The Diary of a Rapist. Evan S. Connell
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vacant lot. What else? Well, Archbishop somebody-or-other got his picture in the paper tonight—blessing the cornerstone of a new church. Makes me sick. Feel like keeping track of everything, then throwing it into the face of the next person I meet.
Shouldn’t get angry like this. Look out for myself, let others do the same.
Don’t know why am so depressed. Last argument with Bianca? Always accepting blame as if I was her servant. Six years in these dirty rooms, circling each other like dogs. Six years! Telling myself tomorrow something will happen to improve the situation but it never does. No wonder we don’t have any friends. Other couples keep out of our way, I don’t blame them. Not much happiness here. A bent coin, Earl & Bianca.
JANUARY 13
Day of leisure. B spent half of it reading poetry to herself, then back to grading papers & now she’s gone to some concert with Spach. As if I didn’t know what she’s up to! Not satisfied to be teaching mathematics, wants some sort of executive position where she’ll have more authority. She’ll get it. Sooner or later Spach’s going to feel obligated without really knowing why and will see that she gets whatever she wants. I don’t care. Let her become principal of the rotten school, no business of mine. Don’t care what she does.
So here you sit again, Earl Summerfield. Sunday night to yourself! Prowl the apartment, suck at your fingertips, contemplate yourself in the bathroom mirror—bulging forehead and puckered lips. Why do you look so worried? Walk to the back porch again, stare at the lighted windows across the alley. Dancing figures, a mandolin, Italian arguments. You’re dry with envy, Earl. That’s so. Others are living life, you’re only watching.
I don’t deny it. Well, then. Hmm. I wonder how it would be to move to Europe, take a cottage on a hillside above the Adriatic. Live surrounded by pigs and goats and a dozen children and odors of hay and manure. Hmm!
Dear Jesus before much longer I’ll become a creature of fads & fancy. Lights will come to seem too strong or weak, every day too cold or warm, and acquaintances impossible. I don’t have any friends as it is, want none. Next year at this time I’ll demand more sugar, suffer headaches, trace my thoughts like tendrils of convolvulus, yes, and sit in a wooden chair cracking my finger joints while I wait for supper.
Bitter depths. Bitter depths.
JANUARY 14
Felt drowsy after getting home from work, grateful Bianca wasn’t here. Awoke instantly to the noise of her key in the lock, my expression suitably alert, suitably neutral. She has no idea who I am. Years arch over our heads, yet Bianca continues to think that I am what I used to be.
Earl Summerfield! she cries—EARL SUMMERFIELD! Is that what you do? Sleep? Is that all you do?
Have no idea what time it is, clock’s stopped. It must be late & I still hear the echoes of her voice.
JANUARY 15
This noon an attack of vertigo. Thought I’d fall. Managed to lie down, absolutely humiliated. To have people staring down at you—forced to admit in public that you’re sick—can’t remember when I’ve been so embarrassed. It gave everybody the impression that I’m not in very good health. I can’t imagine what happened today. And the worst of it was McAuliffe acting cynical, could tell from his grin that he thought I was malingering. He’s gotten afternoons off with various pretenses & so assumes other people are equally dishonorable. It’s as if he regards conscientious people as being foolish. The thought of him nauseates me. Reminds me of a diseased stork with its feathers dropping out, greasy hair dangling over those bloodshot eyes. A person could die and he’d think it was a trick. I’ll ignore him tomorrow, won’t say good morning. If I’m indebted to anybody in that office for consideration it’s Mrs. Fensdeicke, and am forced to admit to myself it’s a surprise. Would never have guessed she could be so solicitous, but then she’s a woman. Illness touches them every time. One of the few things I like about them. She wanted to call a doctor. Perhaps I should have agreed instead of getting to my feet. Still felt dizzy, but lying down in public was unbearable & not one person in that office will ever forget what happened today. I hate them for seeing me helpless, even though the fault was mine. How awful, the whole business. Worries me. Never had an attack like that before. Mr. Foxx came out and looked at me lying on the couch. I felt like such an idiot, nodding and smiling although he didn’t say a word. Somehow that moment changed our whole relationship. I remember staring up at that puffy brown face—he looked older, too, noticed the gray hair—I think he’s West Indian or Puerto Rican. Tempted to speak to him as an equal but didn’t quite have courage. Should have let him know I’m too intelligent to be doing the work I’m doing. Yes, there was your moment, Earl! Why didn’t you seize it? However, I have a feeling that he understood. He may very possibly be considering me for a supervisor’s position. We’re one short, rumor is. I could be the appointee. I’ve taken examinations enough, so Something ought to come of them. Foxx could do a great deal for me. I only wish I’d made a better impression. I wonder what he saw when he looked down—Summerfield lying on the maroon leather couch with a wool blanket pulled up to his chin and his feet sticking out. I could feel a draft on my ankles. What a day to be wearing these dime-store socks—it was all I could do to prevent myself from explaining I bought just one pair almost as an amusement because they were inexpensive. Ordinarily nobody would notice but I had to choose this particular day to get sick and expose them to the world. Oh God. I hope Mr. Foxx didn’t notice them. He must have. Yes, they did turn out to be an amusement, they certainly did! Well, too late now, too late to fret. Went back to his office without a word. I expected him to give me the remainder of the day off. Seems rather odd he didn’t suggest it. Even so he’s a good man. He’s all right. Whatever he wants me for—anything at all! I’ve thought of him as somebody to avoid. Do your work, keep out of the chief’s way, that was my motto, but now I think I’ve been too self-effacing. Much too much. He’s aware of me now. I could drop by his office on the way out some evening and mention the incident, thank him for his consideration, shake hands. We might have lunch together some day. Yes, that might not appear strange. I’m sure there’s no regulation against it. Why shouldn’t we become friendly? I ought to let him have a closer look at me. It’s foolish to be humble.
JANUARY 16
Felt much improved today, quite cheerful in fact. My steps were brisk. I was the model civil-service employee marching from desk to filing cabinet and back again. Displayed my most seriously efficient look. Have decided to impress Mrs. Fensdeicke. There, that’s the spirit, Summerfield Call me Horatio. Yes, Mrs. F—check-check-check like a chicken scratching at your clipboard and no Mrs. F! Eight hours of it! What was my reward? Now, what the Bureau is seeking to achieve in our particular area, Mr. Summerfield, is what Mr. Foxx often refers to as—heh! heh!—a machine-like rapidity. “Indeed?”—that’s what I should have answered, instead of smiling. Why do I always act so obsequiously? What have I to fear? How much longer am I to put up with these insults? There’s beauty imprisoned beneath the surface of our world and if anyone’s to find it that person will be Earl Summerfield.
JANUARY 17
McAuliffe’s latest tidbit: the celebrated Bird Nest Soup. Made out of the nests of the sea swallow, he claims, and has a strong taste, like crayfish soup. The nests are built from seaweed and the leaves stuck together by the spawn of fish, which is extremely rich in phosphorus, and everybody knows, says he, that phosphorus is an erotic stimulant. Eat too much, he says, and it’ll poison you! Small danger of that. What won’t he think of next? Half his life has been spent wallowing in dreams of sex, money for liquor and pornographic books. I wonder where he gets them. Mexico, he says, winks & smiles. He buys them somewhere in this city.
That pack of cards he showed me during lunch—lost my appetite. No, not true. I’m pretending once again. I went right on eating. But there was a reason—Mrs. Fensdeicke not six feet away! If she’d so much as glanced at us she’d have seen them. McAuliffe handed them to me so casually she never noticed. Still, that’s not surprising, now that I consider it. Women seldom realize what goes on about them.