The Diary of a Rapist. Evan S. Connell
FEBRUARY 1
Celebration being planned for Washington’s Birthday. Parade to start in North Beach, ending at Aquatic Park, where they’re going to have speeches plus a big program of entertainment including appearances by a former governor, several Hollywood actors, folk-dance group, high-school band that won the state tournament, etc., etc. I guess the chamber of commerce must be sponsoring it. Emphasis seems to be on patriotism as well as other qualities that have made America great. Admit to feeling a bit cynical considering what happens every day. Read the paper, listen to newscasts, choose your own examples. Another abortion death in the Tenderloin, police picked up a bartender who they think did it. She didn’t have enough to go to Mexico or Sweden or wherever the rich ones go to get it done. Drug addicts everywhere, pretty soon we’ll have more than China. Or take that old man they caught molesting children—64 years old the paper says but he looks twice that. Stains on his vest, suit rumpled, alcoholic if I’m any sort of judge. Probably never amounted to much, not even when he was young. Guess he’s trying to remember Youth before he dies. They say he breaks into fits of weeping but otherwise doesn’t show much sign of regret, in fact hardly knows why they’re keeping him in jail. He wants to go home. Scratches his grizzled cheek & looks puzzled. They’re thinking about moving him to a different jail because of the mob outside—people frothing at the mouth they’re so anxious to lynch him. Looks to me like one unimportant old man all by himself has thrown an awful scare into every bloody mother’s son. As if by killing him—oh well, what’s it to me! The country’s stuffed as full as a baked lobster with the turds of Greatness. No business of mine, here it is Friday night, the weekend coming. I ought to be deciding how to enjoy myself. Soon enough the cycle starts again.
Five minutes ago Bianca knocked at the door. That noise is like a needle shot into my brain. She does it on purpose. Always has an excuse, needs to talk to me about something when actually she’s just exasperated because I’d rather sit here by myself than do whatever it is she wants me to do. Bothering me gives her quite a lot of satisfaction, but if she had any idea what thoughts come into my head on account of it she’d quit. The celebrated intuitions of women are a myth, nothing but a courtesy we’ve granted them. If she keeps doing that I’ll cut her into 67 pieces and have myself a shishkabob. Suck the marrow of her bones just as she’s sucking at my soul.
Ho hum! Guess I might attend that Aquatic Park show on the 22nd. It could be worth seeing and I’ll be in a better mood.
FEBRUARY 2
Saturday’s ended. Those two schoolgirls were here, ugly scene I don’t want to think about. Put it out of mind, Earl. It’s over. Won’t happen again.
FEBRUARY 3
Dozed awhile this afternoon and dreamed I was standing on the edge of a high building with huge crowd below—everybody waiting to see whether I was going to jump or fall or be saved. A priest and a police officer were trying to stop me from jumping. The motive of the policeman was clear enough, and he didn’t bother to dispise his indifference about what happened to me, just told me to get down off the ledge and nobody would hurt me. But I remember being suspicious of the priest. God loves you—that’s what I heard him say. “What God? What God?” I answered. Then he opened his mouth and spoke again, but he didn’t say a word.
Well, Earl, apparently you didn’t jump, you lived through one more day—for whatever it’s worth. It wasn’t worth much. Foggy & cold, even now. And tomorrow’s not apt to bring surprises.
FEBRUARY 4
Shows how wrong you can be! This A.M. on the way to work I found $5. I thought it was a trick. Saw the bill lying in the gutter at the corner of Van Ness. It looked as bright as the moon but I walked several more steps with eyes straight ahead thinking some people around there were waiting to laugh at anybody who tried to pick it up. Then stopped and casually rubbed my jaw, glanced back, nobody paying any attention, so I just walked over and picked it up and calmly walked away. Scared to death, expecting a hand on my shoulder every instant. Twenty-six years and I guess this is about the first luck I ever had. Should be pleased—finding $5!—but I’m not. At first I was excited, could hardly keep from dancing. Not now. $5 worth of luck.
FEBRUARY 5
Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow until the end of recorded time! Simple promises accepted by simple men. What an imbecile I am to accept this life. Yes Earl, honestly how do you like it? How do you like knowing that every single one of them—even the stupidest—even those that can’t so much as sign their own name!—how do you like knowing every one of them earns more money than you do? The ones with a 3rd grade education, Earl, they earn 18% more per hour than you do. Well, maybe you’d better take another look at yourself Mr. Summerfield! What do you intend to do about it? Complain to Mr. Foxx?
Why do I goad myself!—not a thing in the world I can do. Not a thing. I was so positive I’d be climbing right up through the ranks of the Bureau, positive that by this time I’d have an office of my own with a private secretary. Five years ago I thought I’d be on a level with Foxx by now, the truth is I haven’t advanced a step. Don’t understand it. I conduct more interviews than anybody else in the department—Fensdeicke told me so. Also, very few errors. This information must be on record somewhere, therefore why don’t they promote me? Suppose that in fact I could speak to Foxx about it. Perhaps all that’s necessary is bringing the matter to somebody’s attention. He could write a memo to whoever his superior is in Sacramento. Certainly wouldn’t do any harm. My career’s at a standstill, to say the least. I’m being wasted. Maybe the Bureau’s just too big. People can often be overlooked no matter how efficiently they perform, or how badly. Well, I might just throw a rock through the front window and wait to see if that has any effect—doubt if it would. Sometimes get the feeling I could pick up a gun and shoot Fensdeicke dead on the spot, it would be noted on one of the files and that would be the end of the matter.
Waiting for summer. Long way off.
FEBRUARY 6
Vandals got into a house on Geary street last night, not far from here. Owner out of the city. Neighbors reported lights, noises, police discovered most of the furniture broken—sawed to pieces, hacked, mattresses ripped apart, mirrors shattered, paint poured into the washing machine, dishes thrown against walls, lighting fixtures pulled out, carpets burned & cut, shoes & garments stuffed into the toilet, bathtub filled and overflowing, etc. Pictures in the morning Chronicle, everybody astonished. At lunch old Clegg shaking his head over it. If he had his way he’d line them up against the wall and call out the firing squad, teach them a lesson. Fensdeicke agreeing, saying it’s “simply dreadful!” She can’t understand how people can behave like that. All I could do to keep from laughing.
FEBRUARY 7
Beginning to think we’ve gotten to be the most savage nation on earth. Not so peaceful and charitable and decent as we claim. Oh no, not quite! Magazine article reports we have 10 times as many murders per capita as England, 9 times as many rapes as Italy, 8 times as many thieves as there are in France. Doesn’t surprise me, I’ve sensed it. Merely walking along the street I’ve sensed America’s savage soul. A thousand explanations, but the fact remains.
FEBRUARY 8
Tempted to keep a scrapbook of monstrous events. Abominations in the sight of the Lord. No end to the examples. This A.M. a man on his way to work stopped by car filled with boys who hit him with tire chains, gouged out one of his eyes, drove away laughing and clapping their hands. Here I sit thinking about it while Bianca calmly studies stock-market reports. Fills me with disgust. In the Book of Tobit they say I used to do many acts of charity for my brothers. I would give bread to the hungry and my clothes to the naked, and if I saw one of my people dead and thrown outside the wall of Nineveh, I would bury him. Oh yes, but that was in the time of Shalmaneser, and I’m different now. How different I am! Weigh my iniquities as well as those of every other inhabitant of the earth—weigh them on scales and which way the movement of the pointer turns will be found out! Disgust is the least word