Free In the Shadow of the American Dream by David Wojnarowicz Page B

waiting for a word about my letter and suddenly he leans forward and says the letter was beautiful—he’ll be glad to be caretaker for shelf figure piece I gave him. I’m startled, all relief coming out the back of my head mixing with West 4th Street wind, so much relief, so worried was I that he’d be frightened by my letter. I couldn’t even remember what exactly I’d written, I mean if tone was frantic-adolescent, but straight from the heart. I could hardly eat. He seemed slightly uncomfortable and we got into such heavy subjects—parents, alcoholism and parents, Al-Anon (its good points), therapy, etc. When we left we walked down to Houston Street and he outlined children’s book he was writing and I asked if I might have a crack at illustrations. He said he’d send pages to Paris for me.
    If anything is difficult to do it’s writing about someone you care for a great deal while all emotions and projected dislikes, etc. take their places in the shifting balancing act for more clear perspective. I see that all I’ve written this morning awakens different strong senses in eye and heart and am not sure where my sense of self is drifting.
    So we say good-bye and he tells me: I won’t wish you a good trip yet ’cause I’ll probably see you over the weekend, if not I will speak to you (he canceled his trip to Montauk). So I return to work, arms and legs tense, feeling relieved but unhappy that I was in such a state of mind as to not be able to relax and enjoy fully the get-together. The call was so sudden and the anxieties of whether I’d done silliness again in my life—big risk of the heart. Jimmy and the people at the store bought five bottles of champagne and a big cake and six joints and everybody got blasted and started running around and cracking jokes and monologue routines. Jimmy said, Nobody wants any more cake? and slammed his face into the cake and walked around the store all globby, cake cream filled in the pockets of his eyes, and then Ricky pummeled his own face into the cake and there were a lot of hoots and hollers and racing around transfixed customers and the air drifting down from the office onto the floor reeked of champagne that foamed all over the tables and cake smeared on the floors and smoke of grass wafting in and out making it all smell like weird vinegar fifty years old open on shelf in some hot kitchen. I got real weary and talked with everyone in good-bye tones and finally at 9:45 when store was closed down stood outside Madison Square Garden and the whole thing hit me hard—I was leaving. I felt uncertain about Phillip, how he felt, and so I went down to West Village and ate a sandwich at Sandolino’s. The waitress there—the one who has a new wave sense and French accent whom I’ve gotten to like a lot for all her darned words and perceptions, like the time Brian and I walked in there buzzing from two massive peyote milk shakes and I went to use the bathroom and she went up to Brian and hit his shoulder with the back of her hand and said, Psst, whatcha guys on? She’s real nice to me and I refrain from saying, Hey I’m leaving the country possibly for good and I’m gonna miss ya. After the sandwich I check paperback corner for Krishnamurti books, they’re out of stock on ’em. As I’m leaving the store I think of how it is that in working on making contact with something I may run into them or someone like that, but in the lamplit street rush of outta-towners here for Labor Day weekend I don’t see him, I rush past the darkness of Sheridan Square Park and down a couple of streets to Julius’s for coffee, maybe for sexual contact. I’m feeling a lot of bumming in my head. I order coffee at the busy counter and looking over I see Phillip sitting there. I cover my face in mock embarrassment but he looks right past me three times. Finally he sees me and we get over to the bar and talk.