Monday, February 11, 1991
8 PM. Last evening Ronna called; I’d left a message on her machine about my bankruptcy hearing, and she wanted to hear details of how it went. She’s a true friend, and it’s been a blessing to have her in my life.
We talked about her trip to Florida – she said the photos she took at the beach in Hollywood came out well – and her life in New York.
In that respect, I don’t want to be like her; luckily, I don’t have to worry about giving up job security because I don’t have any.
I told Ronna about the summer job and that I’d see her in three months. In Alice, the great Woody Allen film I saw in Plantation yesterday afternoon, New York City looked so beautiful, I could almost feel the longing I have for it like an ache.
Nine years ago Sean shared my feelings, but since then I’ve had crushes on other students, and not a thing – nothing like the flicker of recognition I used to get from Sean in class, that raised-eyebrows gesture we used to share months before we slept together – has occurred.
I can tell he’s gay. He wrote an essay about Armistead Maupin’s Tales of the City, and on Friday’s CLAST prototype he wrote about AIDS more personally than the others who chose that topic.
Jamie’s tall and husky, with nice biceps (a tattoo is on one) and incredible ice-blue eyes. And that’s the end of it, of course; I’m sure he lives with someone.
Right now, while I don’t have my own apartment, I feel I can’t get involved with anyone. But because my world is so cut-and-dried, fantasies provide a touch of color, preventing me from being a total drudge.
But Jonathan didn’t want any fuss, and it was such a big cake that most of it was still left last night.
We all broke up laughing, but Marc said he was envious of me; he’s ballooned up again, and he doesn’t want to go back to Nutri/System.
So today I brought the remainder of the birthday cake into the English Department before my 8 AM class, and it was all gone by the time I returned to campus for my noon class.
I’m glad I got the chance to share food with the others; by and large, I’m liked by faculty and secretaries, but I obviously keep my distance from communal activities like the 
In my classes, I realized I have to beware of trying to be the Popular Hip Young English Teacher, a role I despise because, in the end, you only come off like an asshole.
I’m coming close to it because today one of my cooler students sarcastically remarked, “Wow, you lie on the edge.”
Still, I’m glad my students know I know stuff like Public Enemy’s lyrics and am aware of things few BCC teachers are.
It’s my weakness: I keep trying to prove I’m not just a community college English teacher – or a computer ed teacher – or a writer of obscure literary short stories.
Why else have I tried to get myself in the paper, on radio, on TV all these years? While I find publicity exciting, it’s also kind of pathetic.
Wednesday, February 13, 1991
9 AM. I just got back into bed after teaching my first class at BCC. I’m tired because I didn’t sleep enough last night. Yesterday I went to the college at 5 PM to do some 
There was a note in my box from Dr. Grasso: “Richard, I have bad news and good news.”
The bad news was that the school turned down the full-time positions for the summer; the good news was that I could still have the classes as a part-timer.
I wrote Dr. Grasso a note, thanking her but saying no thanks. I can probably do better on unemployment, and even if I can’t, it’s not worth earning less than $360 a week for a full time job.
Naturally, I feel a little jerked around, but I’m not that upset, for I felt I was giving up a lot in exchange for the money.
I guess it just wasn’t meant to be: I was fatalistic about getting the job so I feel the same way about losing it.
While I don’t know how I’ll make it financially this summer – I may actually have to try to sell my books on the street to survive – at least I 
If I do move to Gainesville, Tallahassee or another city, I’ll feel better to have had three months in New York.
I told Eleanor McCluskey about my giving up the classes, thinking she would be pleased she might have another shot at them. But she said while she could take a full-time summer position, she’d already taught the maximum of eight part-time classes this year. Eleanor remarked how bizarre and unfair holding a lottery for the positions was.
I know other people have no control over their jobs, either. My brothers are at the mercy of Preston Henn’s whims at the flea market; Dad can’t control Paul Davril losing the Bugle Boy license, the vagaries of credit denial and shipping foul-ups, and the financial problems department stores are currently having.
Anyhow, I’ve learned to roll with the punches. I don’t know if I’ll be in Rockaway or Brooklyn this summer, but I’m now sure I’ll be in New York.
My American lit students absolutely hated Barth, even after I gave a long speech on behalf of metafiction.
My students found Mailer to be obnoxious – one woman said she hated Armies of the Night because it had to do with the 1960s – but at least they like Baldwin.
My parents seemed more upset at the news of my losing the summer job than I was. I broke it to them by announcing, “Mom, Dad: you and Jonathan get a reprieve; I won’t be here this summer after all.”
I didn’t sleep well last night and was awake at 3:30 AM, never to get back to dreamland. I got up at 5:30 AM and exercised before breakfast.
*
Alice called to ask for my social security number for the Long Beach writing conference. and I wished her a happy upcoming 40th birthday.
I was surprised when she told me she’s dreading the day a little, because I know her friends are throwing a big party for her.
I expect to feel good about turning 40. Just today, as I drove along Nova Drive – I went back and forth to the college three times – I was thinking how, as a teenager, I never expected I’d live to 40. I don’t know why.
So maybe I’ll live to about 80, too – in which case I’ve got a whole another half of my life left.
If I drop dead this year, though, I’ll know that even then, I’ve been a survivor who’s surprised at how cheerful I managed to become. Resilient, too.
But of course, I’ve never faced a real hard test of character, and I know I could fall apart . . . though I tend to doubt it.
T
After teaching at BCC for so many years, I shouldn’t be astonished at the ignorance of FAU students, but sometimes these people couldn’t answer the simplest questions correctly – like the girl who thought muscles grow when they’re “atrophied.”
While the U.S. may be able to fight a war with half a million troops and tons of high tech weapons, our mediocre educational system can never inspire the same national will and dedication that’s needed if we’re going to fix it.
People don’t want to face that truth, though, so we get outraged when American POWs are “humiliated” before cameras. Even someone as smart as Dad said that was worse than us killing civilians.
Sunday, February 17, 1991
8 PM. I feel exhausted. Being with Pete, and later with Richard Kostelanetz, upset my usual routine, especially my diet.
Even though I took off all the butter and ate less than half the serving, I’m so unused to fried food that I’ve felt queasy since then, and there’s a disgusting taste every time I belch.
Probably I’m not able to digest fat anymore; I’m sure a hamburger would make me ill. Or is it all in my mind?
I also missed my huge salad for lunch and consequently developed a craving for fresh vegetables. Driving around so much gave me a bad headache.
Anyway, I’ll describe the rest of the day later or tomorrow; now I need to rest.
Monday, February 18, 1991
This morning I awoke at 5:30 AM with a sore throat, and I rushed to exercise before my body realized it was sick.
At first, I hoped the sore throat was merely from talking too much or from my sinus problems, but by the time I got to BCC, I realized I have a cold. I blame yesterday’s stress. I felt weird not getting my vegetables for lunch, 
Also, on Saturday this idiot woman with a terrible cold came to my class and sat down right in front of me, and she proceeded to sneeze and sniffle and cough for three hours.
Okay, a lot of people are sick now, and if I get this cold over with, I shouldn’t have to worry about getting it at the worst time: two months from now when I’m going to California.
But I hate being sick, taking it as a rebuke to my attempts to live healthfully. I’ve had two colds since I came to Florida and managed to abort each one, but I can see I’m not going to be able to fight this one off.
Though perhaps I’m gaining muscle? No, I could tell my belly sagged in the mirror yesterday. Am I talking like an anorexic, or what?
Well, I’m tired of “discussions with my life,” as Grandma Ethel says.
His mother and stepfather greeted me, saying I’d lost weight and asking why I hadn’t been in the papers lately.
After Pete looked over the list of local happenings I got from the Herald, he decided to take me up on my offer to see the flea market.
I hate the crowds, the smoke, the trash (human and otherwise), and the ugly merchandise of the Swap Shop, and it took us a long time to get in because of a Jose Feliciano concert at 2 PM.
After we stopped by at my brothers’ spot and I introduced Pete to Marc and Jonathan, we walked around as I realized I had probably 
As a bunch of elephants were led in to Preston Henn’s “circus” in the flea market’s main building, where food concessions line the hall, we had to step aside to avoid being trampled by pachyderms.
Pete was hungry, so I said we could go to one of Sonny’s or Shorty’s barbecue places, where I could take advantage of their salad bars.
Second mistake.
Finally, after an hour of aimless driving, we settled on Dalt’s, where I had those pancakes.
Third mistake.
But at least I got to listen to Pete tell me about his trip to India and I got to see the 
Caryl Phillips set him up with a lot of names in India, and Pete saw a number of literary people, all of whom were quite hospitable.
Pete liked India enough to want to apply for a Fulbright there.
Other news from New York City: Homeless people are selling yellow ribbons on the 
Pete still has had no luck with his book and can’t bring himself to write anything new until he finds a publisher for his current manuscript.
He’s teaching a private class on unpleasantness in literature or something like that and using a lot of good books for that course as well as in the one for his NYU students.
Although the insurance company isn’t replacing people as they leave to retire or quit, Pete’s job is secure.
We got to the beachfront Villas By The Sea at 4:30 PM and found Richard Kostelanetz asleep in the chaise longue outside.
Neither of us wanted to wake him – would you want to wake up a bear in a red sweatsuit? – so we walked along the beach, and by the time we got back, an older woman was dropping peanuts into Richard’s mouth.
She was very witty and turned out to be his mother, Florence, who will be 80 tomorrow. 
I was impressed by the Kostelanetzes, who are obviously highly educated.
Pete gave us an excuse not to stay long because he had to be at his parents’ house for dinner by 6:30 PM.
But although I was tired, headachy and nauseated, I felt an obligation to drive Richard 
He talked a lot about himself and his current twelve books in production, one of which is a collection of reference letters he’s written for other people.
Richard is not of this world in the same way that Crad Kilodney is not of this world.
For instance, Richard can’t understand why he doesn’t get plum academic jobs in creative writing when his entire experience teaching is one term at the University of Texas.
When applying for jobs, he sends the colleges his curriculum vitae, which is poster-size, rolled up in a tube.
Richard is also the sort of New Yorker who is a gefilte fish out of water in any other 
On the other hand, he’s a generous, tireless advocate of other writers (who generally write better fiction than he does), and his intellectual interests are wide-ranging.
He did quote himself twice, the same quotes he told me on the phone on Saturday.
I dutifully said I’d call him tomorrow, but now I can use my cold as an excuse not to see him again.
While I’m obligated to see Pete for dinner tonight, I’ll end the evening as early as I can. My throat is raw, and I’ve just begun to sneeze; my ears are clogging up, too.
It’s Presidents’ Day, and we shouldn’t have to work on a holiday. Who needs spring break? Give us back the day for Honest Abe and the Father of Our Country.
In normal places, like New York, they get two days off. Having grown up with the city’s more generous holiday policy, I can’t get used to the stinginess or stupidity of Florida’s.
I’ve got assignments for my English 101 and 102 classes due on Friday, so this week I don’t have papers to grade and return until Saturday.
Well, I’m going to fortify myself with a baked potato and a grapefruit. Tomorrow I’ll lay low and hope I can get through the class at night.