Someone With a Pen: Richard Grayson’s Diary

Sunday, August 9, 1998

7 PM. In my methodical way, I’m pretty much all packed. But you know me: I’m the kind of guy who, knowing he had to get out to catch an 8 AM train today, last night exercised for half an hour to make up for this morning and read all I could of the Sunday New York Times on Saturday.

I’ve already laid out my clothes for tomorrow even though the flight to Fort Lauderdale isn’t till 1 PM. (If Teresa is driving me to the airport, I’ll tell her it’s earlier.)

So this is my last night in New York. I’ve been here six weeks, give or take the six days I spent in Philadelphia, and it’s been a wonderful trip even though I didn’t get to stay in Brooklyn and see all the friends I planned to as often as I wanted.

This past week, of course, I’ve been in New York City nearly every day, and I’m almost getting used to those tedious rides on the interminably long diesel trains of the Oyster Bay line.

Getting up at 6 AM, I lay in bed for another hour, and I was out of the house by 7:45 AM. I got into Penn Station at 9:40 AM, and because the morning started out cool and breezy – even Midtown is quiet on Sunday – I walked to Union Square so I could exercise and experience the city one last time.

After walking along the “Korea Way” section of Broadway in the low 30s, I cut across where four homeless men slept in their makeshift beds outside a garment center office building.

Then I went down Fifth Avenue, past Madison Square Park with all its stuffy statuary, to the Flatiron District, near the area I knew so well from early life, where Dad and Grandpa Nat had “the place” for Art Pants.

In those days, lower Fifth Avenue was filled with the factory lofts of other menswear manufacturers like Uncle Harry, Ronna’s great-uncle Al, Ivan’s parents, and Moe Ginsburg.

I also passed the building at 150 Fifth Avenue where I worked on the October 15, 1969 Vietnam Moratorium and the original Barnes & Noble store.

After buying the Sunday Times, I threw away the sections I’d already read and looked at the rest of the paper at Starbucks over orange juice and iced tea.

And I found a trove of brand-new Manhattan phone books from Bell Atlantic, featuring the new 646 area code next to 212 on the cover. I took one copy, which made my backpack lot heavier as I walked to Alice’s building at the corner of West 15th.

When I arrived at her apartment, the first thing she did was hand me the copy of my Spaghetti Language manuscript. Now I can add “Those Old Dark, Sweet Songs” and copy it rather than go to the expense of printing it all out from scratch.

Alice called the special 202 hotline number the State Department set up yesterday, but after going through a menu (“Push 1 for information on the Congo; Push 2 for Nigeria…”), she got a young intern who took her number and said she’d call back with any information about Alice’s brother.

Since no Americans were killed or badly injured in Tanzania, however, and Michael wasn’t even supposed to be in the country, Alice is certain he’s fine.

We spent the next few hours chatting. She was surprised that Teresa’s mother, sister and niece could get up and speak at a funeral of a loved one: “At my mother’s funeral, I wailed inconsolably and nobody could stop me.”

She’s been to a lot of memorial services for people in the theater, like the Time critic William Henry, and wonders how the widows can look composed, much less give a eulogy. Because Peter is so beloved among theater folk, she knows he’ll have that kind of a memorial service, and she’s afraid she’ll again be acting like an old Italian widow trying to jump into the grave.

Alice is glad I feel less anger toward my parents; as she commented, “I don’t think you realize how lucky you are to have such nonjudgmental parents.”

That’s true. Alice is actually more judgmental of me than my parents, just as she admits she was judgmental of Peter for years about his lack of ambition. “But he told me it was okay,” Alice said, “and last year he earned more than I did.”

Of course, for Alice, everything has always been about money – though I guess I am judgmental of her for that attitude. But so far our conflicting values have not lessened our friendship, and it even survived the attempt by her to be my literary agent.

She made us Lean Cuisine lunches, a welcome change from eating out, and I hugged her as I left at 1:30 PM.

If I didn’t catch the 2:12 PM out of Penn Station, I’d have to wait another two hours. But I had time to stop at the Manhattan Mall on 32nd and Sixth, where I used the restroom and got a credit card application at the Stern’s department store. Then I dodged the peddlers selling bootleg videos of new films like Saving Private Ryan and boarded the train back to Locust Valley.

Last night I was on AOL a lot, and I saw another personal ad from Jaime. Last year he was such an asshole when I wanted to meet him, yet I still felt attracted to him even after he stood me up twice (and I planned to meet him again even after Dad had his heart attack).

The more I see the wording in Jaime’s ads, the more shallow he seems. At least that makes me feel better about what happened. The other guy whose ad I answered, Jeff, seems to have lost interest – and so have I.

On the train, I started to think about how little I’ve missed Gianni. (As I wrote that, for a moment I hesitated, trying to recall his name.) It actually thrills me that I don’t care all that much about him now.

Maybe I’m the shallow one? Wasn’t I crazy about him last winter? Or do I just convince myself I’m in love with a guy when all it is, is lust? That way I don’t feel cheap, I guess. Gianni once noted with skepticism – and a little amusement – that I tended to use the L word most when I was close to orgasm.

Anyway, I just took a walk through the center of Locust Valley and past the woman who walks her pig – and it’s not a Vietnamese pot-bellied pig, but a huge pink barnyard porker on its leash. She reminds me of the Log Lady on Twin Peaks.

So this is the end of my journey that started on March 3: seven weeks in the Bay Area, one week in Los Angeles, five weeks in Wyoming, three weeks in Phoenix, a week back in South Florida, and six weeks in New York (and Philadelphia).

From Saratoga, California, to Woodland Hills, California, to Clearmont, Wyoming, to Mesa, Arizona, to Locust Valley, New York, I’ve had a lot of addresses in 1998, and it’s been an amazing time in my life.

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Saturday, August 15, 1998

7 PM. Last evening I went out to the Fox Sunrise, which plays a lot of art films, and I saw Smoke Signals, the movie about Coeur d’Alene Indian guys written by the very talented Sherman Alexie.

It was very good, and I enjoyed seeing the scenes set in Idaho and Phoenix. Moreover, it felt good to be out at night. When I drove home at 9 PM after a rainstorm, it was cool enough so that I could ride with the car windows open.

Twice today I went to the Nova computer lab, where I read and wrote email, surfed the Web, and printed out my CV and letters to various colleges and a few other people.

I’m sending a query letter about my book manuscript to Hanging Loose Press, but I assume it’s only the start of a long process of trying to find a publisher for my next book. The more I try to get jobs and publications, the better chance I have at something turning up.

Gianni returned my call, and we chatted until he got antsy and wanted to get off. I was a little annoyed at how abruptly he did that, and I told him I was busy today. Maybe I’m too sensitive.

Anyway, I wanted to stay home this weekend so I could be here for Mom in case prospective home buyers phoned in response to the Sun-Sentinel classified ad (which I paid for) and wanted to see the house.

But no one called all day. I guess the ad didn’t do much good, but at least we found that out. I now see that without an agent or broker, my parents aren’t going to sell this house quickly. Perhaps by late autumn, Mom and Dad will finally back down and consult a real estate broker, but they’re stubborn.

I also spent time at Wendy’s and the new Borders out west in Sunrise, where I read the New Yorker and drank iced tea. (They didn’t have equal, though, only Sweet’N Low.)

At least getting out of the house reminds me that I’m not going to become like Jonathan or my parents, no matter how long I live with them.

Why did I worry about that anyway? If anything, seeing their lives makes me want to get out and interact with the world all the more.

On Westlaw, I found an old article in the Boca Raton News by some Christian who took offense at my saying Judge Frusciante’s decision on gay adoption represented “an irrational prejudice toward a disfavored group.” He quoted the usual biblical passages, and of course all he did was prove my point.

Patrick seemed a little put out when I asked him how much Broward Community College paid its adjuncts. He said many people want to teach at BCC and none of them seem to care what they’re paid.

“Then let those schmucks work for free,” I replied. “By not caring what they’re paid, they’ve already shown they’re too stupid to be college teachers.”

Hey, if I’m going to adjunct at Nova, I’m going to do it on my own terms. I’d rather go back to living off my credit card lines and declaring bankruptcy again than being a victim.

Not that those are the only choices, of course. What I mean is that I prefer to supplant my income with cash advances than by teaching so many classes that I become a drudge.

First, I have to see if I actually have gotten the Florida creative writing fellowship. I should find out by Wednesday; if I don’t, then I’ll have to figure out whether I should remain in Florida. Of course, living here is cheaper than going back to New York and probably easier than moving to Phoenix now.

Actually, if I don’t get the grant, then I will need the extra courses to supplement my income.

Teresa is forwarding my $550 unemployment check that arrived today, and I mailed out my new claim card for the past two weeks.

Tonight I’ll try to start going through the magazines that arrived here while I was gone: several months’ back copies of the Authors Guild Bulletin, the AWP Writers’ Chronicle and the American Book Review.

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Monday, August 17, 1998

9:30 PM. In half an hour, President Clinton will be addressing the nation about his five-hour grand jury testimony today in which he reportedly admitted having sex with Monica Lewinsky. I almost don’t want to hear him talk about it.

I’ve spent the last couple of hours writing an essay supporting what is probably the least publicized constitutional revision that we will vote on in Florida this fall: one that eliminates gender-specific language.

I’ll send it to the Sun-Sentinel, which runs op-ed pieces in a “South Florida Forum” on Mondays.

This morning I put on a pair of beige Tommy Hilfiger slacks that Dad got somewhere, and they fit me perfectly. I wore them to Nova, where I got the correct phone number for the adjunct office and a parking permit from Santa.

I also changed my email password for Nova’s Polaris, and I saw Larry Brandt, who seemed incredibly disorganized – but maybe he was just jet-lagged after returning from a San Diego conference last night.

From the Web, I printed out and saved to my disk Lynn Wolf’s Language 2000 course outline, but Lynn’s strict manner and attention to detail won’t work for me.

If I didn’t have a looser, more spontaneous style, I’d probably adapt it wholesale, simply because as an adjunct I don’t get paid enough to work as hard as she does, or as Patrick does at BCC.

Sean wrote back after I wondered why he needed a grass skirt to dress up as a headhunter for this year’s Southern Decadence. I’d told him all the headhunters I know spend their time calling up people to see if they’ll take jobs in the computer industry, and they didn’t wear grass skirts.

Sean said, “Sadly, I might need a headhunter soon.” It seems as if his firm may be going out of business.

That would be traumatic for Sean, as he’s been with them for a dozen years. Sean does not seem particularly flexible or adaptable when it comes to jobs.

Sat Darshan had a stressful weekend: she hated going shopping with the girls to buy them stuff to take to school in India.

I hadn’t realized that her ex-husband Anthony was no longer a Sikh. The girls visited him and his wife at their house in North Carolina (he still has a practice in New York City) and said he doesn’t wear a turban and is no longer a vegetarian.

Sat Darshan responded to the story about Josh refusing to see his child in Germany with astonishment. She reminded me that Josh did have a Karmann Ghia all those years, so his animus toward Germany is selective.

Having lived for a decade in Germany, Sat Darshan can’t understand Josh’s attitude – but then, who could ever understand Josh? She said it was sad that the baby will grow up knowing his father hates their country.

Kathryn Funk wrote, glad to hear from me. She didn’t see the San Francisco Chronicle spread on the architects and artists designing the new Villa Montalvo cottages, but the Mercury News did a big article on Sunday about it.

After lunch, I went back to Nova and spent another 90 minutes on the Web, mostly researching secured credit cards.

I want to accumulate more credit, and except for department store and gas cards, secured ones are the only kind I can get. Besides, they force me to deposit money into savings accounts or CDs, so I can’t go bankrupt until I’ve used up a lot of credit.

Another Ponzi scheme of deposits based on cash advances? Perhaps.

The two Bachelor of Professional Management classes at Nova are now definitely going to run, and if I get the Arts Council fellowship for $5,000, I really don’t need another class. I’d rather be able to have free time to read and write and maybe even exercise an extra half-hour, as I did when I came home at 4 PM today.

For the first eight weeks of this semester, I’ll have only one class every day: on Monday, Wednesday and Friday from noon to 1 PM, and on Tuesday and Thursday from 8:30 to 10 AM.

I can hang around the Parker Building and go on the computers to surf the Web, write and read email, and go on Lexis and Westlaw while I have office hours when I can meet with students, grade papers and prepare for classes.

I wrote more of my class outline today, but I haven’t worked out the daily syllabus for either class yet.

Next term there should be more B.P.M. classes available if I can get Larry Brandt to remember that I can teach Business Law, Business Communications and American Literature, all of which are offered in the spring in the clusters that are starting this fall. If I can get those, maybe I won’t teach it all in Liberal Arts in the spring.

Anyway, it doesn’t look like I’m going to stagnate this academic year.

I haven’t been checking the University of Maryland website, but I should probably see what’s going on with the journalism school. Still, my graduate program in Maryland is still more than eight months away.

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Thursday, August 20, 1998

11 PM. I’ve just come back from the Borders in Fort Lauderdale, where I sat outside with Gianni for a couple of hours. He called this evening from Bal Harbour after realizing that I didn’t have his phone number anymore.

We had a pleasant chat, mostly about his plans surrounding the move to Spain. This weekend he’s going home to Maryland, somewhat resentfully – because he’d just been there recently to say goodbye and then his grandmother had this idea for a family reunion.

After that, he’s going to see friends in New York and Boston. He plans to leave for Europe earlier now, in about three weeks, going to Paris and seeing France before he goes to Madrid, where Alejandro is moving into their furnished apartment on Saturday.

Although I am fond of Gianni, it’s as if we were never lovers, only friends – which is great, because if either of us did feel any attraction, there probably be more tension.

But now it’s as if any of my friends were going to Europe to be with their lovers. In some sense, Gianni’s being out of the country makes it easier on me to be back in South Florida.

When today’s mail didn’t include anything from the Division of Cultural Affairs, I called Tallahassee and learned that, yes, I did get a fellowship, but those letters won’t go out until tomorrow or Monday and the press releases will go out sometime next week.

I went to Nova at 9 AM and checked my email in the lab.

Sean accepted my offer to edit and revise his résumé and said he’ll get it ready for me.

Teresa said Jade loved New Orleans and wants to go back. She also mentioned that they’d run out of milk in the house, something that never would have happened if I were still living in Locust Valley. (She’s right about that.)

Teresa was heading to Mattituck today – she hasn’t seen the family since Granny’s funeral – and from there to Fire Island.

Mark Bernstein got my postcard from Billings. He and his wife spent the summer teaching in Florence, and he’s going to be back again for the fall semester at Miami University next week.

Last week, Mark was in Miami Beach to see his mother, who’s recovered a bit from her fall but is still frail.

Patrick said there was an open Mass Communications class at BCC-South that needed a teacher, but the time conflicted with my Tuesday/Thursday class.

Ben Mulvey sent an email beseeching me to take an additional, newly-created section of Language 1500 – but that class is also scheduled for the same Tuesday/Thursday hour when I’m teaching Language 2000. If it had been at another time, I probably would have said yes, and I would have regretted it.

For now, I think I should be okay with two day classes and the two B.P.M. night classes, though I just wish the latter would start earlier than the second half of the semester.

Last fall, I spent way too many hours going to and from Boca (as well as too much money on gas and Turnpike tolls), so I’m actually glad FAU didn’t ask me back, and I didn’t want to press FIU for adjunct classes, either.

Driving in Fort Lauderdale this afternoon, I stopped on Federal Highway at The Pride Factory, a gay store that carries books, videos, sex-related stuff, and chachis, and which has a coffee bar.

They didn’t have very good light (pink) to read the paper, but I did pick up TWN because I wanted to read about this coming Saturday’s demonstration at the homophobic Coral Ridge Ministries, which was behind the “ex-gay” ads in major papers this summer. I’ll probably go.

Broward County has passed a rule giving the domestic partners of its employees family benefits, so I guess I’m living in a pretty progressive place after all.

Another elderly writer, Dorothy West, the “kid” of the Harlem Renaissance, died at 91, after achieving renewed acclaim with the publication of The Wedding a few years ago. West was single, published little, but nevertheless had a long career as a writer. I can relate to her the way I did to Julien Green, whose obituary appeared in the Times the day before.

At 2 PM, Clinton got on TV from Martha’s Vineyard (incidentally, where Dorothy West had lived) and announced strikes against sites in Sudan and Afghanistan, where the terrorists who are responsible for the Tanzanian and Kenyan embassy bombings had operations.

Republicans called it a Wag the Dog ploy. The political and media elites, including liberal papers and Democratic politicians, want Clinton to resign or at least be censured or whatever.

So far, the public feels the way I do: they want the investigation over, even as Starr recalled Lewinsky to show that Clinton had fallen into his perjury trap.

It remains to be seen if the elites can convince the public that Clinton must go. I hope not, but it might be interesting to start a Gore administration – even as Gore, too, would probably be investigated relating to 1996 campaign fund solicitations.

Everyone assumes that the Republicans will do well in November because of the scandal. We’ll see.