The Diary of a Rapist. Evan S. Connell
it was a lie. He grinned and shrugged. How would he know?—even if it was the truth, which it isn’t. He couldn’t know. It’s just that he’s filthy himself. He’s vile and wants to smear slime on decent people. There are not many people I believe in any more, but I do believe in Mr. Foxx. He’s a good man.
I have a feeling all of us need to believe in somebody, maybe it doesn’t matter who. Also I think it doesn’t make much difference what we are, weak or contemptible, we can change. Can become what we were intended to be. Yes, I do believe this and if it makes me an optimist—all right, that’s exactly what I am!
JANUARY 19
Another dog poisoned in the neighborhood last night—five so far this month. Humanity isn’t much to be proud of. Thugs on the loose assaulting people so the streets aren’t safe any more, etc. You’d think the police would do something, but they’d rather write out traffic tickets.
Burned the note, have no intention of making a fool of myself. Citizens don’t count, not if you’re entrenched at City Hall. They’d just laugh at me. I realize how unimportant I am—oh yes, oh yes! Here’s a letter from Earl Somebody complaining about dogs being poisoned. Throw it away. The Mayor’s got more important problems. That’s what would happen, no point fooling myself that anybody in an important position would listen to me. Earl Nobody.
JANUARY 20
Ugly Sunday, my own fault. For some reason I won’t let myself forget last Christmas. Almost a month gone by but still worrying it like a half-dead mouse. $20 from my wife, right out of her purse during breakfast, didn’t even bother to slip it into a gift card. “Earl, I’ve been too busy to go shopping. Buy yourself whatever you want.” At least she might have said “Merry Christmas!” But oh no, even that would be an effort. She treats me like a child who’s always in the way. Should have jammed the money in her mouth. Well, I did next best—wasted it. Two pounds of chocolates. Sweater I don’t want or need, also a couple of books I probably won’t read, stuffed the last two dollars in somebody’s mailbox. I trust your Christmas was equally pleasant, my precious wife! If you care to know the truth I spent a good many hours selecting that robe. Do you ever plan to wear it?
On & on, over & over! Forever abuse myself.
JANUARY 21
Looks like we’ve got a lunatic in the building. He threatened me again today. I think he lives on the 2nd floor. 201. 206. I’ll see if I recognize his name on the mailbox.
Have noticed him several times but paid no attention—cropped hair, stubble on his jaw, yellow canvas jacket, dirty trousers, makes me think he might be an ex-convict. That slack once-muscular little body—he could be dangerous. Glared at me, gesticulated, pretended he was going to spit. I suppose I was a bit contemptuous but he was the one who spoke first. I’ll keep on as I have, do everything possible to avoid him. Remember last week at the laundry I hopped out of his way, wondering if I’d get a blade in my ribs. He swaggers around with hands in his pockets, no way of guessing what he’s up to. Wonder if I ought to mention it to the police. It’s none of my business, I’d better keep quiet. Besides, they could ask what he’s actually done, then what would I answer? Well, I’d be forced to admit that so far he hasn’t, actually Done much of anything, as far as I know he hasn’t. Just that he’s threatening & I have this feeling he’s dangerous. Don’t know how I know, but have no doubt. It’s beneath the surface. Why is he challenging me? I think I should go to the police. Imagine. Harrumph! You tell us he’s insane? WHY is he insane? So there I’d be. Trapped, not able to say a word, having thrown suspicion on myself. Maybe the best solution is mind my own affairs, keep away from him & make sure he understands he’d better not push me around. I think that’s how to handle it. Ignore his presence, don’t even look at him if we meet in the corridor. Be careful not to turn my back on him, watch him from the corner of my eye.
Otherwise today? Tum-tum-te-tum very very little. Cloudy but didn’t rain. Sick of winter. Shouldn’t complain so much, we never have to worry about icy streets and so forth as the rest of the country does. Then of course the summer’s always cool. Count your blessings.
JANUARY 22
What a dull dull Tuesday. Has anybody on earth ever been as bored as Earl Summerfield? Impossible! I suppose I’m feeling all right, but continue concerned about that Spell a few days ago, whenever it was. Let’s have a look. Week ago today! Doesn’t seem possible, time slipping out from under my feet. I just wonder how much longer I can go on like this, especially because of the relationship with B deteriorating. Seems like we don’t have much in common any more. If I came back to a good meal and—well, came back to what I have a right to expect, then I wouldn’t mind the job every day. But there’s nothing for me at the office, nothing for me here. Don’t know what I want, just feel as if I’m drowning. Tomorrow the water will rise a fraction of an inch higher. Can almost see it rising from the floor, submerging the office while I sit there conducting interviews. Fill out these papers and come back at two o’clock, report to Mr. Rostov at the next window, he’ll take care of you, my man, he’ll take care of you at two o’clock. Then the next & next. How long out of work? Name of previous employer? How long in that position? Reason for discharge? Applied previously for compensation? Married? How many children? How many years of school? Can you drive a truck? Well, I’m tired of it all! Tired of their stories, tired of the cheats and lies. I know what they’re going to say. “My wife she’s sick, Mister. She got some kind of bone disease. Oldest boy, Rafe, he broke his arm last week. My father, he died in Tuscaloosa a little while back. The doctor, he says I ought not to do this work no more, the dust is bad on my lungs. Don’t know what we’re going to do. Rain put me out of work, Mister. The foreman, he laid off twelve of us, you can ask him. I ain’t lying. Won’t be nothing for at least a month. I’m willing to do anything. Except my lungs, Mister, I’m—” One right after the other. Next. Next. Step up to the yellow line, wait there until your number is called. So they wait and I wait, all of us wonder how much longer. File clerks scurrying back and forth opening drawers, squatting down, inviting everybody in the office to look at their hams—well, they’ll get what’s coming to them! Goggle-eyed laborers staring, whispering to each other. I know what’s going on. Dogs that come to lick the sores of a beggar. Which is more disgusting?
JANUARY 23
Feel better tonight, not so angry. The fact is, I feel sorry for most of the people I know. I pity them. Magnus, for example, living with his sister and brother-in-law, one little room, a cheap radio for company. Last week telling me about an Arkansas farmer who plowed up a diamond weighing almost two carats. Asked if he was going to start plowing up his back yard. He didn’t laugh. Serious and humble as a cur he says his brother-in-law wouldn’t allow it. Now he’s convinced he knows where to find one of the jeweled Easter eggs that belonged to the Czar! Heard about some antique shop in the suburbs where somebody noticed this thing on sale for five dollars. “It’s worth a f-fortune! An enormous f-f-fortune!” No doubt, no doubt. So he spends half his lunch hour quizzing Vladimir. Vladimir, what happened during the Revolution? Vladimir shakes his head. Barely remembers Mother Russia. He was in Belgium, so he claims, and as for the Czar’s playthings he doesn’t know any more about them than I do. There’s one in some antique shop around here? Yes, yes, and you can have it for five dollars. Oh well, finish the dream, Magnus. Soon enough you’ll be two dim lines near the back of the Chronicle, that’s your fortune. But go ahead, Magnus. Dream of the afternoon you’ll discover locked in the dust and darkness of half a century the toy of an emperor. Imagine the egg, Magnus, studded with rubies and emeralds, with a solid gold hasp, and inside the egg?—on a black velvet cushion a sapphire as blue as the Caspian Sea! Oh yes. Of course. Let us know when you find the treasure of the Czar. As for myself, I regard the entire world as an illusion from which each man must free himself in order to find Salvation.
JANUARY 24
I’m more alive at the Bureau than here—this apartment’s lifeless. We should move. But where? Unless you’ve got money these buildings are all alike. How would it be with a fine view of San Francisco bay? A doorman