The Diary of a Rapist. Evan S. Connell
Yes. And worse. Well, somebody—who? no matter—made a bet with friends, went to a brothel and there in front of them all he got on a whore without taking the hat off his head or taking the cigar out of his mouth. More than a crude boast about virility. Must have been his way of announcing contempt for whatever society holds sacred. Of course there are other ways of proving it. Anyhow, sooner or later we come together side by side, toes pointing stiffly at the sky.
FEBRUARY 9
Glad this day is done! Robin & Twinka here most of the afternoon hunched over their books on the dining-room table. I wasn’t able to keep away from them. Knew there was going to be trouble, couldn’t help myself. Promised myself I would watch television, keep my back turned to them, keep out of the dining room, but heard their voices and my good intentions weren’t worth a gumdrop—sneaking to the door holding my breath, on my knees as low as I could get. They knew I was there. Cocking their legs apart—the dirty sluts. But naturally they pretended not to know anything about it when B came after me. So it’s my fault. I’m to blame, who else! I’m always to blame. As far back as I can remember I’ve been to blame for whatever happened.
Just now occurred to me they must have told her. Of course, otherwise B wouldn’t have noticed. So they did it deliberately, encouraged me—yes, now that I think about it. So they think they can make a fool of me! Well, they’re going to pay for that. I won’t forget. I’ll get even with them, yes, and then some, don’t care how long it takes. I’d like to tie them up tight together, give them a taste of the candle.
I think I could be quite a teacher. Quite a teacher.
FEBRUARY 10
Sunday afternoon and I’ve been out walking, am now downtown in a Market Street coffee shop. Few minutes after 5 P.M. Have a nice table to myself in the corner and can look out at the street. The window’s fly-specked and coffee is not very good but I don’t care, am feeling cheerful. Buttery shafts of light slanting between empty office buildings. I’m sitting here among people who don’t amount to anything at all, yet they presume I’m one of them—no different from them! Maybe that’s why I feel so amused. Just now glanced around. Safe to say not one person in the place has given me a second glance. Certainly am amused. If only they knew! I admit that right now I haven’t been or done anything special, have got a job maybe not much different from other people here, but of course that’s not the point. I’m going to BE somebody one of these days, which means I already AM somebody. Not one of the sweepings of San Francisco, not Earl Summerfield! Look around! Old old women with swollen ankles and battered hats. Toughs with pimples, sideburns, leather boots, rings of keys hooked to their belts—guess they ride motorcycles. They’re Nothing. Not one of them, not a single one is going to be anything else. Get old, paunchy, still try to act tough. Street full of them. And the old gray men turning pages of newspaper they probably picked out of a trash can. See them studying the paper like they expect to come across a notice announcing they’ve been elected to board of directors of Bank of America. Yes, this is where they live, places like this, shabby hotels around the corner, all-night hotdog stands, etc. I feel like getting down on my knees to pray & thank God I’m just a spectator.
Yes indeed Earl Summerfield, you’re feeling all right today. That’s a welcome change. So many days I feel discouraged, resentful. Maybe I pity myself, I shouldn’t. Have good health and a job, can’t expect Everything. I suppose one reason I get angry over trifles is that I’m counting on that supervisor’s job more than I realized. I should get it. I deserve it, although I’m not the first person whose abilities have been neglected. However, I am optimistic. Yes, I am!
Excellent. Return to the apartment, see if B’s at home. Have an honest talk with her. So much has gone wrong between us, but I do love her. Also, I believe she still loves me. She’s right, I’m the one at fault. I’ll try to improve.
FEBRUARY 11
Realize now that we never loved each other. Remembering what she said to me just one minute ago makes me want to cut a piece out of her belly. She doesn’t care if I live or die, in fact she’d rather I was dead. She as much as said so. She’s never loved anybody. But of course I haven’t either. I’m sorry about that, truly am. I’d like to know what it means to be in love with oh, with Anything. Just about Anything on earth, but my opinion is that love eludes certain people.
FEBRUARY 12
Bureau closed on account of Lincoln’s birthday. Began raining at noon & hasn’t let up. I’m sorry the office was closed, don’t know how to occupy myself during the day. Look forward to tomorrow. Fensdeicke stopped at my window just before closing yesterday to say she’s been tabulating the interviews and found that during the past 6 months I’ve made just 11 minor errors, couple of serious ones, plus the usual omissions. Not bad. She had to pretend those 2 were serious but we both understood. It was decent of her to tell me. She wasn’t obliged to. She stopped by to hand along a compliment. That was nice of her. She’s all right. Remarked that she feels my attitude is good, and both she and Mr. Foxx are of the opinion I stand a very good chance of promotion within the year! Well, that made me grin. Class II would mean more money—to say nothing of Prestige. Class II, Earl Summerfield. I like the sound of that. And of course one thing leads to another. Yes, that would be a major step.
FEBRUARY 13
I’m getting fat. One hundred and sixty pounds and I’m embarrassed to set the figure down. Belt has felt tight recently, but deluded myself into thinking it was some sort of temporary indigestion. Felt inflated but thought it was air. Well, apparently not. Cut out the pie and potatoes. Face has been looking fuller & and I noticed that, too, but was unwilling to admit the truth. Working where I do doesn’t help matters. Perched on that stool I can practically feel my rear expanding. I must look like a duck. No wonder, day after day, eight hours motionless as a blob of lard. Then come home to a wretched Instant Supper full of carbohydrates because she doesn’t have time—she claims. Papers to grade, et cetera. For all I know she could be composing love poems to Spach. Hypocrisy. She’s more interested in becoming Vice Principal than in me. I suppose she’ll get the appointment—usually gets what she wants. I should say Always. I like being on top, she says. Indeed! But she’s never asked what I enjoy. Oh, I could think back—yes, there used to be times, but no longer. Much too busy now. If I ask for anything special she stares at me as though I was a spoiled child. “Earl what is the matter with you?” Sorry, I say, sorry. I wonder just how many times I’ve spoken that word. Thousands. I’m always apologizing, if not to Bianca to somebody else. Fensdeicke. Others. That lady I accidentally bumped into yesterday. Thought she was going to Do something about it—suspicion written all over her face. Kept on apologizing. Finally she let me go. Doesn’t make sense. I should have kicked her and then run for my life.
FEBRUARY 14
Being Valentine’s Day decided to give myself a taste of luxury. Waited till Bianca was asleep before preparing things—bath salts, candlelight, etc. In certain ways I suppose I’m more like a woman than a man, but that’s usually true of exceptional men although I can’t imagine why. Matter of sensitivity. Certainly I’m aware of more than say Vladimir or McAuliffe. Wonder if I could be an undiscovered genius. Musician or some such. Heard of a bakery worker who picked up a violin when he was about 40 years old and realized for the first time that he’d been wasting his life. By then it was too late for him. Maybe I have some talent like that. Don’t know what it is. I could become a scientist or important figure in the world of business or—what? What? What? If only I could find out! After 30 years of civil service when it’s too late, maybe then I’ll know. Have a feeling I’m on earth for a purpose. Don’t want to waste myself. I know I’m exceptional, sure of it, just that so far nobody’s given me the chance. Trapped in the Bureau, day after day, don’t know how it all got started & it seems harder and harder to get out. Bianca doesn’t help me, suppose she assumes I couldn’t do anything else. Assumes I’m useless. Well, anyway, went to sleep in the bathtub, woke with her hammering at the door & calling me names. Water was cool so I suppose I slept quite a while. Don’t know what I should have done. Should have told her off