet other artists there and I’ll be treated with
respect. Thank you, whoever cancelled!
I felt great all day, and the day seemed to bring other pleasures. I got a research packet from
The People’s Almanac with my first assignment, a biography of Edward Stratemeyer, the
children’s book author who wrote and published the Bobbsey Twins, Hardy Boys, Tom Swift,
Nancy Drew.
And in my post office box I found a letter addressed to the Herbert and Ethel Sarrett Fan Club.
Inside was a check for five dollars; the writer said they’d heard my grandparents and me on the
Barry Farber show last Thursday night. I’m sorry I missed it, but I’m glad it was on and I’ll try
to get a tape.
So I’m feeling very good. I realize that both yesterday’s despair and today’s joy are based only
on external situations. If my car hadn’t broken down, if someone hadn’t cancelled at
MacDowell, I wouldn’t have these intense feelings.
I called my friends, just the way I used to when I had good news. Both Avis and Alice were
glad for me.
Josh was too, but he’s very much involved in his own problems. His landlord is emptying out
the building to prepare for a co-op conversion, and Josh doesn’t know where to go. Josh and
Simon are thinking about Boulder (Josh’s girlfriend might go along too).
I called Mom, who was very glad to hear my news. She told me it’s been a three-ring circus in
Florida. She likes Nikki although at first she was put off by what Mom termed “her Rocky
Horror appearance.”
But Nikki is from a different world; her friends are the jet-setting super-rich (one of her friends
is getting married in Acapulco and they’re sending a private plane to take her and Marc to the
wedding).
Nikki’s father, “a very powerful man,” deals in gold and has made a great fortune. Nikki used
to work for him but said she didn’t like the crooked things he was doing so she quit. He had
given Nikki her own house that had maids and servants just as she had growing up at home.
But now her father’s got her two children and he won’t let her see them.
Nikki is crazy about Marc and feels he’s shown her a whole new way of living. Marc loves her
but is very confused. Yesterday, after he picked up a rental car, he fell asleep at the wheel and
crashed into the car in front of him – which, thank God, was Dad’s station wagon.
[553]
Richard Grayson
Mom and Dad are very upset and they talked to Marc about his future. Nikki wants Marc to
rent a condo with her on Singer Island, and that’s not really in Marc’s league.
Marc said that Curt’s sister-in-law Bernice is another complication; she’s the reason Marc didn’t
stay in California, and now Curt’s mad at him for leaving them.
Nikki told Mom that Curt’s own marriage is breaking up, mostly because his wife doesn’t want
to move to the West Coast with him. Curt’s always pushing his sister-in-law on Marc and
figured if Bernice went to California with Marc, then she would want to stay there and then his
wife would agree to live there, too. Very diabolical.
Mom said that she thinks Marc is under Curt’s spell, much as Dad used to be controlled by
another manipulator, Lennie. Mom and Dad don’t know what Marc’s getting himself into here.
Jonny is disgusted with all the goings-on, and Mom said that yesterday he professed that I was
the only person in the family! Jonny said I should be writing all of this in a novel (and that
might be a great idea; An American Comedy, I’d call it).
Jonny told Mom that he now admires me greatly and says he’d like to be more like me than
Marc. I always knew Jonny would come around someday. He’s interested in the arts, in
becoming an actor, but he knows how hard it is.
Last night I called Bill-Dale to wish him a happy graduation and a happy 21st birthday. He
doesn’t know what he’s doing with his life.
If he gets the money for grad school at Harvard, Yale or Rutgers, he’ll go. Bill-Dale knows
there’s no future in academia, but it can be an easy way to spend a few years. (He had a full
undergraduate scholarship.)
He spent the day in Manhattan getting the runaround at agencies and publishing houses. He
needs to work this summer, as he owes a lot of money to a number of people. Bill-Dale said
he’d call me next week when he’s in the city.
Oh well, life suddenly seems to be working out. Back Wards to Back Streets will be on TV tonight
and I’m kind of excited about it.
4 PM. Yesterday’s good mood carried into today. Last night I saw Back Wards to Back Streets
and I thought I looked like a fat idiot. I’ve got to lose some weight. Maybe at MacDowell. And
maybe I’ll grow a beard there, too.
[554]
My parents called after the show; they said that Marc and Nikki came over to watch me and
that Grandma Sylvia was excited to see me. Marty and Arlyne, also in Florida at Arlyne’s
mother’s (Grandpa Herb and Grandma Ethel are in Oceanside watching Joey) were flicking
around the TV dial and were stunned to see me on the tube.
Josh called and said I looked “nervous as hell.” That’s Josh for you. Since it was about the
twentieth take on the show, I had nothing to be nervous about, just tired.
I spoke to Mikey and we made plans to meet at the beach this weekend. A guy whose Voice ad I
answered called me at 11 PM. His name’s Joseph Silver, he’s a writer for The Soho Weekly News
and he sounds pretty nice. He’s very busy next week, so I said I’d call him when I return from
MacDowell.
This morning I took my SVA class out to breakfast at McDonald’s. We had a lot of fun. They
were a nice group of kids and I enjoyed the year (nine months, anyway) I spent with them. I
got to know some of them – Laurel, Daryl, Liza, Dean – pretty well, and I will miss them. It was
sad to see them go.
I walked down Park Avenue South the few blocks to the Taplinger offices to say hello. Mary is
very sweet and always has a nice word for me.
She said that they’re awaiting the return of the fall catalog from the printers; then they’ll have a
sales conference, the ABA convention in Chicago, and the ALA in New York. After June, things
will slack off.
Mary showed me a great cover Jim designed for Elaine Suss’s A Money Marriage, the book Wes
was editing last summer. Jim and Beth are now on their honeymoon.
At the Junction, I had a quiche at Circles Café, then came home to lie on the beach for an hour;
it’s great to live right on the boardwalk this time of year.
I was rejected for jobs at Queens College, Wesleyan and Brevard Community College. Thank
goodness for MacDowell: I got accepted somewhere. Funny, Joan Schenker at SVA told me that
on Tuesday she was also asked to go up to MacDowell, but she couldn’t make it, and
apparently I got the spot she was offered first.
5 PM on a cloudy and humid Saturday. Last night I ended up staying home. Josh wanted to
see Wise Blood at the Quad, but I wasn’t up to going into Manhattan, even though I had wanted
[555]
Richard Grayson
to hear Dennis Cooper read at The Glines at midnight. Dennis is a fine poet; I read some of his
latest in the new Beyond Baroque, which arrived yesterday.
I spent much of last evening looking through my twelve-year-old AIA Architectural Guide to New
York City. It reminded me of incidents from my childhood. There are places that I used to go to
which no longer exist: Ebbets Field, Freedomland (it’s now Co-op City; my grandparents, Uncle
Abe, Aunt Annette, Mitch and Eddie went there and rode on the rides and saw Chubby
Checker perform).
I was also reminded of the day in December 1960 when that plane crashed on Sixth Avenue in
Park Slope. Mom had fallen down the stairs that day, in her seventh month of pregnancy, so
we went to Dr. Levine’s office on Plaza Street and people kept coming in with news of people’s
injuries and of the fire that the crash had caused.
The Myrtle Avenue el is gone. So are all the trolleys. I remember riding the Church Avenue
line with my great-grandmother between our house on East 54th Street and hers on East 42nd
Street; she let me ring the bell to get off.
I remember “mountain climbing” with Dad in Prospect Park, how, when Mom was in the
hospital for her varicose vein operation, we lost the keys and were unable to get into the house.
The New York of 1960 doesn’t exist any longer. Hell, I used to walk home from the Ralph
Avenue bus and the sidewalks on Avenue O weren’t even paved; there were just wooden
planks.
A woman named Barbara ran a shack-like general store on our corner; it even had a potbellied
stove which we’d run in to warm ourselves after playing in the snow.
Planes took off every day at Floyd Bennett Field and we could hear them. There was no Kings
Plaza mall, and on narrow Flatbush Avenue from the Airport Lounge to Ben Maksik’s Town
and Country restaurant and the Floyd Bennett farmers’ market, there were cobblestones.
Gee, this sounds like one of those “I Remember Old Brooklyn” letters that they used to have in
the Daily News. Were the good old days really that good?
I stayed in bed till noon, when Mikey called and asked if I wanted to go for a ride to Inwood
with him. I hurriedly showered and dressed. Mikey’s car, like Grandpa Nat’s once did, has
become very rusted because of the salt air by the ocean, so he wanted to see if he could get an
estimate on a complete body job.
We drove I the rain, went to the place, and got an estimate; then we had franks at Nathan’s in
Woodmere, shopped at TSS there, and talked a blue streak.
[556]
Back home, I got my mail at the P.O. Iron arrived from England with my two stories illustrated
with terrific drawings by Tim Thackeray, who thanked me for encouraging him.
George wrote that “like Erma Bombeck says, the grass is always greener.” Of course he wishes
he had “a real book” like mine. But George pointed out an important contradiction: I say I don’t
want to get locked into the role of writer, yet I complain that I don’t get asked to read my work
in New York. He’s right.
George sometimes feels trapped at the paper, in the boondocks, with his magazine continuing
to lose money year after year. He said he couldn’t live like Rick, off others, with no home or
work of his own: “I could forgive him if he wrote the Great American Novel, but he’s too
comfortable to do that yet.”
Count your blasphemies, Grayson.
3 PM on my 29th birthday, which has to be the worst birthday I’ve ever had. Nothing comes
easily in my life. I was looking forward to MacDowell and now it seems meaningless. I don’t
know if I should go.
I couldn’t sleep again last night. This morning I didn’t want to get up at all. I went over to my
grandparents and learned that the doctor had called Grandpa Herb last night, telling him that
he’d better go into the hospital as soon as possible.
Grandpa is still waiting for the call from Peninsula, telling him that they’ve got a bed ready.
You can’t imagine how I feel. I feel a cold spot of nausea inside my belly. I feel like lying in bed
and never getting up. I don’t know what to do.
We sat around the table, talking. Uncle Morris and a neighbor came by, and there was quiet,
disjointed conversation. Grandma Ethel cried. Grandpa Herb seems resigned. “That’s what
life is,” he said in regard to something else.
I could not stand it any longer, and after Grandma gave me my laundry, I came home. No mail
today.
Today was the first birthday I’ve ever had when I didn’t have a birthday cake or get a single
card. Even my grandparents didn’t get me a card – they’ve got more important things on their
minds – although they did give me a $20 bill.
[557]
Richard Grayson
I feel cursed. I know it’s selfish of me to think this way, but all the timing in my life seems to be
wrong. Usually I like to read the horoscopes for “Today’s birthday,” but today none of them
related to me.
I feel overwhelmed. I packed, but my heart wasn’t in it. What could have been the best time in
my life has already been ruined. At MacDowell I’ll just be going through the motions. Of all
the times for this to happen!
It seems like I’m only allowed hope and never fulfillment. Last night I thought about how
lonely I am and I started crying. Will this pain over Grandpa Herb result in wisdom or will it
just mean more depression?
The other day on TV, Max Lerner was saying that no one can escape tragedy in his life, but that
some people are destroyed by it and other people are depressed by it. Which will I be?
* * *
8 PM. I’m feeling a little bit better. I spoke to both Mom and she told me that I must take
advantage of my opportunity to go to MacDowell, that Grandpa Herb wouldn’t want me not to.
Dad phoned from Orlando to tell me the same thing and to say he loved me and really missed
me today.
I went over to my grandparents’ apartment for dinner, but we all just picked at our food. I
hugged them both tightly when I left.
My Touro students handed in their papers and gave me a birthday card: “To the world’s
strongest man.” The inside showed a nude man from the back, his weights held by what is
obviously his penis. Prude that I am, I was horribly embarrassed. (Vito once sent me the same
card.)
When I got home, I marked their papers and will mail out their final grades in the morning. I
just took four Triavils and am beginning to feel woozy. I want to sleep tonight.
I’m anxious, as I always am before I start a trip and a new experience. I worry about how I will
manage with my luggage. Why are my trips always very early in the morning or very late at
night?
Tomorrow should be a horror: six hours on that bus and then a van and a car afterwards, and
all that confusion of being in new surroundings. Still, I suppose I shall survive. If not, it doesn’t
matter anyway.
[558]
5:30 PM. I’ve just come back from an outing at Willard Pond, about 25 miles north of here. I
was sitting on the lawn outside Colony Hall working on a story when Lucille asked if I wanted
to go with her, Linda, Jane DeLynn and Dan Gurskis (the tall blond playwright).
I always like serendipitous trips, so I said fine. The weather really changed today; it’s sunny
and it got up to nearly 80°. It was great to get out into New Hampshire.
We stopped at Hancock, where Lucille bought me a can of Diet Pepsi, which I’ve been craving
for a week (I was wearing pocketless gym shorts and didn’t have any money).
Then we drove along these great one-lane highways past tall, thin trees and brooks until we got
to this nature preserve, run by the Audubon Society, that Linda knew about.
We stayed there for about an hour. Only Dan and Jane went in the pond, as the water was icy;
Lucille and I were being pestered by insects. I used her Off!, which was a mistake, as it didn’t
help and made my eyes smart. (I’ve now taken off and am boiling my lenses, and I just hope I
didn’t damage them.)
I loved the feeling of camaraderie that was on the ride; it made me feel a part of MacDowell.
Last evening I called Grandma Ethel, who said that the doctors seemed interested in Grandpa
Herb’s chest x-ray; I bet they’ve spotted something on the lung. I told her not to worry and that
I’d be in touch.
After dinner, about a dozen of us when to the library to see some slides of paintings by Mark
Dean, the dark, bearded, energetic guy who’s always working.
Mark showed some great paintings beginning with landscapes he did at the Rhode Island
College of Design, and then some of Rome and Florence, and finally some very Matisse-like
studio paintings he’s been working on as a graduate student at Queens College.
The best thing about MacDowell is that I feel I’ve been stimulated by the work of other artists:
painters like Mark and Marcia (who afterwards showed slides of her landscape paintings of
Cape Cod and Martha’s Vineyard), composers like Conrad, and other writers like Michael
Blumenthal.
I took out of the library a book by a MacDowell fellow, Eric Lax, called On Being Funny: Woody
Allen and Comedy. Last night I began reading it and I finished it this afternoon. It’s given me
new respect for Allen’s comic genius and a few ideas of my own.
[559]
Richard Grayson
I was up early this morning after only a few hours’ sleep (I cannot remember my dreams in this
place). There were fresh blueberry muffins this morning; the cook said she herself had picked
the blueberries around here.
I went into town with Lester at 9 AM and had ninety minutes to kill before my dental
appointment, so I walked around Peterborough. It really is a lovely little place: very New
England, with these clean little clapboard houses and people who are either very friendly or
very reticent.
I cashed the $35 money order my parents had sent me and then read my book on the bridge
over the river that flows through town. I ran into Mark and Sandy Walker and his dog, and we
chatted for a while, mostly about the cynicism and competitiveness of Sandy Sokoloff and his
wife (or girlfriend) Melinda.
I went to see Dr. Lawrence, a trim elderly man wearing a bowtie. After taking an x-ray and
probing, he told me that my problems were causing by grinding my teeth.
I do tend to gnash my teeth at night and even when I’m awake, and Dr. Lawrence said this is
part of a tension syndrome which also could affect the ear and the neck. (All my trouble spots!)
He advised me to have a splint made when I get back to New York – and he said my gums are
very bad.
3:30 PM. It’s a clear, crisp day – neither cool nor warm. I’ve just walked back from my studio
where I wrote yet another story today, a ten-pager called “It’s Another Beautiful Day in
Broward County, Florida.” It’s a little forced but is probably publishable by some obscure little
magazine.
The important thing is that I’m getting back into the habit of writing again. I’ve done three
stories in three days, which is almost more than I’ve done in all the last six months. They may
not be masterpieces, but they are something.
The great thing about MacDowell, I’ve decided, is that I don’t have to worry about my car,
money, shopping, cleaning or cooking: those little details of my life, which when added up,
keep me from working.
It’s so good not to be constantly thinking about putting gas in the car or getting milk and orange
juice. But I’m going to try to keep up my writing when I return to New York.
[560]
Last night I went back to my diary for this time a year ago. I had just started seeing Dr.
Pasquale. My book was out, but nothing was happening. Dad was thinking of moving to
Florida. I was scared about going to Albany until I visited there for a day.
Then things started to happen: Liz Smith mentioned me in her column. My Skylab letters were
printed in the papers. Dad got the job with Ivan’s family in Florida. I decided not to go to
Albany or spend August in Virginia.
So much has happened since then; it’s been a long, difficult year, but I’ve grown tremendously.
I finally became an adult, slowly and painfully.
Last night, after dinner (our first inedible one, some Chinese garbage) I called Grandpa Herb.
He sounded okay, and said that Marc and Nikki had just left.
Tomorrow they’ll be making an incision to see just how far the thing in the lung has spread.
But even it’s the worst, Grandpa Herb is not going to die immediately.
Cancer kills you slowly, as with Janice, not suddenly. I’ll have lots of chances to be with him
and time to adjust to life without him. I’ll be home in two weeks; hopefully, he’ll be out of the
hospital by then.
Last evening was quiet: I watched some TV with Lucille. Heretofore I had felt embarrassed
about using the set, but it was almost a relief to see television again: a PBS documentary on
Egyptian hieroglyphics and Disraeli on Masterpiece Theatre.
I slept fairly well, nodding off as I listened to the rain. Sandy Walker and Marcia left today.
The transitory nature of MacDowell means that relationships are always changing as people
come and go.
Jane hurt me at breakfast with a critical remark about my “trying too hard.” She’s a very sharp
person and can be cruel. Still, I mailed her gay culture article to the Voice when Frederich and I
went into town with Lester.
I needed more typewriter cartridges and I bought the new Voice. Fred is a hysterically funny
guy with a deadpan delivery.
Last night I spoke with Tanya Grossman, who writes in Russian and has been here only three
years. She’s from the Moscow elite and looks down upon the materialistic Soviet Jews of
Brighton Beach. Tanya told me some of them only pretend to be Jewish so they can get out of the
country.
My teeth hurt and I am dizzy today, but I shall survive it.
[561]
Richard Grayson
4 PM. Like some schoolgirl, I want to write: “Could it be only three weeks since I arrived at the
MacDowell Colony?” The past three weeks have been one long peak experience for me. Now
that my visit is almost over, I look with dread on my return to the “real” world.
I’ve done so much work here, but I feel I’m just beginning to renew my creativity. At my studio
today I didn’t do very much; I sort of cranked out seven lousy pages. I sat in the sun and
watched a pitched battle between an ant and a caterpillar.
But when I came back to Pan’s Cottage, story ideas started coming at me fast and furious. I feel
I need more time here. Last evening Ellis Koh drove Jane and me to the picnic dinner at
Hillcrest.
It was quite a spread: roast beef, salmon, tomato aspic, thick hot slices of bread, good drinks
and delicious chocolate fudge cake for dessert.
Nancy Englander is a bit intimidating. Having those Dobermans around her sort of reinforces
her image – but I managed to go up and tell her how productive and enjoyable my stay here has
been.
I spoke with Miyoko Ito, who seems very sad. She’s been ill, and the University of Chicago is
doing a retrospective of her work, “which at my age feels like an obituary.”
Dan Meltzer was nattily attired in a polka-dotted bow tie, and I talked with him and Anne
LeBaron, who’s looking forward to her Hawaiian vacation with her boyfriend. Patty Hansen
and Margaret Garwood discussed their dogs and cats; Preston, Elaine and Ellen were deep in
composer talk; Tanya and David were together, as usual; Jane complained about feeling
feverish, and she did look very tired.
Hillcrest is a magnificent house, built by the MacDowells. John had just read Doris Grumbach’s
Chamber Music, a novel based on their lives that made both the MacDowells out to be bisexual.
Edward, a handsome young man (there was a gorgeous bust of him on the piano), actually did
die of syphilis – but apparently he was quite a ladies’ man.
I walked Nancy Miller to her studio, trekking on to Colony Hall alone while fighting off the
mosquitoes. (They got me all over, including one bite on the palm of my right hand.)
Medrie and Lucille and I waited as John spent half an hour on the phone, trying desperately –
and theatrically – to arrange his marriage.
[562]
Finally I called Marc, who said he and Nikki were coming to Providence today. He told me to
call him tonight at their hotel in Seekonk, Mass.
Maybe I can come down to Providence by bus and drive home with them or else they might
come to New Hampshire to pick me up. So I could be leaving as early as tomorrow; if that
doesn’t work out, I’ll take the bus home on Sunday.
I had marvelous dreams. In the final one, a girl tried desperately to convince me to take her to
the top of Mount Monadnock and “marry” her there. That jolted me out of sleep at 8 AM.
Lucille was upset by a crisis in her department at C.W. Post: one of her teachers quit. Lesley
and Elaine both left this morning; I didn’t really say goodbye to either of them, although I did
like Elaine.
Today was very hot but not so humid. I feel my remaining time here is precious, but I’ve
already started looking ahead to New York. I don’t want to face my hot apartment, my dying
car, Grandpa Herb’s illness.
I don’t look forward to doing my own cooking, cleaning and shopping again. I almost feel that
I could live better if I never see Rockaway again. I’ve changed because of my stay at
MacDowell; here I’m a more relaxed, more creative person, and I don’t want to go back to what
I was.
2 PM. A cool breeze is coming from the window. I rearranged the furniture to put the bed back
against the window, so it will be easier to sleep on these hot nights. It’s a cool, cloudy day.
Yesterday I didn’t do much. I got out all the money I could from the bank, but I still have only
$28 to get me through the weekend. Money is my most pressing problem.
I have $300 in the bank and those checks may not clear for several days. I’m expecting another
check for $160 from Touro College this month. I don’t know when I’ll get the $100 honorarium
from the Voice of America.
Even if I’m allowed unemployment, I won’t be able to sign for my first check for at least three
weeks, and the rent is due in two weeks. I have a $100 bill from the telephone company. I just
don’t see how I’m going to get through this summer.
Last night I saw Dr. Pasquale. I didn’t have the money to pay him, either. We talked about my
perceptions of myself as a writer and how they have changed.
[563]
Richard Grayson
MacDowell didn’t cause this to happen, but it set the stage for me to perceive myself differently.
In a way I wish Dr. Pasquale and I had discussed more practical matters – but he said I’m able
to handle those things fine on my own.
Now I have no doubt that writing is what I want to do with my life – and my judgment about
my self-worth is not dependent upon outside forces, it comes from within.
I might have seen it without having gone to MacDowell, but my stay there seemed to clarify
everything.
Yesterday morning I took Grandpa Herb to Peninsula Hospital to pick up his x-rays and
records for a consultation with a doctor Marty found, someone at New York Hospital.
I’ve been driving Grandpa’s car and it’s a pleasure, although parking is difficult in Rockaway I
the summer. I want to be out of here soon. I could take Avis’s room in Park Slope, or I could
take over Marc and Nikki’s apartment in Sheepshead Bay, but I’m just not sure what it is I want
to do.
I was at BC yesterday and I noted from the English Department bulletin board that there might
be evening classes Neil Schaeffer could get for me. I suppose I could find more adjunct jobs and
get by, but is that what I really want to do?
I spoke with Avis, who’s dazed by all the sudden changes in her life. On Monday she and
Anthony went to see his elderly parents on Long Island. Mr. Cuccarelli kept saying, “I just
hope you kids know what you’re doing.”
Avis’s parents were shocked by the news, and they had a big fight. Yet they were also pleased
that Avis is “finally” getting married. Tomorrow her parents meet Anthony at breakfast, and
then he and Avis will motorcycle upstate for the weekend.
Anthony got into a program run by his hospital workers’ union; he’ll work part-time, get $150 a
week, and go to school at NYU-Bellevue to become a respiratory therapist.
Avis will move into his Bay Ridge apartment and they’ll look for something larger and under
$300 in that neighborhood. Like me, Anthony doesn’t like congested neighborhoods and wants
to live close to the water.
Avis said he is a bit gun-shy because of his disastrous first marriage. I can’t wait to meet
Anthony, but it will have to wait. They’ll probably get married in August, hopefully at the UN
Chapel where her sister and brother-in-law were married.
I haven’t heard anything from Marc and Nikki, so I guess they’re still in Rhode Island. Deanna
called me this morning want to know the name of Mom’s (and Ronna’s) gynecologist. I saw no
[564]
point in telling Deanna that Marc’s going to be married; besides, I was a bit too befuddled to be
up to it.
I still haven’t done half the things I wanted to do: the laundry, cleaning the apartment, xeroxing
my new stories and résumés (I don’t have the money for that), and calling Linda Lerner and
Frederich.
Still, I’ve been getting the urge to write, and I’ve been taking down notes for stories. This
weekend I want to see if I can work out some plans for my future.
11 PM. Today was a busy day, and a hot and humid one as well. Grandpa Herb saw the doctor
in Manhattan this morning and was told that the growth appears localized and that removal of
the lung is necessary – if Grandpa can breathe with the remaining lung.
I spoke with Grandpa Ethel, Cousin Wendy and Mom, and they all hoped the decision would
be made soon; the waiting and uncertainty are awful.
Meanwhile, according to Mom, Marc and Nikki spent today driving around Brooklyn in a Rolls
Royce. Fredo Milano, the rock promoter with whom they’ve signed a contract, sent Nikki down
here in the Rolls with a chauffeur. Nikki went back to Providence this evening, and things seem
to be working out.
As to my literary day, I arrived at the Scott Meredith office at 2:30 PM, and Russell Galen
showed me to his office. He’s a young, very think, attractive blond man whom I liked
immediately.
He thinks that ordinarily he would have thrown my letter and publicity package away, but he
sensed that maybe he would like my work. I brought him Hitler and a few other things, and he
said he’d read the stuff over the weekend and let me know if he felt we could work together.
Russ wanted to make sure that I didn’t expect him to make me a best seller overnight, I assured
him not at all, that I was in the business for the long haul. He has forty clients and has had
hassles with other authors, so he was wary about taking on a “character” like me.
He also told me what I expected to hear: that he was interested only in a novel. Russ works on
a salary, not a commission, so he doesn’t have to worry about making every sale. What he cares
about is his track record.
[565]
Richard Grayson
He seemed very sharp, with a healthy ego and a cynical yet charitable view of the publishing
business. But he also said good books don’t go unpublished, a contention with which I
disagree.
I left his office hoping that we could work together but with the knowledge that Russ Galen
isn’t the arbiter of my literary abilities. A taxi stuck in traffic made me ten minutes late for the
Voice of America taping.
I rushed into the studio and sat next to Kenneth Gangemi. Across from us were Steve Dixon
and Carol Emshwiller; Richard Kostelanetz moderated the symposium from another table.
We talked about the contemporary short story, our own careers, our influences, the nonexistent
literary market for stories, and we read several paragraphs of our own work.
I was surprised that the others, Steve Dixon in particular, seemed familiar with my work. I was
no more stupid than I usually am or anyone else was. After the taping, we rushed into the
downtown subway.
Steve’s next short story collection will be put out by Johns Hopkins, and they gave him a
teaching job for next fall. Carol will be taking over Steve’s class at NYU, her first time teaching.
Steve’s latest novel has been turned down by Harper & Row, who published his first books, and
also by Taplinger. Carol is readying a second manuscript of stories for a university or small
press. I told her how much I admire Joy in Our Cause.
Richard won the Berlin Prize and will spend a year in West Berlin lecturing.
I got off at West 4th Street and walked with Steve and Carol through Washington Square Park,
where we passed that 14-year-old boy I met on the subway in November; he was standing with
some gay kids, and our eyes met for a moment of recognition.
I had parked Grandpa’s car by Atlantic Avenue in Brooklyn, and with everything, I didn’t get
home until 7:30 PM. I had a two hour talk with Linda Lerner about adjuncting, writing and
managing to survive. She said that Neil Schaeffer sold his book on satire to Columbia
University Press.
4 PM. The only thing I can hope for now is that eventually some good will come out of all this
pain. Life has ground me to a cinder. I am on the verge of giving up, but I don’t even know
how to do that.
[566]
My life has become nightmarish as all my support systems fail. I don’t know how to cope with
all the stress.
Yesterday Josh told me his building was condemned. He has thirty days to move out. It’s
another example of the little person getting screwed, like me with Touro College and them
denying me unemployment benefits because the school still owes me money for the spring
term.
As I ate dinner at the Ram’s Horn last night, I watched the people at the counter drive a new
waiter crazy. The poor guy just couldn’t manage, through no fault of his own. Yet he kept
smiling through it.
Even though I couldn’t afford it, I gave him a big tip because the waiter, to me, epitomized
every little guy that’s trying to make it despite great odds. But I wonder how long he will last.
At JFK Airport, Marc and Nikki came over to me. Nikki had on her usual hideous makeup and
had stars pasted on at the sides of her eyes. She babbled on about clothes, about her father
“blessing” her coming marriage or something, about she and Marc “sneaking” to see her kids
today in Providence.
She will also see a cardiologist; she’s been very ill and during the course of the evening she
looked faint several times. Nikki sickens me; she’s not a person but a hideous thing.
Mom came out of the plane looking like Mom, and I watched Nikki kiss her like she was her
sister. As we walked with the luggage, people kept staring at Nikki. When Mom and I were
alone in the car, I said sarcastically, “Your daughter-in-law.”
Mom said she’s decided that there’s nothing she can do about it: “I’ll just treat her as something
which one day will be gone.”
I complained to Mom about my having most of the burden for Grandpa Herb’s illness and told
her that Marc never calls anyone. When Mom said she could only stay through the weekend
because Dad has a show in Miami next week, I exploded with rage.
She told me she wanted to see Grandpa Herb today, but I said I was too exhausted to drive into
the city. I felt like, and I still feel like, I don’t have a life anymore.
Mom gave me two $100 bills. I thanked her and immediately felt guilty for having to take them,
also knowing that this money wouldn’t even pay the rent that was due a week ago.
[567]
Richard Grayson
Back at Grandma Ethel’s, we sat around waiting for Grandma to arrive. I couldn’t imagine why
she wasn’t home, and I guess it’s a sign of my nervous state that I panicked and pictured
Grandma dying of a heart attack in the hospital.
Just as I said I was about to call the police, she returned from a neighbor’s apartment. After
Marc and Nikki left, Mom said it’s like Marc’s “bedeviled.” Why is it he can’t see what any
normal person sees: that Nikki is a sickie, that she’s poison.
Nikki told me that if “Dad” (my father!) can’t walk her down the aisle and give her away at the
wedding, she wants me to do it. Me, father of the bride of Frankenstein! They want to get
married in Central Park as soon as possible. What a freak show that will be.
I came home at 11 PM, feeling exhausted. I called Teresa and she told me that I absolutely must
make some time for myself. So today I told Mom I wouldn’t go to the hospital. Instead, we
went to Waldbaum’s, where Mom bought me $55 worth of groceries.
We were in line behind Stacy, who’s house-sitting for his father and his new wife. Stacy’s sister
and Phyllis are both getting married this summer, she said.
In Brooklyn we fixed the car’s air-conditioning, met Evie for lunch at the Floridian, shopped,
and had Grandpa Herb’s ring appraised. The jeweler at the said it “might” be worth $125 to
$150.
That was the last blow. I broke down and wept like a baby in the shopping center. Grandpa
had always told me that ring he gave me was worth thousands. Mom said she would pay my
rent and telephone bill with a check on Friday. But what then?
1 AM Sunday. I just came home half an hour ago, and I’ve been answering want ads in the
New York Times. Tomorrow I’ll send out résumés for twenty jobs. I had new résumés xeroxed
earlier today. It’s all part of Richie’s Get Your Shit Together Weekend.
I feel I can start moving now – to where, I’m not certain, but I am going to get somewhere. Last
night I went over to my grandparents’ to say goodbye to Mom.
I decided not to go with Marc and Nikki to take her out to dinner and the airport; I was tired
and I had spent a great deal of time alone with Mom. She and I got along wonderfully, and I
enjoyed her company. I’m very lucky to have a mother I can really talk to – Mom understands.
[568]
Last night I spent several hours cleaning up the apartment. I straightened out most of my files,
and I scrubbed the bathroom, dusted the furniture, and made myself feel good.
I also composed an open-ended list of things I have to do. I slept well and woke up at 10 AM.
At the post office there was the usual junk mail – but Charlie Labeda of Street Bagel forwarded
me a fan letter from a girl on Long Island who read my story in the last issue and loved it.
That’s always nice. It makes me feel I am reaching somebody after all.
Josh called to say he’d gotten a job as a programmer for $14,000. That’s a relief. I hope things
work out as well for me.
I relaxed and read and went back to my exercises today, and it was a fine morning. I’ve gotten
so accustomed to my little apartment after nine months. Rockaway can be gorgeous in the
summer, and I’ll never be sorry I had this experience.
At 2 PM I drove into Brooklyn and xeroxed my résumés and the new Hitler reviews. An hour
later, I picked up Alice and we drove to Sloan-Kettering. Between Janice and Grandpa Herb, I
feel I am living in that neighborhood of hospitals.
We found Janice looking a little better but still in bad shape. Ingrid and Janice’s mother were
there – Frankie, a neighbor, had driven them – but they left soon after Alice and I arrived.
Janice was getting a blood transfusion and her arm was all purple. She kept trying to take off
the oxygen mask and was crying because there’s no one around to help her feed at mealtimes.
When Janice’s calligrapher friends, a mother and daughter, arrived, Alice began making
schedules for feedings. Janice also complained that the nurses were taking away her Percocet
tablets and asked Alice to get Ingrid to smuggle them in daily.
It was heartbreaking to see Janice so helpless and in such pain; I was glad to be able to get out to
First Avenue to feed the meter. Alice and I left at 5:30 PM.
She’s very depressed about Janice and said, “It makes you realize your own little troubles are so
insignificant.” Alice told me I was invited to the usual Saturday evening gourmet feast she
makes for Peter, so I called Dan and told him I’d be by later in the evening.
I waited while Alice brought chicken and shrimp, and then, up in her apartment, as Alice
prepared the elaborate meal, we listened to the tape of the Barry Farber show with my
grandparents. It played very well and will be a lasting reminder of them.
Peter came home and the three of us dined in the air-conditioned living room. It was wonderful
to be with my friends instead of with sick and old people.
[569]
Richard Grayson
Lately I’ve been so tense that my sexual desire has been fading, but I feel pretty perky now.
Living at the beach in this summer heat, I get to see some very cute bodies, and it would be the
answer to a prayer if I could find a guy I really liked. Today I almost believe that that part of
my life will work out, too.
I haven’t heard from Bill-Dale in two months and I don’t know what’s happened to him –
although I’m sure he’ll turn up sooner or later.
Well, getting back to Alice’s, her dinner was very good: curried chicken and shrimp with rice
and an apple/pineapple sauce.
Peter told me he’ll be going to the Democratic convention as a representative of The Big Apple
Report, and Carlos and June are going in connection with their children’s book on the life of
newspaper reporters.
Alice showed me Janice’s book on calligraphy; Simon & Schuster did a great job with it. Alice
said she had a lot of cash and offered to lend me $200. She was glad when I accepted. I don’t
want to get into the habit of borrowing money, but this is a rough time, and I know Alice can
spare the money.
God bless my friends: they feed me nutritionally, financially and emotionally. Can I ever really
repay them? Driving uptown in a raging rainstorm, I realized how lucky I am.
I have my health, my brains, my looks (no, I’m not kidding), a family who’s supportive, a group
of friends who can’t be beat, a nice apartment, food in my stomach, my writing. Remember the
Sam Levenson title: Everything But Money. And you know you can’t have everything.
I was lucky, too, in getting a parking space right in front of Dan’s West 74th Street apartment,
not an easy feat on a Saturday night when you consider that Plato’s Retreat, the famous sex
club, is down the block.
Dan and his pretty girlfriend and roommate Tal entertained me and gave me lemonade. Dan is
hoping to get adjunct courses for the fall; we talked about that and about MacDowell people
and about the theater.
I enjoyed the conversation and left at 11:30 PM only because I was tired. The ride back to
Rockaway was pleasant.
Looking at the Sunday paper, I got the petty satisfaction of seeing Baumbach get another bad
review in the Times Book Review – but at least he got reviewed by them. Oh well, I’m not going
to complain tonight.
[570]
5 PM on a hot and humid Sunday afternoon. I’ve been trying to work on my novel all weekend
– “work on it” in this case meaning planning and not writing, and I’m not getting very far.
Being a writer is hard work.
On Friday evening I took myself to Kings Plaza to see Fame again. I wanted to see how that
story worked. All those kids at the High School of Performing Arts have dreams and talent, but
what hard work they’ve got in front of them. Like writers.
Is it worth it? Even now, depressed, I believe that it is. Look what I’ve accomplished already.
I’m not just your average weirdo; I’ve developed a style, a voice, a Zeitgeist or whatever, and
people (however few) read me and see what I’m trying to say.
My problem with the novel is that I don’t know yet what I want to say. More agonizing and
teeth-grinding (Gnashville) will be with me until I get it right. Or at least get it down on paper.
Bert Stratton, that Cleveland writer whom I met last summer sent me his novel, Gigging, which
he self-published in a handsome trade paperback. Obviously he couldn’t get it commercially
published.
It’s an unfocused book and Burt is careless with language and punctuation (he overuses
exclamation marks on every page), but there is a lot of energy in the novel and it gets that
Shaker Heights Jewish milieu down to a T – or a chai. I’ll have to write him.
The other night I called Crad to tell him how much I admired Lightning Struck My Dick. Crad is
very cheerful these days. He’s had a lot of luck selling his own books at a new location, and last
Sunday, Virgo Press had him come to the Canadian Booksellers Convention.
Virgo’s head, Thad McIlroy, is only 23 but he’s the perfect publisher for Crad: he’s aggressive,
innovative and very hungry. Thad has made up Lightning T-shirts, and of course the title has
aroused a lot of attention in Canadian publishing circles.
Crad just may find himself famous before too long. No one (but me) deserves it more. Then
again, Crad might be disappointed and depressed in the future – but still, it will have been
worth it.
Remember how thrilled I was last summer when reviews of my book kept coming out in the
papers? There will be times like that again, and I’ve got to keep that in mind.
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Richard Grayson
I hope Love Street Books accepts the short story collection I sent them, but my attitude is that if
they don’t want it, it’s their problem, not mine. As I told Russ Galen, I’ve always been in this
for the long haul, and I’ve come too far to give up now.
On Thursday night on Montague Street, Josh and I ran into Cheryl Tarnowsky, whom I knew at
college from having classes with her. She is still with the Social Services Department and she
looks like she leads a very comfortable and very boring life.
I may envy her Brooklyn Heights apartment and her salary, but I still think I have more than
she does. Whether I make it as a writer or not, nobody can say that I didn’t try.
Writing is an act of will, an act of ego, and I must keep at it. Like the “Fame” song says, “I want
to live forever,” and the only way I can do that is through my writing. I am no longer an
apprentice but I am not yet a craftsman.
I spoke to Marc today, but he was busy with the kids and couldn’t talk for very long. I’m sure
he’s annoyed with me for what he probably considers my “spying” on him, but in the past I
have had to force any information out of him.
Oh well, Jimmy Carter has Billy Carter. I’d better keep my distance from my brother for now.
I was on the beach for an hour today, but I have no patience for it anymore. There were no
decent jobs advertised in the Sunday Times. I keep wondering how the hell I’m going to get
through August.
11 PM. In so many ways this summer has taught me more about life than any other time I can
remember. Undoubtedly, as Mom said the other night, I will use my experiences in my writing.
The Democratic convention is on this week. Ted Kennedy lost the rules fight and withdrew as a
candidate, but tonight he made one hell of a speech. He quoted Tennyson: “I am a part of all I
met . . .” I feel that way too.
Life is a journey, and I’ve had many disappointments and setbacks and much pain, but I’ve
come through. Tonight I said to myself: “Richie, you’re basically a nice person.”
Usually I think I’m horrible, but I’m learning to like myself and to become more understanding
of myself.
This morning I went to Janice’s funeral. Alice didn’t want to go – she said it would have upset
her and she didn’t want to see the hypocrites like Albert who didn’t do a damn thing for Janice
[572]
cry their crocodile tears. I respect Alice’s feelings, but I needed to say goodbye to Janice to
make the experience complete; otherwise, I would have felt that I never really accepted her
death.
I arrived at the Guarino Funeral Home on Flatlands Avenue at 9 AM and went into the room
where Janice’s body lay. She was dressed in a light blue gown, her hair made up, holding a
bouquet, the casket under a garish plaster Jesus.
Few of Janice’s friends were there; it was mostly family. Her sister and brother-in-law came
over to me and said, “Aren’t you glad you spent all the time with her that you did?” I do feel
good about the last month I spent with Janice.
Late this afternoon, while I was watching Marc and his kids scamper along the beach looking
for shells, I picked out a piece of paper from my pack pocket and discovered it was from the
game of “Pig’s Pen” that Janice and I had played last Monday night, the J’s and R’s in the pen-
and-pencil boxes.
I can’t believe Janice is dead. She was so scared, as Grandma Ethel is scared about Grandpa
Herb. When I saw Grandma after I came back from the funeral, her hands were shaking and
she needed a Tranxene.
I’m scared, everybody’s scared – but life goes on. I thought a lot of the funeral was Catholic
bullshit, and I don’t know if Janice believed it or not, but I did like the prayer which concludes
“. . . world without end, amen.”
The world is without end, and that’s the source of all the beauty and all the pain of life. I went
up to Janice’s body to pay my respects; Dolores, very upset, touched Janice’s hands, but I could
not bring myself to do that.
The funeral was at Holy Family Church, and the priest hardly mentioned “our sister Janice” at
all. Nobody said anything about what kind of person Janice was, and I could only think how
Janice would have made sarcastic cracks throughout the ceremony.
I held hands with Maura, who said that on Saturday Paula had gone to her Russian Orthodox
church, and not knowing she was dead, lit a candle for Janice – and it flickered and died.
I nearly knocked up Grandpa Herb’s car getting out of a space to join the funeral procession to
Canarsie Cemetery. Janice was buried next to her father. At the gravesite, the priest said a few
prayers and we all threw flowers onto the casket.
Many people were weeping. Ingrid and her grandmother seemed doped up, and Janice’s
cousin Betsy seemed barely able to endure her grief. There were hugs and handshakes, and the
cars drove off.
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Richard Grayson
Sometimes I have the fear that the people in my life will start dying one by one and that I’ll be
going to funerals and mourning continually, but I know that’s only a nightmarish fantasy.
I thought I was composed by the time I stopped at Kings Plaza to go to the bank, but I kept
writing the numbers wrong on my withdrawal ticket. I was next on line for the teller when I
heard someone call my name.
A few people behind me was a guy I couldn’t quite place. “It’s Jordan, Ronna’s friend,” he said.
After our transactions got done, he came over to me. Jordan changed; he shaved off his beard
and grew a mustache.
I must have sounded a little rattled to him, and I was, and he seemed concerned about me. I
was grateful for the chance to talk to Jordan, to someone, to anyone.
I asked Jordan about the bar exam, which he said was hard, and about his plans. He’s taking a
ten-day trip to California by himself (Ronna couldn’t get off work) and in September, he’ll start
his job at that midtown law firm and probably get an apartment.
I noticed for the first time how nice-looking and well-built Jordan was, but I realized that years
ago, I would have compared myself to him unfavorably.
Jordan is a kind, caring person, and I like him. I’ve been upset with Ronna for not answering
my calls or letters, but I still think she’s a good person and I’m really glad she has Jordan. We
shook hands warmly and I wished him well; I think he likes me, too.
I went over to see my grandparents. Yesterday Grandpa Herb and I had had taken in his car to
be fixed; replacing the water pump cost over $100. Grandma Ethel was nervous and upset; she
feels she will not be able to function without Grandpa.
Arlyne called and urged Grandma to consider seeing a psychotherapist. Marc called and said
he was coming over with the kids, so I stayed, and I was glad I did.
Nikki was home cooking, so Marc brought little Tara and Lee, and they were more lovable than
I remembered. They are perfect storybook children and I love being their step-uncle, if that’s
what I’m going to be.
Tara is a little doll, always saying very adult tings, and Lee is quiet and so affectionate; for some
reason, he seems especially fond of me. Like the other time, Tara climbed onto Grandma’s lap
and started kissing her over and over again. I saw Grandma starting to soften, and her face
looked better.
The first time the kids called Marc “Dad,” I was a little surprised, but I liked hearing it. Marc is
good with the kids, surprisingly good, and they listen to him as they would to a father.
[574]
He doesn’t like to go out on the terrace, so I took the kids out they and they sat on my lap and
hugged and kissed me. After the funeral, it was wonderful to be touched like that.
Nikki must have some good qualities to produce such loving children, and she seems to be
coming to terms with her own parents, to whom they’re returning the kids tomorrow. (Here’s a
funny: Tara told me, “I have three Grandma Graysons.”)
Marc and I took them to McDonald’s, then Lee drove with me as we followed Mark and Tara to
my apartment. They played with my typewriter and I gave Lee the key to the stolen Cadillac.
“I’ll keep it forever,” he said breathlessly.
The kids made me recite that jingle from my childhood (“I won’t go to Macy’s any more, more,
more . . .”). Finally Marc took them onto the beach as I watched from the boardwalk.
Next to me an old Jewish lady was hugging her black grandson, and when my neighbors asked
me who those kids were, I said, “My niece and nephew.”
The other day a feisty old man in my building asked me how I was and I said, “I’m poor.”
Today he saw me holding the kids’ hands on the boardwalk and said, “Today I see you’re a
millionaire.”
I kissed the kids goodbye, ate dinner at The Arch, and went back to the boardwalk to talk with
my elderly neighbors. Life goes on, it seems.
Upstairs the phone rang, and it was this guy, Boris, 23, whose Voice ad I answered. We walked
for a while, and he seemed okay but a little vapid and pretentious. He said I sounded like a
nice guy and said he’d call me again on Friday. We’ll see what develops.
My parents phoned, and it was great talking t them. Mom said she’ll pay my rent this month
after she gets back from Atlanta with Dad next week.
I got a letter from Russ Galen and he sent back my book and my “notes” for a novel. I’m sorry I
gave him the material and I’m too embarrassed to read his letter, so I stuck it away in a drawer
unread.
6 PM. Today was a warm and sunny day. I slept well and work up early. At the post office I
found three pieces of mail, none of them good. First was a dunning notice from Getty Oil; next
was a note from the Unemployment bureau telling me I lost my case; and the third, for which I
had to pay thirteen cents postage due (more insult added to injury) was from Touro College.
[575]
Richard Grayson
It contained my “revised” schedule. They took the P.S. 199 course away from me and just gave
me the two at Beach Channel. So I’m not full-time, and that’s over $3,000 gone. Damn Touro
College and those crooked Jews who run it.
I can’t believe how they’ve screwed me. Now I’ll screw them. I am not going to take their
damn courses – who knows when I’ll get paid? – and instead I’ll take courses elsewhere and not
tell them.
Let them find an instructor at the last minute. Before this past year, I never realized the extent
to which the little people of the world are exploited. Now I feel no compunction about doing
what’s best for me, so long as it’s legal.
And I can even have an understanding of what makes people like Marc want to sell cocaine and
beat the system. Look at Nikki’s father: as a gangster, is he any more immoral than the
hypocrites at Touro or CUNY or the NEA or CCLM? Enough ranting.
I tried not to wallow in depression and so I walked out to the beach to catch the sun for a couple
of hours. Lying there, I decided that my luck has got to change sooner or later; MacDowell
can’t be the last good thing that will ever happen to me.
I guess I haven’t worked on the rage I feel at having done everything the way I was “supposed
to” and ending up a failure anyway.
Yesterday Kurt Nimmo wrote that I should send him quotes about me so that they could have
something to use of the cover if they go ahead with the chapbook. Collected all my reviews
and decided to send him all my other clippings, too. After looking through all that press, I
couldn’t help feeling that I’m not such a failure after all.
Nassau Community College sent me a form letter in response to my application for their full-
time opening. They said they’d be interviewing in late July (!) and asked if I was interested in
adjunct courses at $835 a shot. I wrote back that I was; I’m afraid to let anything slip out of my
hands.
Back in the apartment, defrosted my refrigerator, dusted and vacuumed and did my laundry.
Josh called a little while ago and said he was totally “bummed out.” Remember Olivia, that
pretty blonde Josh used to go out with in college? (Actually, he went out with a lot of pretty
blondes.) But I liked Olivia.
Anyway, this afternoon Josh ran into her in a hardware store on Court Street. She came up to
him as he was haggling with the store owner and said, “Remember me?”
[576]
Josh said she was even more beautiful than before. She’s married to this Italian guy she’s been
living with for years; she’s going for her M.A. in Art Therapy at Pratt and works in a frame
store on Atlantic.
Josh said his heart fell to his foot and he was so flustered he didn’t know what to say. He was
with Simon and he worried Olivia thought he was gay. She was really well-dressed and he
looked like a slob, wearing a Manny, Moe & Jack Pep Boys T-shirt.
It made Josh feel creepy to tell Olivia he was a computer programmer. He walked her to the car
where her husband was waiting but didn’t want to meet the guy. Josh said he looked very
macho.
“I felt like a fool, mostly because of the letters I sent her trying to get back after we broke up,”
Josh said. (I remember his writing one in Prof. Roberts’s Russian class.) “I feel sick, like
someone punched me in the stomach.” Poor Josh.
9 PM. Life can’t be all bad. Here it is, another Sunday night and I’m feeling happy. The past
week has been another learning experience and there’s some hope in the air.
I think the part of life that I’ve been luckiest in has been friendship. It strikes me that I have
gotten more delight out of my friends than anything else, including my career as a writer.
Generally my friends have remained my friends: Alice, Avis, Teresa, Josh, Mikey and the
others. I invest a lot in my friendships and I hate to see one end. My friends, more than
anything (except maybe my family) have gotten me through this difficult year.
It sounds corny, but without them, I couldn’t have made it. They’ve been so generous to me. I
know I’m a good friend, too.
The saddest disappointment is that Ronna threw away our years of friendship. I will never call
her again, as I’ve decided there’s no sense in wasting my energies who doesn’t give a damn
when there are more giving people to be friends with.
Last night Mikey picked me up. I had been standing in the lobby talking with a lonely old lady
whose relatives all live out of town; she just needed someone to talk to, and when I left, she
said, “You’re a delight.”
Obviously I have ulterior motives when I’m nice to people: it makes me feel good and I like to
be liked. But I’ve decided that people should be judged on their actions and not their
[577]
Richard Grayson
motivations. Don’t tell me that a 14-year-old rapist has “a good heart”; give me the louse who
donates to charity out of a sense of guilt.
Mikey and I drove to Woodmere, to that shopping center where Dad once had a store.
Unfortunately, the New York Post had given us the wrong time for the show, and neither of us
were in the mood to wait an hour.
So we drove back to Rockaway, Mark taking me home a new way. The Five Towns looked so
gorgeous at night. I bought the Times and Philip Roth’s The Ghost Writer at the newsstand on
Beach 116th Street and came home to a long snooze.
This morning I began reading Roth’s book. Naturally I loved it. Roth is so masterful; I would
be happy if I had one-tenth his talent. I identified like mad with the 23-year-old short story
writer (obviously the young Roth) who visits the older, established Jewish literary figure, an
amalgam of Singer and Malamud.
(In May, Malamud said he and his wife had been invited out to dinner in London with Roth
and Claire Bloom. “He was taking notes on me, I later realized,” Malamud said. “Roth’s
problem is he thinks I’m his father.”)
Scott called from his parents’ house and said he was going to Neponsit with a friend and his
family and would walk over to my block.
Avis phoned just after she and Anthony got back from Cold Spring. I told her the B-9 bus,
which stops at her corner in Bay Ridge, now goes to Riis Park on weekends and she should
come out that way.
While I was eating lunch, Josh called from his parents’ house: Yesterday’s move was a
headache, and the super gave him such tsuris that he didn’t even want to tell me the story.
Josh asked what I was doing today, and when I told him that Avis and Scott were both coming
over, he said, “You planned it – up to your old tricks.” Josh meant that I like to put people
together and observe what goes on.
Actually, if I had tried, I couldn’t have panned it any better. I was outside on my beach blanket
when Avis and Scott came toward me from different directions at precisely the same instant.
I watched their faces as they said hello to each other and to me; it was the smallest bit awkward.
Mostly Scott and Avis talked to each other rather than to me: about his job, her life in Germany,
her marriage, his forthcoming marriage.
[578]
I was reminded of all the times, years ago, when the three of us did things together: a summer
Sunday at the Botanic Gardens, a stoned drive on the night of Shelli and Jerry’s wedding; Avis
and I seeing Scott off to Europe and trying to calm him down.
I thought how novelistic or cinematic the scene on the beach seemed. Scott was calm and didn’t
talk only about himself, and he told jokes that were very funny.
A delightful bit of God’s irony occurred when a seagull shitted right on Scott’s back. As he
went to the ocean to wash himself off, Avis smiled and said, “He’s not as bad as he used to be.”
Scott left after about an hour, and then Avis began telling me about how badly she and
Anthony were treated upstate by his supposed friends. Anthony, she says, used to play the fool
with his friends – which is a role I can’t see him in at all.
Avis and I soaked up some sun, jogged by the water, and had a good old time. Her marriage
may change some things, but our friendship is stronger than ever.
We went upstairs to change and then walked over to the Ram’s Horn for dinner, for which Avis
generously paid. We spoke about Josh and Simon, who Avis said are “interesting characters”;
as the ex-lover of both, she would know, I guess.
Both Simon and Josh are insecure, have poor self-images and basically treat women as sex
objects. Avis said that Josh sees himself as a failure and that Simon is the laziest person she’s
ever met.
She said that after three weeks of marriage, she and Anthony are getting along fabulously. The
worst fights are over food; he keeps telling her what’s not good for her (eggs, beef, etc.).
As I drove her back to Bay Ridge, she told me her mother treats her with more respect now that
she’s married, a hypocrisy which infuriates Avis. Anthony came home just as we pulled up.
Today was his last day of work before his classes at NYU begin, and I went up and joined them
for a drink – they had beer and I had lemonade – to celebrate. I do like Anthony a lot; he’s
solid, dependable, calm, strong.
Today was a nice day.
[579]
Richard Grayson
3 PM. It’s a cloudy afternoon, which is nice for a change. This summer has been the driest in
New York history, as well as the third hottest. All this sunny 85° weather has gotten to be a
drag.
I’m feeling pretty good. Dad’s visit perked me up, and so did the Coda article. Debby Mayer
sent it in today’s mail and said it was one of the most effective pieces they’d ever published.
Bernhard Frank of Buckle also sent me a note, saying he’d seen the piece and my story in the gay
issue of Beyond Baroque.
Last night when I called Carolyn Bennett, she also mentioned the Beyond Baroque piece; I guess
gay people really respond to it. And Taplinger sent along a fan letter from a “B. Cohen” in
Great Neck, a pencil-scrawled not telling me “Introductions” was the best piece in the book.
So I feel my writing career is moving forward again. As to my teaching career, I still have had
no word from Brooklyn; last night Baruch called me, but the courses they offered conflicted
with Kingsborough so I had to turn them down. I hope I get more offers next week; I’m almost
certain I will.
Yesterday I went down for my interview at Food Stamps. I asked all the bureaucrats their
names and carried a briefcase, so I got taken care of rather quickly – unlike an asthmatic
Haitian woman and a Spanish couple who waited for hours.
My big break was that I paid off my passbook loan. My bankbook showed I had slowly
withdrawn $700 and so that bolstered my claim that I was living on my savings.
I got authorization to go to Manhattan (I drove quickly from Rockaway and I got there by 4 PM)
to pick up my food stamps: $63 worth of them issued to me because it was an emergency.
All afternoon, in Arverne and again in Chelsea, I was surrounded by poor people, mostly black
and Hispanic. It made me feel funny to be among them, but I think I understand the indignity
of accepting government assistance a little better.
My food stamp card is almost like a badge of honor: it says I’ve been down and out, too. The
$63 in stamps will come in handy; it’s the maximum for a single person.
Yesterday I was at my grandparents’ place. Grandma Ethel was complaining as usual: “Today I
had made up my mind that I was going to be well. . . and then the pains began.” Grandpa Herb
bugged me to get him cigarettes.
[580]
I didn’t go over there today; I don’t want them getting over-dependent upon me. When I think
about all my grandparents and the old people around me in Rockaway, I sometimes think that
most people’s are lives are too long rather than too short.
The Touro check arrived today finally, and the Voice of America check cleared, so I’ve gotten
through another week by the skin of my aching teeth and poor gums. (If I had the gum
treatments the dentist says I need, I wouldn’t be able to make it.)
Part of me believes that I’m never going to see a time when I can be financially secure. I’ve held
off buying a new car, getting dental care, buying clothes and books for so long that I don’t think
I’ll ever have enough money to save.
On Wednesday night I had insomnia; for some reason I felt this neurotic superstition about
things going too good. Maybe I’m just accustomed to disasters and crises now. I keep
wondering what bad event will occur next.
Jonny called late last night, but I was asleep and not very coherent; still, his calling made me
feel that my little brother is now my friend. I’ve been incredibly lucky in my family life; that’s
one area in which I’ve gotten more than my fair share.
Teresa got a job offer to coordinate the speakers’ bureau for Carter’s New York campaign, and
she’s going to try to take a leave of absence from the LIRR.
Last night Carolyn told me that she’s just returned from Newfoundland with her lover, Terry,
with whom she’s been living. Carolyn lost her job at P.S. 193 because the grant wasn’t renewed
and she’s looking for work.
3 PM. I feel more peaceful than I have in some time. Rosh Hashona is important to me even
though I don’t practice formal Judaism. It’s a gorgeous day, sunny and mid, not a cloud in the
sky, not hot, not humid.
Last night I slept soundly and had delicious dreams about babies – always a good sign. I felt
relaxed this morning. Now I know I have options and I have money coming in.
I walked to the post office this morning, took money out of the bank, and decided to get a
haircut. I wanted a change from the disco-Italian look and the Beatle cut it always seems to
evolve into, so I went to a hair stylist on Beach 116th Street.
[581]
Richard Grayson
He did a good job in giving me a preppy kind of hairstyle. For the first time since I was a
freshman, I got a side part, and I like it. It’s a new year, 5741, and I want to change.
My Rosh Hashona resolution is to lose twenty pounds in the coming year and to become as slim
as I was in high school. I think I’ll grow back my beard, too. I’m going to drive less and walk
more. I’m going to exercise more, too; maybe I can buy myself a set of weights.
And I want to write that novel. God knows why I’m so optimistic all of a sudden, but I do feel
hopeful. I feel calm. I feel I can handle whatever comes, that the worst is over, that I can go on
with my life.
If my life from the day I returned from MacDowell could be made into a novel, I’d like Rosh
Hashona to be the ending. Why can’t I start fresh?
I’ll be going back to Brooklyn College to teach, I’m almost sure, and that place has been lucky
for me from the day I began as a freshman eleven years ago. Remember 1969 and my Rosh
Hashona in the Village? I read Emerson’s “Circles” and it seems to apply to my life.
An hour ago I was in Kings Plaza an hour ago and I decided to get a computerized horoscope. I
don’t know if the year matters (I mistakenly gave my birth date as June 4, 1980), but here’s what
the computer astrologer typed out:
You will be released from responsibilities which have been restraining you this month. You will find you
are freer to act in the area of finance. There will be periods of luck which may bring you much happiness.
As it progresses, the month will get better and will end with you more positively situated than you are
now. A word to the wise: Do not neglect yourself because of ambition.
Could I have asked for a better horoscope? Funny how it all seems to fit – of course because I
want it to fit, that’s how horoscopes work. But if only ten percent of it turns out to be true, I’ll be
happy. (No, I won’t. I may settle for ten percent now, but when the time comes, I’ll want it all.)
I have nothing more to write now, but I wanted to record my good mood.
* * *
11 PM. Six hours ago I went over to dinner at my grandparents’. I just missed Marty and
Arlyne.
Grandma Ethel served a delicious meal: cantaloupe, lettuce and carrot salad, applesauce, sweet
potato, London broil, peas, apple pie and the round challah that symbolizes life, which goes on
and on and does not end (see Emerson’s “Circles”).
We talked, as we always do, and after dinner I went out on the terrace with Grandma Ethel to
watch the synagogue members go up on the boardwalk and throw their sins away.
[582]
It was so cool that Grandpa Herb gave me his windbreaker, and I remembered a photograph of
myself at 17, taken on that same terrace on Rosh Hashona a dozen years ago. Our house was
being painted and it was 1968, the year I was too sick to start college, and I had hoped that
staying with my grandparents would make me feel better.
I hate sounding pompous, but it couldn’t help making me think of the enormous changes that
have taken place – in my life, my family, my friends and the world – in the last dozen years.
I can’t really complain about the way life has treated us. Yet a part of me still expects
perfection, although I know that a “perfect” world would probably be the worst world
imaginable.
9 PM. This week of heavy teaching has made me a wreck. I haven’t been able to eat or sleep
properly and so I’ve gotten sick. I awoke this morning with a bad sore throat that got worse
during the day, and I’ve got that run-down feeling that precedes a cold.
As I expected, I couldn’t take all the stress. I couldn’t relax or exercise, and I’ve been very tense.
I’ve been grinding my teeth – I can tell from the pain – and have been getting dizzy at times. I
just hope I don’t end up with another case of labyrinthitis.
Today I left the house at 7 AM and didn’t return until 8:30 PM; it was a killer of a day. And
tomorrow morning I’ve got to be up early again for Kingsborough; they left a message with
Grandpa Herb that I’m to come to the office after my 8 AM class.
I picked up Mikey this morning and drove him to the Junction. Mikey called last night to tell
me that his mother has been in Peninsula Hospital all week; they still haven’t diagnosed her
illness.
I know how hard it must be for Mikey, staying in Rockaway, commuting to work, visiting his
mother every night. She may be released tomorrow, though.
At BC this morning, I gave my Veterans’ class the CUNY Writing Assessment Test; most are
terrible writers and some are definitely unteachable. I met with Bill Browne, head of the
Veterans’ Outreach program – he really likes me – and said we just have to do the best they can
again, as they can keep taking English 0.2 over and over again.
The teaching observations will start at BC soon; I’m glad Steve Jervis will be doing my class. I
took the subway to John Jay – it’s a long ride to Columbus Circle – and managed to teach both
my classes back to back.
[583]
Richard Grayson
It was tough, and I still get lost in the maze in that building, but I’m getting adjusted to the
school. Doris, the department secretary is really nice; she was the one who typed up Mikey’s
master’s thesis.
Denis, too, is working himself crazy, what with courses at Pratt and John Jay and four nights of
law school at Fordham. The rush hour crowd on the subway was a pain, but the BC campus
was calm and quiet when I arrived there at 5 PM.
I tried to rest by reading quietly and drinking iced tea in Kosher Country. The bad eating habits
of the last week led to my getting even more overweight, and without time to exercise, I really
feel like shit.
No one seems to understand how hard it is to be teaching 22 credits at three different schools.
Avis, Grandpa Herb and my parents think I should be taking on even more classes.
But after tomorrow at Kingsborough, I’m determined to make Brooklyn and John Jay my limit.
I won’t be happy otherwise; the extra money isn’t worth it if I’m totally sick and miserable.
The most pleasant moment of the day came when I passed a vaguely familiar guy in the BC
library. He stopped and said, “That was a great article in Coda.” It was Michael Cohen from the
MFA program, on his way to meet John Ashbery.
He had seen the story “Hitler” because his poetry appeared in the same issue of Shenandoah.
Michael said the article had made him glad to see “a little guy with no connections could make
it,” and he was obviously impressed.
At 6:25 PM I gave my Liberal Studies class the CWAT; those writing tests appear in my dreams.
Home for the last half-hour, I’m now ready to collapse and get into bed and start the whole
thing over tomorrow. What a life. I didn’t even have time to get my mail today.
9 PM. I won’t say I’m having more fun than a human being should be allowed to have, but I am
surprisingly happy. At the moment a dull toothache and a slight sinus headache are my only
problems.
[584]
My cold seems to have gone away more quickly than I would have expected. Yesterday I was
very hoarse, but I’m better today. Tomorrow, with four classes from early morning to evening,
will be my most difficult day, but then I have a three-day weekend to recover.
Last evening I had a good class at BC and today I had good classes at John Jay. I’ve discovered
that I’ve completely lost my nervousness. Years ago, maybe even last year, I would tense up
before a class and wonder how I’d do. But now I can go into a class cold and teach a great
lesson off the top of my head.
I’ve taught in so many places and under such adverse conditions that I’ve gained confidence in
my teaching ability. Of course, there are days when everything falls flat and neither I nor my
class is at our best – but generally I think we both do pretty well.
My classes this term are generally good; the first John Jay class is a bit rowdy, but not as bad as
most of my classes at KCC. Today I drove into Brooklyn and took the D train to Manhattan; it
was a quick, painless, almost pleasant ride. Both coming and going I was in an unlit car, which
helped soothe me – just as long as it wasn’t the rush hour.
I myself didn’t feel rushed today. It was a cool, clear, crisp day and everything went smoothly.
I had time for myself and didn’t feel pressured.
Last night I spoke to Teresa. I’m going over to see her Friday night. Marc told me that he was
awaiting a call from Nikki, who was in California. I imagine that it’s “business” and I hope all
goes well this time.
This evening I spoke to Grandpa Herb, who said Grandma Ethel is doing well after another
session with the psychiatrist today. So, for the moment, everything seems to be working out.
I can’t help thinking disaster is lurking around the corner, but maybe I’ve be proven wrong.
From the Grayson mailbag: I got turned down for full-time tutoring jobs at LaGuardia and
Nassau Community Colleges (still no word from Clark). Judith Appelbaum thanked me for the
plug in my Coda piece (“What’s next?” she asked), as did Richard O’Brien, to whom I also sent
my clips.
Richard gave me the phone number of Saturday Night Live producer Jean Doumanian, and said I
should use his name (“she knows me as Woody Allen’s publicist”) and try to get a job as a
writer with the show. I don’t know, but I guess I’ll call on Friday.
Richard also suggested I’d have a good chance of getting a job as a press agent. I don’t know
about that, either.
[585]
Richard Grayson
Dan Meltzer sent a flyer about a reading of his new play at St. Clement’s; I’m going to try to
make it to show my support for Dan. When I phoned his apartment, Tal told me he was going
through a “slow period” and needed help.
Rick Peabody didn’t know my Gargoyle story got an honorable mention in The Pushcart Prize; he
told me Loris Essary and Chuck Taormina also nominated me. Rick was in London when Scott
Sommer’s novel came out there, and it got good reviews.
Speaking of reviews, Kevin Urick asked me if I’d review Colonel Johns for someplace. I still
haven’t reviewed Bert Stratton’s Gigging yet (he sent me the underground paper The Cleveland
Express, which contained a review of it).
Kevin is teaching six courses at three colleges and he has to get drunk a lot. He invited me to a
party next week with the Plymells, Eric Baizer, Rick and Gretchen, John Elsberg and maybe
George. I’d love to go – but how can I make it down to D.C.?
9 PM. Three-fourths of 1980 has gone by the boards, and I’m betting that the last quarter of this
old year will be the best. I am feeling better than I have in months. I have a lot of energy, a lot
of plans, and I just have the feeling that the worst of this year’s depression is over.
Last night I began reading Dale Carnegie and I was quite amused by the dated material in the
book and the funny style. I got this idea for my next book. It would be called The Only Book
You’ll Ever Need to Read.
That title is dynamite; it’s so full of chutzpah, but I think I could pull it off. I pulled off “Joe
Colletti” and “The Greatest Short Story That Absolutely Ever Was” and similar pieces. What it
tells me is that I’m getting my old confidence back.
Look, right now I can’t write a conventional novel, but I think I can write a rambling
fiction/nonfiction book in the form of a send0up of self-help books. The book would be my self-
help book, and the style would be relaxed, chatty – maybe something like “Diarrhea of a
Writer” or “If Pain Persists.”
I could ramble from topic to topic, tell the story of my summer, put in little anecdotes (Teresa
saying yesterday, “I hate my memory,” because she thinks of Nick; Josh’s L.A. girl Lauren
writing that she was crossing Santa Monica Boulevard looking for the perfect pair of shoes
when some guy in a Corvette shouted at her, for no reason, “Fuck you, Blondie clone!”),
philosophize and be me, not some stuffy novelist.
[586]
Woody Allen complains because he wants to be serious and people want him to be; I want to be
to be funny and people tell me I need to write a serious, traditional novel. I really feel I know
what kind of books I want to write, and I also feel that writing them should be a pleasure.
The irony, of course, is that I don’t have much time for writing these days. But I can do it.
Maybe I can set a goal to finish a book by next summer, MacDowell or no MacDowell.
Now I see myself working on a project and being happy just working and not caring what the
mail brings. Today’s mail brought me a much-needed $50 money order rescue package from
my parents, bless them.
The stupid Queens College Student Union scheduled my writing workshop for Thursday, when
I can’t make it, instead of the agreed-upon Wednesday. But the class probably won’t get
enough registrants anyway.
Last night I learned that my KCC Story Workshop didn’t come off, which is just as well, since I
couldn’t have made that class, either. At least this way Kingsborough Continuing Education
will keep me in mind for the future.
Aunt Arlyne sent the first issue of her Oceanside-Island Park Herald, on which she did a pretty
good job as editor. She told me I’m welcome to come to dinner anytime.
My first class today at John Jay was a riot; I brought in

Hitler to show the kids, and of course it increased their respect for me. Mr. Grayson isn’t just
some grammar fanatic, he’s a writer. The earlier class is very high-schoolish and we had a wild
session today.
The second class was more controlled and better. I do feel I’m doing something worthwhile at
John Jay.
I took the train home with several of my students, including this guy named Johnny Serpico,
who wants to go into law enforcement. He started confiding in us about his love affair with a
Puerto Rican coke dealer that ended badly. (And this guy wants to become a narc, yet.)
I liked talking to him and my other students and feel they consider me a regular guy. I’ve been
dressing up in a tie every day and I’ve been looking better than I’ve looked in months.
After shopping today, I lifted weights; both my exercise program and my diet (I’ve been having
salads for lunch) have paid off already. I feel very positive about my life.
I got an $8 rent increase, a fuel pass-along surcharge.
[587]
Richard Grayson
1 PM. I’m very unhappy. This cold weather has brought back the memories of my misery last
winter. I even feel dizzy today. I can’t stand the sounds of the howling wind, and I can’t stand
my skin being so chapped and dry.
I’d forgotten how enervating the cold can be. It seems it’s been a long time since anything’s
gone my way. Every day the world grinds me down a little more. I just don’t know how long I
can take it.
I feel I have no future. I don’t want to go through another winter like last one; I’d rather die.
I’m again thinking that the best solution would be to move to Florida.
If I’m going to stop teaching anyway (and I can’t remain an “adjunckie” all my life), I might as
well try a fresh start in a new place that’s warm and clean and familiar and where I have the
support system of my family.
I’ve been on my own a year already and I’ve proven that I can take care of myself. Aside from
moving to Florida, I don’t see any alternatives. Though I may try for every full-time teaching
job in sight, I’ve got to be realistic and assume I’m not going to get any.
There’ll be no paperback Hitler, so I have no publications to look forward to. I want to put all
the pain and frustration of the past year behind me.
The only things I’ll be giving up are some degree of privacy and independence and the daily
and easy contact with my friends and maternal grandparents. I can’t afford to return to
therapy, and I’m not going to make it financially.
At Citibank today they told me Mom’s $100 money order will take a week to clear, and unless I
can somehow cash Thursday’s paychecks, I’ll have to borrow money to survive.
I can’t take the thought of being in this position much longer. I have always felt I could be
happy I Florida. My car cannot ride much longer – and then I’ll be left nowhere.
Last night Teresa called and all she did was complain about how depressed she is because of
missing Nick. Teresa has a terrific apartment, an exciting and glamorous new job, money,
family and friends – and so she has to make up this stupid “problem” to keep her life interesting.
But I listen to her with sympathy even when I’m losing my patience, even though I feel Teresa’s
complaints are like someone with a cold complaining to someone with terminal cancer. Maybe
I overdramatize my plight the way Teresa does hers, but my pain is very real.
[588]
Oh, I’m sure Teresa’s pain is very real to her. But one by one I’m seeing all my hopes crushed,
and even little disappointments – like no mail today – set me off.
This morning I met Mikey on the bus to Brooklyn. Yesterday he put his mother in Peninsula
Hospital for all these tests, and he’s got to stay in Rockaway while she’s there. Another lousy
break in life.
I just feel I can no longer handle the pain. Every day I wait for some sign of relief which never
comes. Is it unreasonable to think that I can ease my pain by changing my environment? I was
happy in Florida and in New Hampshire.
Otherwise I don’t see any way out but suicide – that, or just subjecting myself to fresh injuries,
new insults, more pain. I’m so tired of living this way. Even when I feel happy, it’s not
happiness the way I used to know it.
Maybe I’ll feel better tonight, after I teach again, as I felt better after teaching at BC this
morning. But that will be just a change in mood, not in situation.
Florida isn’t the answer to my problems, but remaining here isn’t, either. If I’ve got to start all
over again – the way Dad did – I’d rather do it n a new place. I can’t – I was going to say “I
can’t take it,” but I’m just belaboring the obvious.
* * *
9 PM. This afternoon Ted Rosenfeld from Taplinger called. Lou Strick had given him my letter.
Ted said that though it was highly irregular, he would sell me the paperback rights if I wanted
them.
I mentioned $1,000 and he said that seemed reasonable. He also said there were 2,200 copies of
the book in stock and they would probably have to remainder them. They cost Taplinger $2.19
a copy and they would like to get half that.
I told Ted I’d get back to him in a couple of weeks. For $3,000 I could have the remainders and
the paperback rights. But of course there’s no way I could raise the money.
Then I called Clark University to find out if I was still under consideration for the writer-in-
residence job; they told me they’d sent out a letter saying they’d appointed someone else. Fine.
Next I called Mom and we spoke for half an hour, and we agreed that I would give up my
apartment in January and move in with them in Davie for a while.
[589]
Richard Grayson
I probably should have done that this summer, but I want to give it one last college try. I told
Mom I would try to be a good member of the family and show concern for their house, and she
said they all only wanted to help me.
I have to work out a lot of details, but they will get taken care of. I felt sad but more hopeful. I
have no idea what I’ll do in Florida, but as I told Mom, I’ll work hard and keep plugging away.
At least I may get into a field with a future.
I did get some mail at the post office – just rejections – and then I drove to Brooklyn College.
After dinner at Burger King, the only place I could afford, I walked around the campus feeling
very nostalgic.
I stopped into LaGuardia lobby and scenes from the past came to my mind: Shelli, Ronna,
Elspeth, Elihu, Mark, Avis, Mikey, the elections, the desk in the corner, The Ol’ Spigot and
Kingsman, so many happy memories.
I felt I had to physically touch the furniture, the phone booth, to come into contact with the past.
I looked out at the BC quadrangle, so pretty now that the grass is thick and the landscaping is
done.
I thought to myself: You’re young, not yet thirty, you look younger, you can start over. Accept
the fact that you failed – but you picked fields in which the odds against success are pretty
steep. There’s no shame in failure.
I am not stupid, though. (Jack Gelber was the only person whoever accused me of that.) Even I
can see the illegible handwriting on the wall by now. I tried damned hard to make it as a writer
and college professor, and I had fun trying.
But that part of my life is over. I can do things besides write books and teach – and nobody says
I can’t get back to one or the other or both someday.
I started from scratch before: in 1969, eleven years ago, when I began these diaries, and I had
nothing then.
So let’s say I was one of those Algerians lucky enough to survive the earthquake (20,000 didn’t –
“Hope Fading Fast,” said tonight’s Post headline) but who lost everything: I’ll just pick myself
up, dust myself off, and start all over again.
(Another song lyric ran through my head: “This time we almost made it didn’t we?”)
At least now I have something to look forward to.
Before my class, I went over to Midwood High School, where my life fell apart the first time,
and sat on the steps trying to remember the skinny, shy boy who sat there fourteen years ago.
[590]
Elaine Taibi came by. I explained why I hadn’t paid my Alumni Association dues yet and
somehow I needed to talk, so I poured out my troubles to her. She was a sympathetic listener
and when we said goodbye, I kissed her. She said she had missed me.
I told her I was moving to Florida. Soon I’ll tell everyone; I wonder what people’s reactions will
be. I had a very good class in the Plaza Building; I’ll end the week Thursday night by having
them write.
And I came home to the apartment I rented exactly a year ago. I’m glad I won’t be here much
longer.
9 PM. Yesterday went fairly well. I had a good class at BC last night and got home around this
time. I called Mikey, who sounded very upset. His mother is still in the hospital and refusing
to have any more tests done, saying that she felt better.
I can understand how Mikey’s mother feels; those tests can make you feel like an object, and
doctors don’t help matters. The four pulmonary men at Peninsula who were anxious to operate
on Grandpa Herb are also pushing Mrs. Morris into a variety of biopsies and other tortures.
Living in Rockaway instead of his place in Chelsea has ground Mikey’s social life to a halt, and
he is fed up with commuting to and from work. I hope I helped by allowing him to blow off
some steam. That’s the most I can do: say things like, “It must be very frustrating.”
Avis phoned. Nothing was new with her and Anthony except maybe that they plan to look for
a used car this weekend. I told her she could have my Comet, but for some reason she declined
the honor.
Dad also called from his hotel; he had another good day at the menswear show, which ended
this afternoon.
This morning I decided I wouldn’t go into John Jay tomorrow, so today I told my students I was
canceling class then. This will be spare me just one of my hysterical Thursdays and give me a
chance to catch up on marking papers; perhaps I can also see Dad before he leaves.
All my checks cleared, and as of this morning I have $575 in Citibank – but I wrote out checks
for the rent, the phone bill and the druggist which totaled $360. Still, a week from tomorrow I’ll
have another $600 – possibly more if the KCC check comes through – and I should be able to
begin straightening myself out.
[591]
Richard Grayson
My classes went smoothly today, and commuting wasn’t bad. It’s been chilly lately, but I’ve
been adjusting to it; I’m now wearing my pea coat.
The letter from Clark finally arrived, and it was a personal letter, complimenting me on my
“excellent qualifications” and urging me to reapply in the future.
I’ve begun to get some rejections of the stories I’ve been sending out lately; at least a little
feedback, even negative feedback, is better than none.
I had dinner at the Ram’s Horn and came home to read, watch the news, and lift weights; I’m
making progress with my exercises.
Marc called to give me his new phone number and to ask if I wanted to go out with him and
Dad for dinner, but I declined. Dad will probably sleep over at Marc’s tonight although I was
hoping he could come here.
Marc told me Nikki came around again, but he went outside rather than let her back in the
apartment. She promised to reform and quit taking drugs and dealing and drinking and lying
and generally fucking up; Marc said he’ll believe it when he sees it.
I don’t think Nikki can change without professional help. Mom thinks Marc is worried that
everyone thinks he was a schmuck. Well, he was – but being a schmuck is forgivable.
I’ve been looking at myself in the mirror and not liking the result. My complexion is sallow and
blotchy, my face is puffy and fleshy, my hair is lifeless and drab. Generally, I look tired.
I’ve been feeling quite dizzy again lately, and though I haven’t really lacked energy, I’ve been
feeling a bit washed-out. Maybe it’s just The October Blahs.
Tomorrow I’m having the BC veterans write, so it should be a fairly easy day. I just wish I had
more time to read and to write, as I’ve been getting ideas for stories.
9 PM. I just got home from Brooklyn College. Because my car is running so badly, I’ve been
relying on the bus, and I really don’t mind taking it. I look at these familiar places carefully
now because I’m going to be moving.
There are hundreds of memories that come back to me as I go over the bridge or past Kings
[592]
Plaza or Kings Highway. But, as I was thinking before, maybe I can achieve the artistic distance
from New York that I’ve always been looking for when I move to Florida.
When I’m lonely there – and I expect to be lonely much of the time – I will call on my memories,
and I hope that will lead to good writing. With each passing day, I am more and more certain
that moving is exactly what I want to do.
Suddenly this fall seems not something to be merely endured, but my last season in this city
and therefore a time to savor. I know I’m leaving, so I can just put up with the horrors of New
York a little more easily.
Everywhere I go, I keep hearing Frank Sinatra or Liza Minelli singing “New York, New York.’’
A line from the song goes, “If I can make it there / I’ll make it anywhere,” and it’s a line I believe
in.
I came pretty close to making it in the Apple; after this, everywhere else should be a cinch. Last
night I called Elihu and Vito and told them both I was moving; I haven’t been close to either in
years, so they weren’t surprised.
Elihu says his job at Goldman Sachs is an okay way of making money, but there’s no creativity
in what he does and he’s very bored. He still hopes that if he writes a great dissertation, he’ll
get a job in academia; of course he knows that isn’t going to happen. The faculty at LIU is still on
strike and they may cancel the semester, Elihu said.
Vito was busy running the Abbey-Victoria newsstand, where he’s earning good money: $20,000
a year. But he’s embarrassed to tell anybody what he does and there’s no future in his job, so
he’s preparing for the LSAT and applying to Fordham, Brooklyn and other law schools.
I called Marc last night. Conversing with him is harder than getting a response out of my most
silent student. We talked about banal subjects and I was relieved to end our “conversation.” I
heard Nikki in the background, but I was afraid to ask if it were she. Marc’s just stupid enough
to take her back.
I felt so dizzy last night, I couldn’t sleep. This morning I was early and caught the 7:25 AM bus,
which Mikey also got on. He said his mother was getting antibiotics and feeling nauseated.
I taught my veterans’ class and told them not to come in on Thursday (I’m alternating taking off
my one allowed sick day at the two schools, and this week I want to give myself extra time to
prepare for the observation at John Jay).
Then I came home and got into bed and actually slept for an hour or so. It was a dark, rainy
day: a perfect day to sleep. In the afternoon, I exercised, shopped and did my laundry.
[593]
Richard Grayson
Avis called to say that on Sunday, two weeks before her due date, her sister had a boy, a seven-
pounder they’ve named Gabriel. Avis’s parents have gone to Virginia to help them get the baby
settled.
I had my evening students at BC do an essay, so I didn’t have to give a big lesson tonight. The
Carter/Reagan debate will be coming up in a few minutes, though I’m sure it will be more of a
press conference than a real debate.
6 PM. Last night was not so long after all. By 7 PM the TV networks’ exit polls were preparing
us for a Reagan landslide, and by 10 PM Jimmy Carter conceded.
Reagan swept New York and every other big state for a lopsided Electoral College victory;
Carter carried only six or seven states. Most people, like myself, simply wanted a change,
particularly with regard to the economy.
I called Dad, who said all his customers voted Republican, as he did (Mom, like me, went for
Anderson and Jonny stuck with Carter).
The GOP took control of the Senate for the first time in over 25 years, and McGovern, Church,
Bayh, Culver and other liberals lost; Al D’Amato whisked by Liz Holtzman in New York.
I slept poorly, as I stayed up late to watch Reagan’s victory statement and the late returns. I
think New Deal liberalism is finally dead, and that Reagan has created a new coalition that may
dominate politics for awhile. I’m glad things will be changing, but I just hope the Moral
Majority types don’t start telling us how to live.
I was dizzy last night and all day today, and I don’t feel very well now. I’ve had this problem
for over a week now, and I’m probably going to have to see a doctor.
My classes went terribly today, and I hated teaching, but everyone was in a bad mood. At John
Jay, going up the stairs, a smart Puerto Rican kid in my first class, said, “This is bad news for
the P.R.’s and the BL’s,” meaning Reagan’s election.
I hate the cold weather too, and I want the next two months to pass quickly so I can be in
Florida already. I can’t stand the howling winds I hear now.
I get nostalgic and impatient when I see cars with Broward County license plates or see Florida
addresses like the one on the belated campaign material I received in the mail today.
[594]
I want to get out of New York; there’s nothing for me here. I called Mikey last night after the
doctor had given him a very bad report. Mikey’s mother has a rare lung disease which may kill
her in six months – or she may live ten years, getting progressively weaker.
What a tragedy! Mikey will be left completely alone. Naturally, he was very upset, but he was
trying to be optimistic.
Josh was frantic because his car needs a new generator. Geneva has given him the heave-ho,
and he said, “I need new meat.” Josh treats women like objects. He told a co-worker who was
supporting Liz Holtzman that the congresswoman was “really ugly” and wondered why the
woman got so upset.
I called Avis, and Anthony answered the phone by saying “Sat nam.” Now is that normal?
Avis said I should come with her to a yoga class at the ashram on Monday. I don’t know why
she expects me to share her enthusiasms.
If I sound rather misanthropic tonight, chalk it up to unhappiness and not feeling well. I don’t
want to face the next few days because I think some new disaster is in store for me.
I’m sick of teaching and would quit in a minute if the National Enquirer were to ask me to go
work for them. I am disgusted by my students’ stupidity, by the filth of New York, by the cold
weather, by nosy Mrs. Calman (who asked me yesterday if I had company – what’s it her
business?), my brother, and about a zillion other things.
I’m just in a bad mood, and the more I write, the worse I feel. Of course what I’m most
disgusted with are the academic and literary worlds. I don’t care if I ever teach college or write
for publication ever again.
I suppose it’s better to be angry than depressed and filled with self-loathing. I’d like to sleep till
January and wake up in Florida.
9 PM. I just got home and am now in my bed, still unmade from when I left it exactly fourteen
hours ago. These Thursdays are killers. I was dizzy last night and it got worse today, so I’ve
made an appointment with Dr. Prince for 9:30 AM tomorrow.
I just came from Grandpa Herb’s; he lent me his car. I did sleep well last night, however; I’ve
got to be grateful for little things.
[595]
Richard Grayson
I taught my 8 AM Veterans’ Outreach class and then had time to drive back to Rockaway and
check my mail. The University of Illinois Press rejected my story collection and quoted from
their reader’s report:
“I imagine that Mr. Grayson is a young writer, and therefore I assume that he is a prolific one as
well, to have published so many stories. Unfortunately, the quality of his ms. does not measure
up to the quantity of work provided. Far too many stories are thinly fictionalized (or perhaps
not fictionalized at all) accounts of events from the author’s own life. It’s as if he were carrying
on a monologue . . .
“The material is not shaped into any sort of cohesive narrative form. There is a way to write
about oneself that is interesting, even entertaining, but Mr. Grayson rarely hits upon this
method. Since the author has apparently succeeded in publishing so many stories as they
stand, I doubt he will find it necessary or desirable to write the kind of fiction which would be
suitable for your series. In any case, I recommend against any further consideration of the
manuscript.”
Another kick in the teeth, I thought. I felt crushed. But it wasn’t too long before I was on my
way to Manhattan and realizing that this was one person’s judgment. He sounds humorless,
like a D.G. Wnek type, and fairly pompous.
Even if he were a nice guy, what he values in a short story (and what Illinois apparently values)
is not what I even desire to achieve. I don’t want to write like most of the dull “well-crafted”
academics they publish; I don’t enjoy reading such stories.
What I am trying for is a kind of monologue, and perhaps I should stick to nonfiction, which
pays better anyhow. “Quality” is a subjective word. It doesn’t make me any less disappointed,
but I must be more self-assured than I’d thought if I can handle such a rejection so well.
A year ago it might have been crushed me for days. But I don’t think I’m going to submit any
more stories for little magazines or small press publication. The bottom line for me is money
(I’m joining the human race).
I see no point in writing or publishing stories in little magazines anymore; the satisfaction isn’t
worth it in terms of the cost (postage, xerox, envelopes, the pain of rejection). I’m not going to
buy the new International Directory and I intend to submit only when I’m asked by editors I
know.
I had my John Jay classes write while I graded papers, and I did the same with my evening class
at BC; they need the practice for the CUNY exam.
[596]
I was telling Neil Schaeffer that because of teaching, I didn’t have time to write, and he said that
should be the most important thing and was supportive of my decision to quit teaching.
Steve Jervis asked me if I was interested in teaching at BC this spring, and when I said no, he
asked if I’d mind getting a letter of non-reappointment. “Not at all,” I said, glad to do him a
favor, especially if it might help me collect unemployment insurance.
Again today, I was disgusted by New York: the filth of the streets, the graffiti-scarred trains, the
girl who had to wear a gas mask while bicycling in Manhattan. I want, more than ever, to make
a fresh start in Florida.
I have five days off now. I just hope I’m not too sick to enjoy my vacation. I called Teresa last
night, and as I expected, she was very disappointed about Carter’s loss. The BC English
secretaries told me that Laura came in yesterday wearing a black armband.
10 PM. It’s been a long day. Last evening I taught a class on capitalization at BC, and it went
well. It was cold and dark waiting for the bus at the Junction and somehow I was reminded of a
little booklet Shelli made for Ivan ten years ago: “Things to Do While Waiting for the Rockaway
Bus.”
I remember one entry was “Count the number of hairs in your mustache.” I can do that too
now. I sometimes wonder where Shelli and Ivan are (Shelli in Madison? Ivan in New Jersey?)
and if they’re happy.
In the two months I have left before I move, I’d like to see a number of my old friends. I
probably won’t get the chance, though.
When I got home last night, I found a note Mrs. Epstein left; it said to call a Bonnie St. John at a
Long Island number. It was a collection agency calling about the $103.18 bill I owe on my Getty
credit card. I suppose I’ll pay it, but I think it may be illegal harassment for them to call my
neighbors.
I hadn’t been dizzy all day yesterday, but I didn’t have a very good night; still, I managed to get
a little sleep. This morning I opened an account at the Jamaica Savings Bank on Beach 116th
Street; Citibank’s service charges are getting to be too much.
I have to pay the rent and that Getty bill. It just seems I can’t save money. I called the payroll
office at KCC and they said I should have my check on Friday.
[597]
Richard Grayson
In January, Doris is having an operation to remove a tumor of the parotid gland, like Dad had –
but Doris’s lump is much smaller than Dad’s was. At John Jay, I had lunch with Livia, who’s
really sweet. She’s been avoiding writing the prospectus for her dissertation; instead, she reads
Dorothy L. Sayers mysteries.
My classes didn’t go too well today – I was disorganized and they were rowdy – but I got
through them. I think most of my students will pass the CUNY exam, if not on the first try (in
three weeks), then on the second during final exams.
In Rockaway by 4:30 PM, I shopped at Waldbaum’s, got a slice of pizza, check my post office
box (nothing for the second day in a row) and came home to read the papers, exercise and relax.
But at 5:30 PM I got a call from Bob Schippa at KCC’s Adult Education division. A writing
workshop teacher at Edward R. Murrow High School had just canceled and he wanted to know
if I could fill in. I said I would, and he gave me all the information.
Borrowing Grandpa Herb’s car, I drove off into Brooklyn, stopping for an ice cream cone to
keep me going. It felt exciting, as if I were a doctor on an emergency call.
Recently I read an article about the joys of substituting; I can understand it better now (though I
can also understand why Cindy thinks it’s a pain).
I filled out personnel forms and a W-4 and started the class at 7:15 PM. There were a about a
dozen students: older people, including one married couple, a few young women in various
stages of weirdness, and one middle-aged black woman.
They were of course impressed with my book, which I’d brought along, but they wanted to
stick with their syllabus. I guess I’d forgotten they were on a beginning level.
Each read a character sketch, and while they were clichéd, they were fairly well-written. I
found I had a lot to say about each piece and a lot to say about creative writing in general.
Over the years I’ve picked up so much that I’ve never been able to use because I never have
taught creative writing. I feel I could be a great creative writing teacher if I had the chance.
At the end of class, I spoke about markets and manuscripts and they really got interested. Mr.
Schippa said he’d mail me a check, probably about $30, by Christmas.
8 PM. I think I’m coming down with a cold. My glands are swollen and I have a sore throat.
[598]
Last night, though, I slept well and had vivid dreams. In one, Avis and Helmut and my student
Maxine Cohen and I were riding over the Verrazano Bridge to get ice cream in Staten Island.
In another dream, Dad was showing me a map of South America with all the countries bearing
names of U.S. states: Chile was Florida, for example.
I woke up feeling ill and rather depressed, but I couldn’t put my finger on its cause, so I assume
I’m not well physically. Mom called at 11 AM to wish me a happy Thanksgiving. Dad was out
running, she said, and it was another hot day.
Yesterday they took Grandma Sylvia to a young cardiologist at the Miami Heart Institute. After
examining Grandma, the doctor told Mom and Dad that she has an aneurism running from her
neck to her stomach, and even if she were only 40, there would be nothing they could do.
At most, he said, Grandma Sylvia could live one year, but it seems to be near bursting now, so
she can die at any time. However, it will be an instantaneous, painless death, and I find that a
comfort.
She had a lot of physical suffering in her life with three occurrences of cancer, so I’m glad
Grandma Sylvia will die quickly and quietly. That’s the way I’d want to go.
They had a man come over to look at Grandma’s condominium for his brother-in-law, and he
seems to be interested. Mom and Dad are asking $65,000. Grandma says they can get $100,000,
but what does she know?
They’ll put her in a home or hotel and use the money from the condo sale to pay her expenses.
She can’t drive anymore, but Mom says her car doesn’t run too badly and that I should use the
car when I come down in Florida.
At 1 PM I went to my grandparents’ and drove them to Oceanside. Marty and Wendy were
both asleep when we arrived; they’d gotten up at 5 AM to drive Arlyne, Joey, Sheryl and her
boyfriend Randy to the airport to get an early flight to Nashville.
Arlyne’s mother and the woman who takes care of her were flying up to Nashville from Florida
for their family reunion. Larry lives there with his girlfriend and her two children and
sometimes his daughter Gina (he’s got joint custody with Sarah, who has remarried).
Marty took us in his BMW to the Lincoln Inn in Rockville Centre, where we had a 2 PM
reservation. The food was good and the service was fine, but somehow I would have preferred
being at someone’s house rather than a restaurant.
[599]
Richard Grayson
I didn’t really feel I had anyone to connect with. My grandparents are so predictable by now,
and though I adore them, they do begin to get on my nerves.
Grandma Ethel was cold and so sat in her coat throughout the meal, and she kept complaining
about Grandpa Herb’s smoking, about his not seeing a doctor, and she kept worrying about
Marc and everyone else.
I told her all her worrying won’t do one bit of good, but she says, “It’s my nature,” and I think it
makes her feel virtuous to lose sleep over Wendy’s height or Marc’s relationship with Nikki or
Grandpa Herb’s health or my financial problems. Still, I resent her for taking on all our
burdens.
Grandpa Herb was quiet during the meal, and so was Marty, who doesn’t look well. He’s aged;
his hair is tinged with gray, his face is puffy, and he’s put on weight. (Grandma says he’s
“aggravated” about his failing business.)
Marty was less sarcastic than usual, although he couldn’t resist putting down Marc (granted,
he’s an easy target) and my “returning to the safety” of my parents’ home.
Well, that’s the way Marty is, and he was generous enough to pay for my dinner and of course
he refused my offer to put down the tip. (Marty caught a $20 mistake in the bill. I wonder how
many diners didn’t catch the mistake.)
Wendy was talking about school in that eager way of hers; I find her pleasant but vapid. She
and Marty are obviously so pleased with themselves that she got into Wharton.
All she could talk about were material possessions and vacations, restaurants, clothes, and her
business courses. She can’t understand why I don’t just find a teaching job at an Ivy League
college, and it wasn’t worth the effort to explain it to her.
All in all, I preferred last Thanksgiving at Avis’s parents’ co-op in Sheepshead Bay.
Back at Marty’s house, he showed movies of Wendy as a kid. Some were in Rockaway, and I
caught glimpses of me at 14 (so slender and nondescript), Jonny with his green truck, Marc at
about 10, and a much younger Mom and Dad, Marty and Arlyne, Grandma Ethel and Grandpa
Herb.
Then he showed movies of them in Puerto Rico. I remembered the view from the Caribe Hilton
balcony, the corner where the Normandie Hotel was, and the pink flamingos by the swimming
pool. It’s been over twenty years since I was last in San Juan.
Marty had gotten me cartons and tape for moving, and I loaded them into Grandpa’s car.
Grandma, of course, is worried about how I’m “going to manage.”
[600]
Driving home to Rockaway, she started in about what a pity it was that Wendy is so short and
isn’t “going with a fella” or getting married like other girls. I wanted to scream. I told her that
maybe on Thanksgiving she might consider looking on the bright side of things.
She always wonders why bad things happen, I said, but she never wonders why bad things
don’t happen. For example, I said, why isn’t Wendy a drug addict? Why didn’t I get polio?
Why wasn’t Grandpa Herb run over by a truck?
Like Grandma Sylvia, Grandma Ethel has never been one to count her blessings. I see that I’ve
learned to be a pessimist from my grandmothers. They can’t change, but I can. So I have no
more complaints tonight, only thanks.
11 PM. Today was a totally pleasant, uneventful day. Last night I called Florida and spoke
with Dad and Jonny. Jonny sounded especially well; it’s been eight months since I’ve seen him,
and in that time he seems to have changed enormously.
He had just come home from an art class and said the teacher had let them out early – “because
we’re up to Abstract Expressionism and he figured all those paintings look alike.” He told me
not to shave off my beard until he can see it.
Wouldn’t it be wonderful if Jonny and I could really be friends at last? He sounds like the kind
of person I would want to be friends with – and it’s going to be lonely for me in Florida.
Dad said it was beautiful down there: mild but no longer humid. Last night I froze here under
three blankets. This morning I lay in bed for three hours after I woke up. Lolling around
seemed like such a luxury after yesterday.
I finally got up and went to check my mail. There was a lot of it, but nothing promising, and I
have decided to stop submitting to little magazines for a while. I’m moving out now anyway,
so it’s not practical.
I am still interested in the small press scene (I read Northeast Rising Sun avidly and I
resubscribed), but it doesn’t pay anything. I could have 300 stories published in little
magazines and I wouldn’t be any happier or any richer.
[601]
Richard Grayson
I guess Hitler’s failure has made me a little bitter; I expected so much more. But I know my
work is good – I just reread Disjointed Fictions and was surprised at how much I liked my old
stories – and I know that it was not my fault that the book didn’t achieve more financial success.
But I’m very enthusiastic about my prospects in Florida. I will try any field that looks
promising and in which I might have a future. I want to make some money at this point in my
life.
My dream is to be able to afford my own little condo in Florida. If I put as much time and
energy into finding work and then at working hard as I did on my stories and my publicity
campaign, then I’m sure I can do well.
Lately I’ve been telling myself that all my job experiences will one day pay off. Even seemingly
irrelevant things I’ve learned – about the publishing business, about teaching remedial writing
and controlling a class – will be helpful to me in some way.
I drove into Brooklyn, filled a prescription, had lunch at the Arch, and did some shopping at the
Flatlands center at Woolworth’s. Then I came home to spend the afternoon exercising,
watching soap operas and writing George Myers, Rick Peabody, Richard Kostelanetz, and
Merritt Clifton.
I went to my grandparents’ for dinner, and Grandpa Herb gave me a $100 check for Chanukah;
he wanted to share the profits from his accident settlement.
He’s having trouble walking and he’s been having diarrhea (I told him to stop eating raisin bran
every morning) and Grandma’s been having heart troubles (the doctor gave her new medicine
for her angina).
Grandpa Herb told me something he said he’d never told anyone, not even Grandma Ethel,
before: When he was first married, he developed that terrible cough of his and he always
assumed he would die before his children grew up.
Odd to think that even old people once thought that they would die young. In a couple of
weeks Grandpa Herb will be 77. Back home tonight, I did the laundry, vacuumed, trimmed my
beard, and watched junk TV.
3 PM. Feeling good for a change. Oh, I do have a sinus headache and a little dizziness, but I’ve
just finished my weight lifting and I’m gaining strength. In the last month I’ve begun to feel so
much better about myself. My depressions have been short-lived and not as deep.
[602]
The beard really helped me in seeing myself in a new light; I look older and more masculine.
Some silly things also made me feel good in the past twenty-four hours:
Twice I was asked for subway directions and both times, I was addressed as “sir” and I was
able to give detailed instructions. (Just as I’m leaving New York, I’ve finally mastered the
intricacies of the subway system.)
At Citibank I was asked by some Hadassah woman if I wanted to buy a knit scarf for my wife.
Last night, at the Ram’s Horn, I sat next to a guy on my block I’d always assumed to be an Irish
tough, and I avoided him, but in reality he turned out to be a very meek and even effeminate
person and when we talked, it was obvious he respected me.
Hey, I respect myself a little more now. I sent Alice a $200 check, wiping out all my debts
except the Authors League Fund loan. But I don’t owe any individuals outside my family any
money, and I have $1,000 in the bank.
That security is a wonderful feeling, especially when I remember six months ago I didn’t have a
dime to my name. When Teresa and I had lunch the other day, she didn’t have to pay for me,
and that too made me feel better.
I read Jay Neugeboren’s piece in The Nation, as June had recommended. Even with his renown,
he still has to submit stories to little magazines; he’s gotten thousands of rejections, and most of
his stories get rejected more than twenty times before they’re accepted.
His last novel was rejected a dozen times, then accepted by a publisher who had rejected it a
year before. And when Neugeboren edited that fiction issue of Ploughshares, he accepted
thirteen stories out of over a thousand submitted.
He sent me a personal rejection, and that means (according to what he wrote in the article) I was
one of the lucky few. Maybe I’m wrong about deciding not to submit anymore.
Today there were two manila envelopes in my post office box, but they were not rejections. The
Nantucket Review wrote that they’d accepted an old story of mine months ago and only through
a mix-up was I not notified before. And another old story (both acceptances were longshots)
was taken by Shadowgraph. Great!
I was up bright and early today and felt invigorated by the crisp 25° cold. I had my veterans’
class at BC, and then I went into John Jay just to pick up my paycheck.
Back at BC, I got my other check and had lunch in the faculty dining room. Lou Asekoff said he
actually wrote me for Vice President last month!
[603]
Richard Grayson
I deposited my checks, got my mail and came home to relax. Tonight I have the evening class at
BC and all day tomorrow at John Jay we mark CUNY exams. This is a rough week, but I’ve
sailed through it with ease.
And there is only one more week left before the holidays. It’s three months since Rosh Hashona
and I’ve done well in the time I had. What I’ve finally gained back is my self-confidence.
It’s been rough, but I’ve come through the worst of it – and I can take more if I have to. Last
night I dreamed of puppy dogs and Florida (where my parents’ house had been converted into
a MacDowell-type artists’ colony).
7 PM. Marc called me early this morning to ask if I could drive him and Nikki to the airport to
catch a flight to Providence.
I was already halfway out the door on my way to Manhattan, so I explained I couldn’t and told
him to have a nice trip. He said, “Well . . . ,” as if I were crazy.
This afternoon Mom called me with the details of the story. It seems last week Fredo’s house
was robbed of gold and jewelry and “he went nuts.” He got a bug in his head about Marc and
Nikki owing him money, and he came down to New York with another hoodlum.
They kept Marc and Nikki hostage at gunpoint for two days. Fredo and this other guy
wouldn’t let Marc or Nikki make a move without them. When Marc spoke on the phone, Fredo
was listening on the extension.
Fredo had been at Mom and Dad’s house in Florida and decided he would shake them down
for some money. So he had Marc tell the story about owing Fredo money for drugs.
“I’m giving your son a gift,” Fredo told Dad.
“A gift?” Dad said. “What are you talking about?”
“The gift of another day of life,” Fredo said.
That scum. On Tuesday Joey Fisher came over for a visit and he told Mom that Fredo bodily
threw him out of Marc’s apartment.
[604]
All of Marc’s friends knew what was going on but couldn’t call the police for fear that Fredo
would kill Marc and Nikki. As it was, Nikki was badly beaten up and her jaw was nearly
broken.
Yesterday Marc went out to see if he could borrow money from Ernie, and Fredo’s cohort had a
gun on him all the time. Finally Fredo became ill and decided to settle for $1800.
Joey brought over Marc’s car, which was signed over to Fredo. Now Marc and Nikki are in
Providence under the protection of Nikki’s father and her family. (Little Lee met them at the
airport and he was excited to see them. Marc told Mom he’s gotten so big.)
Mom said that Nikki’s father will “take care of Fredo” and get the car back. “So it’s over,” Mom
sighed.
“Until next time,” I said, just as I had to Dad on Wednesday.
Anyway, here’s what’s happening in my life: I had a good class at BC last night. I have such a
great rapport with my adult students. I find teaching the fine points of grammar a real
challenge.
When I got home, Avis called with the news that she and Anthony have taken a new apartment,
on State Street between Bond and Hoyt, three blocks from the ashram, in a brownstone on a
pleasant block.
The owner is a young black woman who is renovating the building, and Avis said the
apartment is “huge” and “gorgeous.”
Denis called and we decided to put off getting together for a while. We did see each other
today at John Jay. I slept well, but it was hell to face a frigid, hectic rush hour.
At school we sat around a conference table and “normed” our grade scores on sample CUNY
exams. Two readers read each test, and conflicts went to Betsy Gitter and Pat Licklider.
Early on, some people noticed that my students were doing well. By noon, it was getting hard
to distinguish between passing and failing grades, we were so punchy from reading so many
papers.
In my earlier class, 16 people passed and 9 failed; in my later class, it was 10 passing and 11
failing. “That ratio is phenomenal,” Betsy told me, which to me seems pretty sad, but I was
glad I look like a good teacher even if I felt embarrassed because during the test I did go around
and sort of silently point out with a pencil when my students were making run-ons or
fragments or tense errors.
[605]
Richard Grayson
I didn’t tell them anything, just tapped with my pencil. I don’t care if that was “cheating.” I
don’t believe my students, especially since most of them at John Jay are ESL (Spanish speakers),
should suffer through another term of remedial, and this kind of timed test doesn’t reflect what
they really can do.
What the hell. I’m leaving teaching anyway.
8 PM. Winter and the shortest day of the year. I wasn’t feeling very well when I got up this
morning, so I decided to skip Teresa’s open house. When I called her this afternoon, she was
very annoyed, for I’d been about the seventh person to cancel because of illness.
I think I’m coming down with a cold or the flu. I have a bad sore throat and a stuffy nose and
I’m also dizzy (so much so that it was very hard to sleep last night). Maybe I’ll call in sick
tomorrow; unfortunately I have to teach at BC in the morning. It’s so cold out and the below
20° temperatures are supposed to last all week.
Yesterday I had a busy day and I was out too long in the cold. I went out at 11 AM and got my
mail. Mark Alan Stamaty, to thank me for the letters I wrote him “during a non-cheerful period
of my life,” sent me a copy of his book MacDoodle Street, a compilation of the Voice cartoons.
I was delighted with his kind gesture and felt such a kinship with Mark, who will one day be
one of the great cartoonists of the century. It made me feel as though I, like him (and Crad
Kilodney and Bill-Dale) am part of the creative world. I’ll never be able to thank Mark enough,
for he brightened up my whole weekend.
I took the train into Manhattan, and as I was early, I decided to go to the Strand and see if I
could find any review copies of Hitler on sale; there was only one.
At the St. Marks Bookshop, I overheard a salesperson mention my name to a phone caller, and I
took the call. It was Roger, sounding very ill, apologizing for not making it. I told him not to
worry, although I’d come into the city specifically to see him.
I bought the new Poets & Writers directory and had lunch at The Cookery, treating myself to a
last meal in a place that had some great memories for me going back to Yom Kippur 1969, when
I ate there with Joe Spitz.
Then I called Alice, who told me to meet her and Richard Rothstein at Andreas’s gallery-
workshop in Soho. He rented an enormous storefront where his huge, whimsical sculptures
have room to breathe.
[606]
I was impressed by the lightness of such large, heavy sculptures; Andreas doesn’t want to sell
any, just to let the public enjoy them. But he will accept commissions.
Andreas told me going to Florida is a “crazy” idea, but then Andreas has always tried to run
everyone’s life. He said he never gets depressed, and I believe that – but as Richard later said to
me, “Someone who doesn’t get depressed in these times just isn’t paying attention.”
Richard, Alice and I went to some pretentious café for cappuccino, and Richard mentioned he
was going to Kennedy Airport to pick up Liliane, who was in L.A. on some French consulate
business.
Impulsively, I said I’d go with him, and after Linda went back to Andreas – she treats him as if
he’s an infant – Richard and I walked all the way to his apartment in the East Village.
It was a little cold and too far for me. Their apartment was expensively furnished and very
cozy; they pay only $280 because it’s rent-controlled.
We had a hard time getting out of Manhattan because of the holiday traffic and were really
stuck to a standstill on the LIE, but I (ta-da) saved the day by showing Richard how to take
Woodhaven Boulevard and the Nassau Expressway to the airport.
On the way, we had a nice talk and I enjoyed the serendipity of the car trip. The airport was
jammed, but Liliane was ready when we got there.
They dropped me off at the subway at Cross Bay and Rockaway Boulevards; it was a twenty-
minute wait at the freezing Broad Channel station which helped me get this cold.
Midnight and I’m feeling good. Last night I got out all my diaries, twelve solid red books going
back to 1969. They are my life, and they are probably a finer writing achievement than the
stories.
I turned to various days: the day I met Shelli in 1970; a day in which mourned the breakup of
our relationship in 1971; the opening of the 1972 Democratic Convention in Miami Beach;
graduation in June 1973; December 27, 1975, five years ago, also a Saturday night, when I
celebrated Avis’s birthday with her, Teresa and Libby; my twenty-fifth birthday in 1976; the
night I met Wesley Strick on Rosh Hashona 1978 and he told me my book would be published;
the tenth anniversary of my diary, August 1, 1979, the day my parents sold our old house.
[607]
Richard Grayson
It is all there and most of it brings such good memories. Looking at it in perspective, I had to
agree that I’ve been a very lucky fellow. Being alive is interesting fun. I may be silly and
pompous and narcissistic, but I do enjoy life. And I can’t wait to get down to Florida and start
living there.
I went out for the Times at 11 PM last night; a light snow was falling, and it was pretty rather
than annoying. I drove down to Neponsit, to Beach 144th Street, by Ivan’s family’s old house.
Once I fantasized about owning that house myself one day, but that dream is long dead.
I didn’t sleep much, listening to classical music all night. I woke up at 11 AM on a grey day.
Avis called and invited me over later in the afternoon. I phoned Ronna, who said my
manuscript was almost ready and that she would mail it to me this week.
We had a nice talk, but we don’t bring out the best in each other anymore. I often wish Ronna
and I had never gone out; if that hadn’t happened, I bet we could have been really close friends.
I do hope she and Jordan come to Florida this winter, although she says she has no desire to see
the place other than to visit her grandparents. I detest people who put down Florida as a place
for old people; they don’t really know what it’s like.
I went to pick up Marc’s mail, but his landlords weren’t home. Then I dropped in on Avis and
Anthony, who shared some fantastic cinnamon tea Libby sent from California.
It was a pleasant afternoon, just lying around the living room and bullshitting with them. I left
at 3:30 PM, but then Avis ran down to get me and invite me to the movies with them.
We finally settled on Ordinary People in Brooklyn Heights, and Grandpa Herb’s car got there in a
snap. I loved the movie a second time (Anthony generously paid), and they liked it, too.
We had dinner at the Cadman afterwards, as Anthony told me I eat too many hamburgers. We
laughed a lot and had a nice time; I tried to etch it into my memory to save it for lonely days in
Florida. I will miss Avis, and I’ve grown fond of Anthony, too.
Back home, I was feeling deliciously happy when Kevin Urick called and made me happier
when by telling me his White Ewe Press will definitely do my next book, the short story
collection rejection by the University of Illinois Press.
Kevin hopes for a fall 1981 or winter 1982 release. I told him to do whatever is best for him, to
use whatever stories he wanted. He said he’d be going over the manuscript for the next three
months, but doubted he’d do any but minor editing.
[608]
The book will be published in hardcover and will probably sell mostly to libraries. He’s got a
new Albert Drake book and one of his own coming up before then. Kevin said he’d send me a
contract although he can’t afford to do royalties as yet.
I don’t expect to make a cent from the book, of course. Even Grandpa Herb is now fond of
repeating what his New York Hospital roommate Ed Sorel told him when Grandpa said I “can’t
make a living” although I had a book published: “Nobody makes money from books.”
Kevin suggested we call it Richard Grayson’s Book, which I think is a little too fey. (Even I am not
that narcissistic.) But I hung up feeling good. I again have a new book to look forward to:
something to stick around for.
This has been a red-letter day.
Tuesday, December 30, 1980
7 PM. “Penultimate” is the word for today on my Word-a-Day Calendar, the one that Alice
gave me back in January. Every day I’ve peeled off a day and here we are.
I didn’t sleep as well as I hoped I would last night; it was all right, but not the big, beautiful
sleep that I need. I always become uneasy at the end of the year and usually imagine some
disaster taking a place.
I just wish it was already was a month from now and I was settled in Florida. I remember
feeling the same way when I moved to Rockaway.
Mom called last night and told me my new Small Press Review was delivered there. She said
that “your friend George Myers” had an article on Ted Berrigan, and when I told Mom who Ted
Berrigan was, she said it jibed exactly with George’s article: “You’re so smart.”
The weather has been cool in Florida and all the tourists are complaining. Mom gave me a
million instructions about moving, most of which I’ve already forgotten.
I worry about getting the flu, which I am 98% certain I shall contract before I get to Florida. I
felt achy again today. I bought masking tape and mothballs and packed away some linens and
towels, and I threw out more stuff.
Dad will be here on January 9 and will be staying at the Sheraton Centre. It’s been over two
months since I’ve seen him, nearly two months since I’ve seen Marc, six months since I’ve seen
Mom, and almost nine months since I’ve seen Jonny.
[609]
Richard Grayson
In the last eight months, there have been only about fifteen days when I’ve seen any of the
members of my family. What a change from when I used to see all of them every day.
Ronna called this afternoon to ask if I knew where the MLA convention was being held, as she
was trying to locate one of Redbook’s authors. She said she mailed out my manuscript this
morning and wished me a happy new year.
I couldn’t find that black guy at the Sunoco station and I’m getting nervous about selling my
car. I’ll deal with it tomorrow or Friday. But time is running out.
In some bizarre way I feel that I am going to die. Leaving New York is like finalizing a long and
bitter divorce. This last week I’ve been free and my unhappiness has had time to make itself
felt.
But mostly I feel anxious. What if things don’t work out in Florida? What then? What’s going
to happen to me? I’m scared shitless. I’ve always dreaded change, and this is probably the
biggest change of my life.
I know I need a change and I can’t let my fear rule my life; if I stayed in New York, I’d be staying
only out of fear and complacency. I can’t do that to myself.
There was no mail again today, and I’m beginning to feel panicked. Suddenly my life seems so
empty. Maybe I have the flu already and I’m feverish and that’s why I’m so depressed this
evening.
All I want to do is sleep. Perhaps I should call Dr. Pasquale for an appointment. I’ll see how I
feel.
Gary invited me to spend New Year’s Eve with him, and I probably will – if I’m feeling okay.
I’m very dizzy again. I miss things to read, even those horrible remedial papers.
Not working, I feel I don’t have a purpose to my life. I feel so fat and creepy-looking. I wonder
if things will ever work out or even if they’re supposed to. I hope I’ll feel better tomorrow.
I suppose I’ve gotten through 365 days this year and I can handle whatever happens. On
Another World, a character took a nap and didn’t wake up; sometimes I wish I could do that.
But most of the time I knew that I have a lot to look forward to: my new home in Florida, being
with my family, a new career, new friends, maybe a love affair, the White Ewe Press book, 1981
and beyond. . .
[610]
6 PM. Tonight it’s the hell of the moment. What a day it was! If God had planned it, he
couldn’t have done a better job of making me absolutely crazy. It’s like a race between me and
Life to see who is going to win: Will I make it out of New York on time? I now doubt it.
Mrs. Hubbell called at midnight to say that McKey, her husband, the mover, wouldn’t be able to
come until Friday at 4 PM, not today. He got stuck in North Carolina someplace with his truck.
I had no choice but say all right, even though it will be a horror tomorrow because I have to
mark CUNY exams at John Jay. But last night, after I lay awake awhile in bed, I felt okay about
it, that it would give me a day to tie up loose ends.
This morning I decided to drive to John Jay to pick up my paycheck – my first mistake. It was
so icy on the streets that when I returned to Grandpa Herb’s car, I was stuck – but good. It was
nightmarish. This sounds unbelievable, but I was stuck at the parking spot on Ninth Avenue
for two and a half hours.
That was the unexpected crisis I had been expecting. I tried kitty litter, sanding, rocking the car,
and I ended up facing the street at 45° angles – both ways. At least ten different bands of good
samaritans tried to help me, and all eventually gave up.
Finally, the last valiant band got me totally on the sidewalk and shoved me onto the street. But
the car was riding oddly and on the tedious drive down the wreck of the West Side Highway,
my brakes went.
I was so sick I thought I would die. But I managed to get the car to Bob’s. It was frigid again,
and I froze as I went to Brooklyn College by bus; I got my paycheck, then gave Payroll
envelopes (as I had at John Jay) for them to mail my remaining checks to Florida.
Then I had lunch, cashed my checks at the check-cashing place and took the money to deposit
in the bank. I waited in the Flatlands library until 3:30 PM. When I called Bob, he said he had
to replace the brakes and it looked to him like someone had been driving the car with the
emergency brake on.
Of course! During one of our struggles to get the car out of the ice, one of the good samaritans
told me to put the emergency brake on. I could have killed myself for my stupidity! Why
hadn’t I thought to release it? Now I’ve ended up paying $40 on Grandpa Herb’s car for no
reason.
As long as I was in the old neighborhood in Brooklyn, I decided to fill my Triavil prescription,
but Deutsch Pharmacy was again mysteriously closed. Maybe Mr. Deutsch died.
[611]
Richard Grayson
Back in Rockaway, I got my mail at the P.O. The University of Minnesota guy wrote back to
me, explaining I was not able to be considered for an assistant professorship because they are
“looking for younger, less experienced” people.
Fuck academia! I give up! No more applying for teaching jobs! They’d only be three-year non-
renewable gigs anyway, the next step up after you’ve been exploited as an adjunct. I am so
filled with rage that it’s no wonder, on top everything else, that I’m going nuts.
I came home. I don’t have enough boxes for all my things; I kept going through old letters and
staring off numbly into space; I finally gave up on trying to sell my own car and a guy is coming
later this evening to tow it away for $20.
I give up, world. This is it: I surrender. Tomorrow will be another nightmare. I have to sit at
fucking John Jay and read fucking exams and then rush home to the horror of moving – if I’m
lucky.
All I really want to do is die. It’s so cold, I put the burners on now, and maybe, if I’m lucky, I’ll
be asphyxiated tonight.
I suppose this will all seem like some kind of learning situation I the future, and that, as I now
view the events of last summer, I will eventually see that I’m a better person for it. But it’s right
now, and living through it is very uncomfortable.
I fell asleep with my clothes on late night, only to be awakened by the door buzzer. It was the
guy with the tow truck who had come for the car. I went out; I had already taken out my lenses
so the world was fuzzy, dark and icy. We went to the corner, where I gave him the keys and
the title to the car, and I signed a bill of sale.
I remembered, as I watched him take off the license plates, that first day I got the Comet. It was
June 1973, and the car was shiny and new and full of hope, just like everything else in those
days following my graduation from BC.
I didn’t stay to watch the car be towed away in exchange for the twenty-dollar bill he handed
me. What an ignominious end.
This morning I drove to John Jay, arriving half an hour late. I actually managed to get trapped
in the fire corridor of the Lincoln Center basement parking garage.
[612]
We marked CUNY writing exams for three hours; I was so preoccupied I hardly read the
papers. At one point, Audre Lorde pointed out that I’d given a 1 to a paper she thought was a
6; I looked at it again and saw I must have been crazy to do it.
I got a headache from tension and eyestrain. I left as soon as I could, after I got all my students’
papers back and entered their grades. Everyone who should have passed, passed.
I rushed back to Rockaway and made good time, but I just missed the ringing phone. I was
very anxious that McKey Hubbell wasn’t going to show up, and by 3 PM I began looking
through the Yellow Pages for movers.
Just then he called to ask directions. He was over by 4:30 PM; his wife was downstairs and in
pain from root canal work. We loaded up the elevator with the boxes first, just the two of us;
then we took the furniture.
I wasn’t as careful as Mom would have been, but I think we did all right. It was exhausting
work, but we managed to do it in just three elevator trips. To my amazement, he was able to
get all my stuff in his truck, though just barely.
We were finished at 6:30 PM and called Mom, who spoke to him and gave him particulars.
McKey wanted to get to Davie on Sunday, but Mom told him the storage place stays open only
till 6 PM. He said he’d give her a call later tonight.
I went to Citibank to get him $150 (Mom will pay him the other half) and then gave the
Hubbells directions on how to get to New Jersey.
My apartment looked so much smaller devoid of all the furniture except the bed. I couldn’t
help flashing back to the first time Mrs. Calman showed the place to me when I came to the
building in September 1979.
I felt weak with hunger and stress, so I took some luggage and got into the car and went to
McDonald’s for dinner. I was shaking like the proverbial leaf in the restaurant, a combination
of exhaustion, emotional stress and the cold.
I came up to my grandparents’ apartment and swallowed twenty vitamin capsules. Since I

didn’t get an upset stomach, I’m assuming my body needed and absorbed it all. I felt feverish
and sickish (and I was upset to learn that Grandpa Herb is sick in bed in Florida) and very
tense.
There was a nice hot bath and then I rubbed myself with baby oil – that felt good – and called
Dad at the Sheraton. He had arrived in the morning and was at Sasson all day. I made up to
meet him at 1 PM tomorrow in his hotel room.
[613]
Richard Grayson
Then I phoned Teresa, who said she’d be home at 6 PM tomorrow and we’d go to the theater
then.
I still feel very tense and I know the next five days, my last in New York, will be painful – and
memorable.
11 PM Sunday, and I’m combining the entries for the past two days. I’m in Dad’s room of the
Sheraton. This has been one of the most memorable, and yes, happiest, weekends of my life.
As difficult as the past week has been, that’s how wonderful this weekend was. It almost makes
me believe that everything does turn out well in the end.
I didn’t get ill, all my furniture and possessions are now safely in Florida, and I’ve spent the last
two days with people I love.
I came to Dad’s hotel room at 1 PM yesterday. When he opened the door, he looked at me in
amazement; it took him several minutes to get used to my beard. Dad looks well – probably
better than I do.
We went out to lunch at a health-food restaurant and talked. He said he was glad to get away
from Grandpa Herb and Grandma Ethel, who are driving everyone in the house crazy. It’s
good to know I’m not the crazy one; sometimes, when I’m alone with my grandparents, I begin
to think that they make sense.
Dad was upset that Sasson took away their ladies’ line from him, but they offered him the job as
their New York salesman. However, he wouldn’t move back to New York even for all the
money he could make here.
He loves his life in Florida: the house has become a more valuable property, he and Mom see
more shows and attend more cultural events than they ever did here, and Jonny is much
happier.
It’s just too bad that Marc is such a mess. Dad screamed at Fredo over the phone Thursday
night; he told Fredo that we’re not used to dealing with such people. Mom had been angry
with me for telling Evie about Marc’s plight, his being in hiding, but as I said, she knew about it
already because Marc had called Bonnie from Providence.
Jonny and Mom are very nervous about Fredo, who sent a girl around to the house to check to
see if Nikki and Marc were in Florida.
[614]
Dad and I spent the whole day together, taking a walk up cold Seventh Avenue, watching a
movie in his room, and then having dinner at the hotel coffee shop. Dad and I had a good talk.
He wanted to see a show, but when he found it was $28 a ticket, he changed his mind.
I left at 7 PM to get to Teresa’s in time to see whatever show she’d planned to take me to. When
I opened the door of her apartment, I saw a big grey poster that said NEW YORK WILL BE
GRAYER WITHOUT GRAYSON and had a picture of teary-eyed Statue of Liberty holding a
torch and a copy of With Hitler in New York.
“Surprise!” shouted a crowd of people from the living room. I was stunned, although everyone
was sure that I had known that Avis, Alice and Teresa had planned a going-away party.
But I didn’t know what to say as I kissed and shook hands with Avis, Alice, Teresa, Peter,
Mikey, Diana and Richard. I was handed presents and told I had come a bit early (as usual!).
Within half an hour, Wesley and Marla, Scott Sommer, Ronna and Jordan, Barbara, and Simon
all arrived.
It was something I’d wanted all my life: a party given for me, just like the going-away party
given for Mary Tyler Moore in the opening credits of her old show. I was incredibly touched
and a little shy. It was one of the happiest nights I’ve spent.
I was told the reasons for the absence of others: Mason called me to offer his apologies; Mikey
said Mike, Mandy and Larry had a wedding to attend; Josh couldn’t come because Avis was
there; June wasn’t invited because Richard was; they couldn’t locate Gary or Elihu; and no one
wanted Elspeth or Scott there (hey, the three women making arrangements were all his ex-
lovers). Teresa’s sister and brother-in-law stopped in at the party for a few minutes, too.
Avis said that Anthony needed to stay home to study for finals; she also talked a lot about their
new vegetarian diet, which didn’t sound too healthy to me.
Ronna brought her résumé for Teresa to give her neighbor at the Times; she said that her brother
told her how great he thought I looked with a beard. I went over to talk to Jordan, who didn’t
know anyone but Ronna and looked a little lost; he’s slightly boring but very earnest and sweet,
a nice guy.
I introduced Jordan to Marla, and they discovered they were born on the same exact day. I
can’t imagine two people less alike: straight-arrow Jordan and wacky Marla, who died her hair
purple and told me she changed her last name to Darling.
Wes is doing work at that posh mental hospital, Gracie Square (where Shelli’s father stayed
when he had shock treatments). He played me a tape of his band’s newest songs, which I really
liked.
[615]
Richard Grayson
Scott, true to his nature, did not seem excited by his movie sale; he looked as depressed as ever.
His blond hair has gotten even longer, and he told me he’d like to get out of New York, maybe
get a teaching job.
Peter wasn’t feeling well, but I thanked him for making such a great sign for the party. Alice
gave me some gifts: the new International Directory of Little Magazines, a ream of Sphinx typing
paper and a bag full of artificial snow.
Teresa and Alice brought out wine, cheese, crackers, a turkey with gravy and stuffing, veggies,
salad, and later, creampuffs. Barbara said she’ll really miss me, but she’ll call when she visits
her mother in Hollywood.
Simon hasn’t visited his mother in Plantation yet, and it sounds like he doesn’t plan to. Richard
put down Florida and most of the other guests; he and Peter have a funny, theatrical feud
going.
Some people left early: Ronna and Jordan, on their way to meet Sid and Carol, said they’d call
me when they go to Florida to visit Ronna’s grandparents in Orlando.
The last guests finally left when Alice and Peter, Richard and Mikey went to share a cab
downtown. Then Teresa and I got into our night clothes and gossiped as we cleaned up. She
made the couch for me, and we chatted until we both felt sleepy.
I slept like a king, not feeling the cold outside. In the morning, Diana came over and we had
waffles that Teresa made from scratch. A friend brought over the Sunday Times and we made
out invitations to Teresa’s parents’ thirtieth anniversary party.
It was a wonderful, leisurely day: I love sitting around with Teresa and Diana, bullshitting and
relaxing. When I get to Florida, I’m really going to miss my friends.
After a late lunch, I decided to take a drive, to Inwood and Riverdale and finally all the way up
to Yonkers, where I’d never been before. As I returned on the Henry Hudson Parkway, the red
sun was setting over the George Washington Bridge. It was gorgeous.
I came back to the Sheraton and waited for Dad to come back from the Coliseum and we went
out to eat at the Carnegie Deli. When we called Mom, she had strange news as well as good
news.
Joel phoned her with the news that Cousin Robin has married Jerome, that black ex-convict she
lived with years ago. Moreover, she’s gone away with him to parts unknown, leaving 12-year-
old Michael to come home to an empty apartment and a note saying that he should go live with
[616]
his father. Joel got a note saying the same thing, and no one knows where Robin and Jerome
are.
Meanwhile, Marc called and told Mom that Fredo wanted Nikki to leave Marc and come back
to him, and that’s what precipitated the crisis and their having to go into hiding. What a family!
The good news was that McKey had brought all of my furniture and packages over to the
storage place.
I’ll sleep here at the Sheraton in Dad’s room tonight and in the morning walk over to John Jay to
hand in my final grades; I had a pretty nice term there and I’m grateful I had the opportunity to
teach at John Jay.
Then I’ll go to Brooklyn to see if the CUNY writing tests are in so I can hand in my grades there
before I go back to Rockaway to Grandma Ethel’s.
And so, with just a few more days in the city, everything seems to be falling into place.
[617]

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THE BROOKLYN DIARIES

Dumbo Books - Brooklyn

Printed in the United States of America.

Monday, May 26, 1975

a semi-big fuss over the magazine.

Wednesday, May 27, 1970

Tuesday, May 28, 1974

Tuesday, May 29, 1973

Tuesday, May 30, 1972

Monday, May 31, 1971

Monday, June 1, 1970

Saturday, June 2, 1973

Monday, June 3, 1974

Friday, June 4, 1971

A rainy night in Prospect Park

I realized I loved you

Thursday, June 5, 1975

Tuesday, June 6, 1972

Thursday, June 7, 1973

and the prospect of a comfortable future - but I'm still dissatisfied.

Monday, June 8, 1970

Sunday, June 9, 1974

Thursday, June 10, 1971

Wednesday, June 11, 1975

Friday, June 12, 1970

Tuesday, June 13, 1972

Wednesday, June 14, 1972

Saturday, June 15, 1974

Wednesday, June 16, 1971

Sunday, June 17, 1973

Friday, June 18, 1971

Friday, June 19, 1970

Friday, June 20, 1975

Thursday, June 21, 1973

Thursday, June 22, 1974

I spent today outside by the pool with my brothers.

Wednesday, June 23, 1971

Wednesday, June 24, 1970

Sunday, June 25, 1972

Monday, June 26, 1972

Friday, June 27, 1975

Monday, June 28, 1971

Friday, June 29, 1973

Sunday, June 30, 1974

Wednesday, July 1, 1970

Sunday, July 2, 1972

Thursday, July 3, 1975

Tuesday, July 4, 1972

Thursday, July 5, 1973

Monday, July 6, 1970

Wednesday, July 7, 1971

Monday, July 8, 1974

I'm going to watch the Canadian election returns now.

Sunday, July 9, 1972

Thursday, July 10, 1973

Saturday, July 11, 1970

Sunday, July 12, 1970

Tuesday, July 13, 1971

Monday, July 14, 1975

Saturday, July 15, 1972

sleeping in strange positions in a cramped car.

Monday, July 16, 1973

Gary called last night; he'd gone to Great Neck for