October 28th, 1967

Letter from Feeney McBride telling me he lost a leg when he stepped on a land mine. I get crazy, anxious—start compulsive visiting. Rachel in Mendocino.

Keith & I get drunk & go to Scott's party in a loft downtown. Underground filmmakers. I faze out & become bored.

Go up to Haight Street. Nothing doing. Come home & stop at the liquor store for cigarettes, drunk spade chick there, cross the street with her.

"Are you having a shitty night?" she asks me.

What the hell.

“You bet I am.”

"Nobody treat me right," she says. "Nobody know how to treat me—I'm having a shitty night."

"Want to smoke some grass?" I ask her.

"Sure, why not,” she says. “I'm having a shitty night, ain't you?"

She's wearing cheap blonde wig. It's not pinned on right, slipping off her head. White shimmering gown, sparkly heels.

We go up the hill. I'm saying very little. Humor her when I have to. She mentions a couple people & asks me if I know them, giving no reason why I should.

We walk up the stairs. It crosses my mind that she may be in drag, the way that wig looks so phony.

"It ain't gettin' up that worries me," she complains on the stairs. "It's gettin' down!"

She cracks up. It’s not a laugh but a weird piercing sound that she makes while leaning her head back with her teeth bared & rapidly machine-gunning a sound like chi-chi-chi-chi-chi. Her bloodshot eyes look wildly at me as if I find things as funny as she does.

It’s dark in the apartment.

"Where's the lights?" she asks when I start looking for the switch.

I turn them on.

"Jesus!” she says, “I thought I was runnin' around in the dark for a minute!"

She's wearing white fluffy coat, takes coat & heels off. Sits on couch.

She gets paranoid when I pull down the shades.

"What's goin' on here?" she says.

I reassure her, just precautions, but I don’t want anybody to see her.

She goes to the bathroom.

"My kidney's all messed up,” she says from the john. “Damn babies. I just lost one. Always get my kidneys infected. Go to the doctor and they just give me some pills, but they don't work."

She comes out. I roll joint. Take one toke myself & give it to her & she smokes the rest of it.

She asks me if I have any crystal.

"I used to shoot the big H,” she says, “but now I only shoot the big M."

She shows me scars on the crook of her arm.

One time I catch her staring seriously. Although she's bubbling with laughter most of the time, surprisingly her eyes reveal despair & loneliness.

She sees the manuscript & typewriter on the table. Tells me I look like 3 writers—Steinbeck, Hemingway & somebody she knows whose first name is Leo. She calls me Leo the whole night although I tell her my name is Frank.

She cleans out tip of cigarette & sticks the roach in.

“This is my 27th joint today,” she claims.

When I take her hand & put it on my cock she draws back.

"Are you upset or somethin'?" she asks.

I don't answer.

"Hey!" she says. "Ain't people supposed to kiss each other on birthdays?"

"It's your birthday?"

She comes at me with her red tongue wagging & pulls me to her lips. I try to keep my mouth shut, but eventually concede. It's worth it for a piece of ass that I don't even want by now. I keep wishing she’ll get up & leave.

"Yeah, you're gettin' to be fun,” she says. “We're gonna have a good time."

Cream’s playing on the stereo. Listening to the lyrics of "From 4 till 8," she thinks they're saying "born too late."

"I don't wanna hear that shit,” she says. “I wasn't born too late! You tryin' to bring me down or somethin'? I want to live! I'm gonna live!"

She begins to whisper when she hears Joe walking around upstairs. But even she can’t avoid my silence.

"What's botherin' you anyway?" she says.

“I’m tired,” I tell her.

I go to kiss her, she pulls away.

"I only came for a visit," she says. "I didn't come to stay all night."

She wants another joint. I roll one for her. Her fingernails are false, bright pink. She breaks up when she holds the roach with them.

"I knew these was good for somethin'," she says.

Tells me her friends will be having lots of parties, she'll invite me if she can remember where I live. I don’t tell her my address.

"They'll be a lot of fairies there,” she says, “but you don't have to worry about them—you can pick and choose any way you like."

She repeats the same questions, asking what I study at school, am I Shakespeare, something about writing a book with her.

Then she turns & says: "I can release you, but I can't stay."

That's fine. She stands up. She takes off one of her nylons. I get up to pull down the wall bed.

"Don't do that!" she says. "Those damn things scare me to death."

She lies on the couch. When I suggest the floor, she says the couch is just fine for her.

She lies there, legs spread. I get on top of her, she’s dry.

"Take your time," she says. "Take your time."

I want to get in & out as quickly as possible. She’s surprised when I come so quick.

"That's all?" she says.

She lights another cigarette. I say nothing.

"I know you're tired," she says. "Really tired. And I'm gonna go in a few minutes."

She finishes her cigarette. I’m sitting there naked.

"You like to sit around like that?" she says.

I put on my bathrobe & walk her to the door.

"Happy Birthday," I tell her.

I watch her walk down the hall, waiting till she goes down the steps. Then I go back, smoke a joint, & read Feeney’s letter again.

» November 2nd, 1967 : Bart's Breakdown