A D. Journal 1985

  The more I read about the Great Passaic Fire, the scarier it gets as if Mayor Lapari deliberately let this part of the city burn to make way for his condos and his shopping mall. There’s almost nothing we can do about it short of an armed insurrection. This, after all, was our reform mayor. This is a mayor who got caught red handed taking money from HUD for his car. Now, after the disaster, after the industrial base of the city burned, he even wants a raise. I’ve gotten so paranoid I see everything as a plot, him, Reagan, even the bullshit at Fotomat, some evil conspiracy behind everything, planning everything, making things rotten with remarkable precision. But there is no conspiracy. That would make life far too simple, allowing us to pin blame of one specific thing, a new Satan or his followers upon whom we can lay responsibility for all the world’s troubles. We could go on living our lives saying ourselves that “it’s that clown’s fault.” Many people have done this for

   The city is coming Thursday to inspect the properties the Labor Day fire conveniently made available for the mayor’s plan for a new Passaic. Condos and shopping malls. How unfair.  T hey try to scare us into accepting these by telling us the alternative will be a garbage dump. It is the same political trash poor people have to suffer through. Bad enough we had the disaster, and now we have a mayor like Lipari trying to make it worse, threatening not just the homes that burned, but those that survived as well. It just shows just how much politicians care about the people they are supposed to serve. I spoke with the mayor’s cousin. He didn’t seem all that sad about the impact the fire had on people living down here, saying redevelopment is easier now that the fire cleared everything out. City planners think in terms of blocks and lot numbers, not people, what does where, and how like one big game of Monopoly. So, what if you have to tear down a few houses to make the whole

  Friday the thirteenth. Not good; not bad, but a mixture of both. I guess it’s all in the way you survive it. Safire has her husband to look forward to, a man possessed by the fact that she must leave. She’ll be here later to talk and to hide, her world tumbling down around her as the man she married slowly deteriorates. He told her last night that it’s all Bob’s (the Fotomat manager) fault that she isn’t going to Baltimore with him – and set out to find Bob and kill him. It’s madness and an immature mind. But we all go through it one time or another. With Louise, I once ran out of the house with our baby to keep her from leaving me, then hid outside the door until she and her lover ran out in search of me, then stepped back into the warm house with the baby. I got this cockeyed idea from Hank, who had sone something similar nine months earlier when he swiped his girlfriend’s son to keep her from leaving him, managing to get all the way to Ohio before Pauly frantically talke

    It’s after noon. I slept the morning away like a child, deep under the covers; it’s that cold. The change of season sprung on me out of nowhere, a drastic drop from previously intense heat. I can’t remember about the change of other seasons, but this went quick. Newscasters, however, tell me this is normal. Last week, when heat scorched us, they talked about setting records. I suspect it has to do with the long wait for spring and how long it took for the earth to thaw have a particularly chilly winter. It takes nine months to build a body in a womb; sometimes it takes only an instant to die. And it somehow seems unfair, time twisted up inside of us, distorting our sense of reality. The sudden coolness disrupts the pattern I had accepted from too much heat. I don’t like it hot; I just got used to it. I guess I just expect things to keep going on the same way forever. I expected Garrick and Pauly, Lewis and Jewely to stay in Passaic forever, too, and though they left

    Every day, it becomes more obvious that Safire is a lot like my ex-wife, Louise. Besides the surface stuff, such as both of them having survived the same “life,” in strip clubs and such, they sometimes even shared the same history. Safire grew up about ten blocks from where Louise did in an exclusive upscale section of Wayne, leaving about the time Louise got adopted by one of the prominent families there. Safire and Louise share similar values, each utterly practical to a fault, and yet, caught up with romantic ideals that somehow run counter to their fundamental natures. Both struggled to survive, doing whatever was necessary to make ends meet, though Safire is more intelligent than Louise, and smartly found a way to exit that old life before it complexly consumed her. She eventually came to realize she was living in a fantasy, something Louise still hasn’t completely abandoned. Safire is savvy to the threats such illusions bring and stopped falling for the lines every

   Safire will be here shortly, another excuse to see me while her husband is at home. She will use any excuse to show up or call. Yesterday, she called me at the Woodridge store to ask about how to operate a camera she already knew how to work. I’m flattered, but I’m also in doubt. She is putting a lot of faith in me and therefore putting a lot of pressure on our friendship and love life. Many, many moons ago, I wrote about not wanting to be anybody’s white knight. The role is just too difficult and the personal sacrifice too great. There are just too many people out in this world that need to be saved. And for Safire, life is so bad with her husband, anyone with a kind word for her suddenly becomes her savior. Her talk scares me. She tells me she has loved me for a long time but never allowed herself to say it to me or anyone. She is a bit put off by attitude, my lack of caring. I suppose in some ways she is right. I’m very selective about how I expend my feelings

   Something’s up with Michael. I’ve noticed it several times over the last few weeks, somewhat distant, and this worries me. I think partly it is the change at work – a new manager and new habits to adjust to. He wanted the manager job for himself and his disappointment has drained some of his enthusiasm. He’s also deeply involved in his band. On Labor Day, he made his debut at CBGBs   - the ground floor in a career, or so he claims. The conflict between work and art no doubt weights heavily on his shoulders and mind. But there is something else, perhaps my dislike of elitist behavior – especially when it comes to politics and religion. This came up during a lunch we had with other friends. I’m not sure which side he took up when it came to the Middle East and Israel. I have a problem with any faith that declares itself as the chosen people, Christian, Moslem, Jewish or Buddhists, just as I am offended by all the in-groups, whether they be spoiled brats from Ivy league sch

    The smoke begins to clear after five whole days, but the press as put the issue of the fire itself on the back burner. Who is responsible? What is the damage? What will happen to the people, city, even the criminals when all is said and done? Strangely, the news media has learned the name of our part of town: Dundee. The estimated loss is at about $425 million. Yet is a predicable loss. Over the last few months, we have been particularly conscious of fire. I got rid of tons of paper from the big apartment just in case something was destined to start inside it. When you live in a stick match apartment building like these, sparks become a concern. But the Labor Fire was no accident, despite the rumors that circulated that day. Two boys, one 13, the other 15 claimed to be playing with matches behind one of the massive factory buildings when the garbage dumpster burst into flames. All this sounds too familiar. Last summer I stopped two boys from running over a stray dog with

    Labor Day and Passaic is burning. Fire everywhere. Flames lick the edges of our little world, plumes jumping from the roofs of factories like sun flairs, leaping up hundreds of feet, crossing over from buildings to building like an unstoppable disease. The wind makes it worse, taking it up, pushing it on, setting ablaze new previously untouched buildings one after the next, sparks showing at first on the faces of this warehouse or that factory, only to explode in massive clouds of red a moment later. Battle lines have been drawn, red fire trucks from what seem like a hundred towns lined up against the heated demon, Passaic, Garfield, Carlstadt, Lyndhurst, Little Falls, Paramus, Paterson, Wallington, Lodi, even the tiny Secaucus. Helicopters buzz over our heads like frustrated bees, helpless against the crimson monster that consumes the world around us, a monster slowly edging inch by inch, building by building, block by block to where we stand.   Now the wall paper fact

   It’s almost Labor Day again, the end of August, and another year clicks into the slide projector, leaving only images behind. This has been largely the summer of Safire, though perhaps it has been more the summer of change, of people leaving, Safire the last of the batch destined to leave by mid-September. Letting her go may well be a big mistake. She says she loves me, yet I can’t see myself continuing to be involved with her. Or maybe anyone. Pink Floyd called my condition “comfortably lonely.” Safire wants a commitment I’m not willing to give. I have told her several times she’s welcome in my life, even though I am always conscious of the wedding ring she wears, even when we make love. Something isn’t right. And I suspect the reason I allowed all this to progress as far as it has is because I know it will come to an end – a definite date when it all cuts off and we become individuals again, unconnected, a legacy left over from Fran when I felt the need to disengaged

   All forms of disaster tend to strike at once, not my disaster this time, but those in general, disasters that affect me from a distance. The drain at work has been backing up for three days running, a complex and frustrating end to a simple cause. A week ago, I carelessly let hot oil spill out onto the floor from the fryer. To clean it up, I used a mop, and to rinse the mop and bucket, I used the drain. Thick-headed John, the manager, did not see the connection, nor did he understand how his emotional reaction added to the critical morale ongoing in the store. John is a “Yes man,” going all the way back to his early 20s, a spineless worm whose whole ambition is to please the owner Phil. He wants nothing more than a pat on the head for being a good boy. At 21, his becoming manager was pure fluke, after working at the Paterson Dunkin as a common laborer, convinced he need was meant for greater things and asked the district manager there were any manager jobs open, and, of

   I would say life is complicated with Safire if it wasn’t just the same problem over and over. Most of the women I’ve dated want a particular type of working-class slob that is just not me. Dr. Thomas, of course, would ask me how I cause such women to fall for me. But I suspect this is a much more common problem than my good professor would admit. An artist – man or woman – must first fight against the natural urge to form a clan. I think Reagan’s political right has tapped into this with their return to the family stuff. A married man generally is too caught up with day-to-day survival and providing for his family to burn down cities in protest, and often do not have time to explore their art once they’ve settled down into routine. It all boils down to finding a mate that will support their art, the habit of art, the long hours necessary to dedicate to their art. This is hard and often what you get are two people seeking different goals, and romance often competes with the

   I saw Fran here two days ago. It was quite a shock, her familiar car moving along the all too familiar road, while I sat in my fishbowl, glass enclosed Fotomat booth. She even waved after I leaped out of the booth to wave at her. I suppose she still have feelings for me; one does not get over a relationship three years in only a few days or weeks or even months. Still things have been quiet with her as opposed to the dynamics I’ve had with past relationships, not to say that I loved Fran less. Meanwhile, Safire is still as wild as a stallion, savagely desperate for affection. That’s just not enough to base a future relationship on, and she needs to understand I’m not going to change. I know this may sound cruel and selfish; but I’m determined to maintain my own space. Good ole Dr. Thomas would call this self-destructive; typical behavior of most men or so I’ve heard. It just seems foolish to me to base my own life on what might well turn out to be temporary feelings.

  My uncle Ritchie is coming home. At least that’s what is being suggested when I saw him yesterday. Yet, he seems out of touch, abandoned, worse than ever – a dying man in the midst of the hospital committed to saving him. They keep trying to wean him off attention, when he needs it more than ever. Institutions like this seem to need to get rid of what they consider “dead weight,” and are determined to push him and others like him back out onto the street, demanding that they pick themselves up by their boot straps – whatever that means. Ritchie had already done that as a carpenter. But he also lied and cheated Uncle Sam, denying the government its hard-earned tax revenues, leaving him in constant fear of the IRS. He stashed boxes of cash with every living relative (except Uncle Frank who refused to keep the cash in his house), getting ready for something he never fully explained that might happen. Ritchie constantly wanted to prove Grandpa wrong about his demise, only t

    She loves me; she loves me not. This is the kind of stuff I’m getting from Safire these days, still telling me she loves me while still making plans to eventually end up with her husband. I feel guilty all the time. Her husband has given her a deadline to come to Baltimore, Sept. 23. A bad number according to Pauly who has this thing about the number 23. Route 23 is dangerous. Route 46 is worse because it’s 23 times 2. Safire wants a commitment from me and I’m deliberately putting distance between us, drawing fire from her. She claims I’m playing her off against Mary Jane. This is not exactly true, yet just close enough to make me nervous. I play for time, not her against Mary Jane. I got involved with Safire because I thought she was safe, assuming she would go away eventually with her husband. While I feel deeply about her, I do not love her. Sometimes I’m just the typical male, a bumbling fool, caught up with her sexuality without being sensitive to her as a pe

Bob Adams, my immediate supervisor at Fotomat, is about to have a heart attack. I’m supposed to meet with the regional manager for Fotomat to discuss a letter I wrote to the corporation telling them everything that was wrong with their business. Managers a petty dictators inside large corporations like this, but I actually feel sorry for Bob, who is forced to sit in the middle, between his career and his friendship with me. He’s a bit like a child at a gate, swinging it in and out, unable to make up his mind as to which side he wants to be on. No wonder he has ulcers. But he’s just an example of the suit-and-tie class of the 1980s, who think they can swing both ways, caught up in the corporate rat race while desperate to maintain a real private life. Bob wants more than anything to be a success – if only to impress his tyrant of a father – and yet always manages just to miss getting it. He positions himself as a right-wing zealot, talking about national defense and South

  S o, we’re back to Safire again. Not that it ever stopped. I see her and feel guilty at seeing her, understanding all too well the other side of the coin. Pauly, through the Tarot readings he gives me, that I give Safire’s husband power; he would go away if I allowed him to. I have always been haunted by such people, going all the way back to Louise, and her rich kid lover, Tim Adams, in Colorado, and later, Suzanne’s ex, Bob, and still later, Fran’s not-so-ex-boyfriend, Bill, the gentlemen ghosts lingering just outside the door, waiting for any excuse to come back in, ghosts of these women’s past, who haunt me more than them. With Safire its worse since she suggests her husband will resort to suicide if she does not go back to him, his way of keeping ahold of her, the way I once tried back in LA when I could not keep Louise from taking jobs in the porn industry. Only I never meant it, for me it was always a ploy, not so with Safire’s husband – at least, I think. Louise