Various And Sunday

I'm writing a revenge novel. I've got two pages so far, and they're good, but we only broke up yesterday and will probably reconcile. I guess I'll keep at it though. The relationship isn't even stormy but I don't let go of resentments. Man, for a shallow guy I can be deeply ticked.
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Yesterday morning I dropped James off at his poor Negro church in the factory area of town, and then impulsively took a right, up Dutch Elm to see Mr. And Mrs. Zigfield, my private detective friends.

All their kids were out playing, and the neighborhood kids who make the Zigfields' their headquarters. I used the cell phone to call indoors to say I'd be there to visit in ten seconds, if it was all right. But I got no answer. This being a Sunday morning, it was a rude time to drop in. So I was going to go

Suddenly the kids swarmed the car. I had ten toy guns trained on me, and they were barking orders at me to get out, get out get out! And yelling at me all sorts of things, like when their birthdays are, etc.

The whole damn neighborhood woke up and Zigfield got a call that there was a strange black car out front, and a man was out yelling at the little ones. So he sticks his head out the top little window of his American Gothic house and yells, "It is a strange man! What the heck are you doing, Porgy?"

I say, "I'm here playing tag, what does it look like? Let me in!"

He turned his head east and west. "What for? It's nice out."

"I got to talk!"

"Oh. Well, look. I can't point, but see over there. " He could only gesture with this head, the window was so small.

"There's all sorts of free counseling and social services in those offices across the street. They're open Monday through Friday. We're open Monday to Friday too."

"Then at least call off your troops!"

"Jesus. Hold on, I'm comin' down."
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They have a lovely little kitchen, red and yellow, Modern Tasteful Retrospective, don't you know what I mean, with a dial phone on the tile wall even. Like brand new.

There's a nice wooden table for three, but I pace, giving them the plot summary. These are my real friends. We do for one another. I babysit, they have me over for holidays and I make surprise visits when I'm mad and don't know what to do.

"Hold on. You're mad. That's energy, Johnny! Whatcha gonna do with it? Energy is a good thing, man!"

"I don't know what to do! That's why I'm here! I need instructions!"

Mrs. Zigfield thought a second and said "The leaves need raked."

"I promised Number 4 he could do that." (He didn't really say 'number 4' or '99', but it's almost like that there, with the Kettle Kids.)

"But he could wash the dishes," he told her. "Want to wash the dishes, Johnny? You can have a cup of hot coffee. A cold pancake...Oh. Wait. This is about a woman."

"Of course it is, " the missus laughed.

"You want to talk in private, then?" he asked.

I said , "Yeah, Pa. Could you go into another room?" I joked. Haha!.

"No, I want you both to hear this."
_____
I talked for 15 minutes, until they started looking at each other and, just with their eyes, came to some mutual agreement or assessment.

"You're wrong."

"Yeah. You were wrong. You shouldn't have done that. Why don't you call me when you're about to do something stupid?"

Mrs. Zigfield, she said, "He's right, John. Call first. Because you know when you're about to be rash."

He went on. "The worst thing you could do is be angry. Then you're owned. This is a dance. When she pulls away, you pull away. Give her space. How many times do I have to tell you that? You never could play it cool. You need to listen to more Jazz and not so much Blues."
______
I left half distraught. The kids shook me down again. I'm broke, so what did I care. Then they were distracted and I got away.

He was right, I had no self-control. No cool detatchment. I went home and put on Dylan's "Idiot Wind", an angry Dylan song.

You'll never know
the hurt I've suffered
Nor the pain I rise above
And I'll never know
the same about you--your holiness--or your kind of love
and it makes me feel so sorry


But then I put on "Long Black Coat"

Preacher was talking, there's a sermon he gave
He said every man's conscience
is vile and depraved
You cannot depend on it to be your guide
when it's you who must
keep it satisfied


So I don't know except to pray and have faith and live imperfectly and ---almost blindly---repent. The novel, very serious, will as usual be mistook for comedy. I suppose that's all right. It works for me, just to write.