Wednesday, October 22, 1980
9 PM. Yesterday went fairly well. I had a good class at Brooklyn College last night and got home around this time. Then I called Mikey, who sounded very upset. His mother is still in the hospital and refusing to have any more tests done, saying that she felt better.
I can understand how Mikey’s mother feels; those tests can make you feel like an object, and doctors don’t help matters. The four pulmonary men at Peninsula who were anxious to operate on Grandpa Herb are also pushing Mrs. Morris into a variety of biopsies and other tortures.
Living in Rockaway instead of his place in Chelsea has ground Mikey’s 
Avis phoned. Nothing was new with her and Anthony except maybe that they plan to look for a used car this weekend. I told her she could have my Comet, but for some reason she declined the honor.
Dad also called from his hotel; he had another good day at the menswear show, which ended this afternoon.
All my checks cleared, and as of this morning I have $575 in Citibank – but I wrote out checks for the rent, the phone bill and the druggist which totaled $360.
Still, a week from tomorrow I’ll have another $600 – possibly more if the Kingsborough check comes through – and I should be able to begin straighte
My classes went smoothly today, and commuting wasn’t bad. It’s been chilly lately, but I’ve been adjusting to it; I’m now wearing my pea coat.
The letter from Clark University finally arrived, and it was a personal letter, complimenting me on my “excellent qualifications” and urging me to reapply in the future.
I’ve begun to get some rejections of the stories I’ve been sending out lately; at least a little feedback, even negative feedback, is better than none.
I had dinner at the Ram’s Horn and came home to read, watch th
Marc called to give me his new phone number and to ask if I wanted to go out with him and Dad for dinner, but I declined. Dad will probably sleep over at Marc’s tonight although I was hoping he could come here.
Marc told me Rikki came around again, but he went outside rather than let her back in the apartment. She promised to reform and quit taking drugs and dealing and drinking and lying and generally fucking up; Marc said he’ll believe it when he sees it.
I don’t think Rikki can change without professional help. Mom thinks Marc 
I’ve been looking at myself in the mirror and not liking the result. My complexion is sallow and blotchy, my face is puffy and fleshy, my hair is lifeless and drab. Generally, I look tired.
I’ve been feeling quite dizzy again lately, and though I haven’t really lacked energy, I’ve been feeling a bit washed-out. Maybe it’s just The October Blahs.
Tomorrow I’m having the BC veterans write, so it should be a fairly easy day. I just wish I had more time to read and to write, as I’ve been getting ideas for stories.
Thursday, October 23, 1980
I attribute this to my plans to move to Florida. One by one, I’ve been telling my friends the news, and most have taken it fairly well, not arguing that I should stay in New York. Even Alice seemed to understand when I told her about it today.
After my veterans’ class at Brooklyn this morning, I met Dad for breakfast at Campus Corner. Odd how I spent so much time in that dinky little restaurant, but I’ve never been there before with Dad – not in all the years I was a student.
What I fear most is Marc’s getting in trouble with either the law or with crooks like Fredo. But he’s an adult, and if he chooses to live his life this way, there’s not much we can do to help him if he doesn’t want any help.
I gave Dad a big hug and said I’d see him at Christmas; then he went into the subway to go to appointments with Flyers and Sasson. (Dad says the Sasson people don’t know what they’re doing. They’re shocked he’s doing as 
Dad is such an admirable man. He related how he met a guy at the show, remembered the guy’s name, the name of a store the guy had in the Bronx fifteen years ago, and the exact address of the store – which even the owner had forgotten! I see now where I get my good memory and thoroughness.
Back in Rockaway, I picked up my mail. My check for the contact lens insurance bounced; inadvertently I withdrew the money before the check went through. Oh well.
Crad writes that all is going well: Lightning’s sales are so good that Virgo Press is doing a second printing, some student TV reporters were doing a story on him selling in the street, and he enclosed a glowing article/review from Quill & Quire, Canada’s leading book review journal.
Crad’s career is really taking off, and I’m happy for him. Maybe someday it will be my turn. But I don’t think I need that kind of success as much as I used to.
I don’t believe I’ll ever regret not becoming an instant success with the publication of Hitler. I also have realized that I’m far from being a failure, even in what I’ve accomplished so far. But my worth does not depend on my accomplishments.
This afternoon I relaxed, lifted weights, caught up on my soap operas and generally futzed around.
I had a good class at BC tonight; for the second time in a row, I ran overtime while giving a lecture on grammar. Talking about language – even grammar – is exhilarating, and I know I can be an enthusiastic teacher. It’s academia’s loss that I can’t get a full-time job.
I’ve been reading Merritt Clifton’s Samisdat essays. He’s surprisingly well-read, and his writing has real intellectual vigor; I admire his spirit and the breadth and range of his interests. He may be a wild man, but he’s very much in the American tradition.
Sunday, October 26, 1980
5 PM. This weekend hasn’t been too unpleasant. I’m beginning to wonder, though, whether I’ll be doing the right thing in moving to Florida. Will I be lonely there? Will my relationship with my parents deteriorate at close range?
I don’t want to go through another winter like last winter, and I don’t see this coming winter being any better if I stay here.
I’ve always admired people like Avis or Harvey (whom I wrote yesterday), people who could pick up and go across the country or across an ocean to start a new life elsewhere.
With the gale winds, it was impossible to get out of the house. Stuck indoors, I cleaned up the apartment, wrote letters, and caught up on a lot of 
At 6 PM, I called Mikey, and we went out for dinner at the Ram’s Horn. By that time, the storm had subsided, and it was good to be out with someone.
They’ve finally diagnosed his mother’s illness as an infection in her heart valve; it will be treated with intravenous antibiotics for the next three weeks.
Mikey looked under a strain; I know how hard it must be for him. After dinner, we came back to my place and chatted until he got tired. When he left, I began working, and at 11 PM I went out for the Times.
I went to bed late, but because Daylight Savings Time ended, I got an extra hour’s sleep and was up at 9 AM. I spent the morning lifting weights and answering job ads.
On Friday at Grandpa Herb’s, I got a call from the Continuing Education division 
But I’ve decided not to go. I don’t know how to teach ESL and it would be dangerous to go into that neighborhood at night.
At noon today, I met Josh at Kings Plaza; after not seeing him for the past few weeks, I had missed him. He had to come to the mall to exchange a pair of jeans Simon had bought at Macy’s. (Simon had to take his cat to the animal hospital again today.) In Macy’s, we also looked at shirts and boots for Josh.
This week I’m being observed at John Jay, but I don’t really care too much.
I hope this week will be as good as last week was. After this coming week, the following two weeks should be easier because of the Election Day and Veterans Day holidays.
I haven’t shaved since Wednesday, and I look like a bum, but I want to see if my beard will grow in nicely before I shave it off like I did before. After five weeks of weight-lifting, I’m more muscular than I’ve ever been.
I should call Dr. Pasquale for a session, but I’m not anxious to see him.
Tuesday, October 28, 1980
There are hundreds of memories that come back to me as I go over the bridge or past Kings Plaza or Kings Highway. But, as I was thinking before, maybe I can achieve the artistic distance from New York that I’ve always been looking for when I move to Florida.
When I’m lonely there – and I expect to be lonely much of the time – I will call on my memories, and I hope that will lead to good writing. With each passing day, I am more and more certain that moving is exactly what I want 
Suddenly this fall seems not something to be merely endured, but my last season in this city and therefore a time to savor. I know I’m leaving, so I can just put up with the horrors of New York a little more easily.
Everywhere I go, I keep hearing Frank Sinatra or Liza Minelli singing “New York, New York.’’ A line from the song goes, “If I can make it there / I’ll make it anywhere,” and it’s a line I believe in.
I came pretty close to making it in the Apple; after this, everywhere else should be a cinch. Last night I called Elihu and Vito and told them both I was moving; I haven’t been close to either in years, so they weren’t surprised.
Vito was busy running the newsstand at the Abbey-Victoria, where he’s earning good money: $20,000 a year. But he’s embarrassed to tell anybody what he does and there’s no future in his job, so he’s preparing for the LSAT and applying to Fordham, Brooklyn and other law schools.
I called Marc last night. Conversing with him is harder than getting a response out of my most silent student. We talked about banal subjects and I was relieved to end our “conversation.” I heard Rikki in the background, but I was afraid to ask if it were she. It’s hard to believe he would take her 
I felt so dizzy last night, I couldn’t sleep. This morning I was early and caught the 7:25 AM bus, which Mikey also got on. He said his mother was getting antibiotics and feeling nauseated.
I taught my veterans’ class and told them not to come in on Thursday (I’m alternating taking off my one allowed sick day at the two schools, and this week I want to give myself extra time to prepare for the observation at John Jay).
Then I came home and got into bed and actually slept for an hour or so. It was a dark, rainy day: a perfect day to sleep. In the afternoon, I exercised, 
Avis called to say that on Sunday, two weeks before her due date, her sister had a boy, a seven-pounder they’ve named Daniel. Avis’s parents have gone to Virginia to help them get the baby settled.
I had my evening students at BC do an essay, so I didn’t have to give a big lesson tonight. The Carter/Reagan debate will be coming up in a few minutes, though I’m sure it will be more of a press conference than a real debate.
Wednesday, October 29, 1980
8 PM. Last evening Teresa called. She got a cold last week but managed to get to the dinner for Carter. On the receiving line, Teresa got nervous and said, “He’s the President! Oh my god, what can I say to him?”
Her job at the Borough President’s office is quieter than the job at the railroad, and she’s learning the ropes.
Teresa plans to go to California next month and she sounds pretty happy. I know that because we got through the whole conversation without her mentioning Paul once.
When I told Pete I was moving to Florida and giving up academia and the literary life, he said, “Oh, I suspect you’ll be writing there.” I guess he’s right. It’s in the blood and all that.
I just got a call from Carter/Mondale HQ. It’s amazing that I can’t turn anyone down on the phone, even though I know I won’t be working for their campaign as I agreed to. I didn’t even vote for Carter, after all.
Last night I slept well and was awakened at 8 AM by Josh, who wanted to know if he could wear his tan sport jacket with a brown-and-white striped 
My only mail today came from Bill-Dale. He said that while we differed on many things, our attitude towards life was basically the same and that he was going to come into New York sometime in November. I suppose we will meet after all.
I arrived early at John Jay and typed up some stencils of sample essays, which we went over in class. The earlier class is so immature, it’s hard to keep them quiet.
I just hope they don’t come crying to me when they fail the CUNY exam. The exam will be given on December 10 or 11, so there’s really not much 
It strikes me that I’m not going to be in New York much longer. It’s eight weeks until Christmas vacation, and then I’ll be in Florida. I’ll come home after New Year’s Day and hang around another two weeks, winding up my responsibilities at John Jay and Brooklyn College and preparing to move.
Last night I reread my diary for this time last year. I was in the papers and on the radio all the time and seemed well on my way to becoming a celebrity. I was feeling strange in my new apartment and I missed my parents, Jonny and the house on East 56th Street.
But I haven’t thought that in months, and last week, when I went to Deutsch Pharmacy, I passed the old block and didn’t even think to look at our former house.
On his way to teach at Pratt, Denis gave me a ride from John Jay to Brooklyn, as he wanted my opinion on the novel he wrote. I told him I hadn’t finished it yet, but I did give him some suggestions on tightening it.
Denis is falling apart because of his hectic schedule. I don’t know how he manages teaching at John Jay and Pratt and taking his Fordham law classes at night.
Because of that, I didn’t get back to Beach 116th Street until after 5 PM, when it was already dark. I had dinner at the Ram’s Horn and then went to the cleaners, Citibank, and Waldbaum’s before coming back to my apartment to lift weights, mark papers, and prepare for tomorrow’s classes.
I haven’t shaved since Wednesday and this beard seems to be coming in nicely. I’ll probably again get disgusted and shave it off, but I’d like to let it 
(I just realized I wrote the same exact thing yesterday. That shows how hectic things have been and what it’s done to my brain. But at least I’m basically feeling happy.)
Friday, October 31, 1980
7 PM. Today I had an experience which has left me so shaken, I’m ready for bed. Even now it seems like a dream.
The day started off well: I was up early, marked a bunch of papers, and lifted weights. Then I picked up my mail and went to my grandparents to borrow their car.
I was hesitant about it, but I thought: What do I care what they think of me? I have nothing to feel guilty about.
So I saw Evalin, who told me that she had submitted a form to Dean Somebody’s office but she had heard that they weren’t going to pay me – and the other adjuncts who quit – because we had broken our contracts.
Evalin told me to call the Dean’s office, and of course they told me he was out today. Mrs. Del Bate was the one to see, they said, but she was out to lunch.
I could feel my blood pressure rising and I stormed into that office, asking for some help. I know I must have looked slightly deranged, and my week’s growth of beard must have contributed to that effect.
The secretary, Mrs. Singer, said I seemed to have a good case although she added that they weren’t paying adjuncts who had quit. I told her I wouldn’t have agreed to finish the week as a favor if I knew I wasn’t going to be paid.
She mentioned that this was her last day before a month’s vacation and said she was going down to her condo in West Palm Beach where she and her husband plan to retire next year.
When Mrs. Singer went to lunch, I waited outside for Mrs. Del Bate, who was taking her sweet time coming back from lunch.
I waited and waited and looked pathetic enough for another secretary to try to see if someone could help me; of course, everyone said that it was someone else’s job.
My stomach was in knots, my head was pounding and I was feeling more stress than I’ve felt in weeks. Finally I decided to go out for a walk and a 
I called Mom and she thought it was an outrage. “I can’t take this exploitation anymore!” I told her. “I’m going to kill someone.”
And to Avis, I said I couldn’t believe this treatment (I still can’t): not being paid for honest labor. This kind of injustice happened in sweatshops, in migrant worker camps, on antebellum plantations, but not in academia in 1980.
Wrong again. When I returned to the office, Mrs. Del Bate was there, a chubby fortyish woman who was cutting ribbons with a scissor. She said it wasn’t her responsibility, it was Dean Zibrin’s, that he had decided that we 
“Would you work without getting paid?” I asked.
She shrugged.
“I want to see Dean Zibrin.”
“He just left for somewhere – lunch, maybe, or something.”
“Could you get him? I’m not leaving here until I get paid.”
“The way you people exploit adjuncts is incredible,” I said, and I could feel myself losing control. It was a classic case of being utterly helpless to control my own destiny.
There was a porcelain frog on her desk next to me, and I started for it, about to fling it across the room, when suddenly, without thinking consciously, I began to get dizzy and sweaty and I started to shake.
My eyes and face started twitching and I could feel myself losing control of 
“What’s wrong?” I heard her say, as if from a distance.
“I’m an epileptic, I’m not supposed to get excited,” I cried between convulsions that were half-feigned and half-real.
She ran to get me a cup of water, but my hands shook so badly that I spilled the water all over myself and the carpet.
“I can control it,” I said breathlessly. “I’ve got to calm down,” I said, but then I began crying very real tears and I wailed: “Look what you made me do by not paying me!”
“Think positive,” said Mrs. Del Bate and she ran and managed to find Dean Zibrin in seconds flat. She came back with the news that “the Dean said he’ll pay you” and she hurriedly began typing up a form.
By then I’d calmed down and she said, “Call in two weeks – is that all right?”
I said it was, and walked out of the office, giving one of the secretaries a big wink as I opened the door. Outside I burst into fits of laughter.
I had succeeded, I hadn’t been frustrated – but look at the price I had to pay. Feigning an epileptic seizure to get paid for classes I taught in good faith: it worked, but I felt totally without dignity.
This settles it. Academia is only a dead end; it’s completely heartless. I’d rather work for Exxon or IBM. Adjuncts are not people, the colleges say. Now I’m sure I’m doing the right thing in moving to Florida. Goodbye, academia.