sk.theplant-第11部分

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　　My　love；
　　Ruth
　　PS…And　although　it　is　trite；　it　is　also　true：　I　hope　we　can　always　be　friends。
　　
　　interoffice　memo　TO：　Roger　Wade　FROM：　John　Kenton　RE：　Resignation
　　I've　been　a　trifle　formal　here　because　this　really　is　a　letter　of　resignation；　Roger；　memo　form　or　no。　I'll　be　leaving　at　the　end　of　the　day…will；　in　fact；　begin　cleaning　out　my　desk　as　soon　as　I've　finished　this。　I'd　rather　not　go　into　my　reasonsthey　are　personal。　I　realize；　of　course；　that　leaving　with　no　prior　notice　is　very　bad　form。　Should　you　choose　to　take　the　matter　up　with　the　Apex　Corporation；　I　would　be　happy　to　pay　a　reasonable　assessment。　I'm　sorry　about　this；　Roger。　I　like　and　respect　you　a　great　deal；　but　this　simply　has　to　be。
　　
　　From　John　Kenton's　diary　March　16；　1981
　　I　haven't　tried　to　keep　a　diary　since　I　was　eleven　years　old；　when　my　Aunt　Susan…dead　lo　these　many　years…gave　me　a　small　pocket　diary　for　my　birthday。　It　was　just　a　cheap　little　thing；　like　Aunt　Susan　herself；　now　that　I　think　about　it。　I　kept　that　diary；　off　and　on　（mostly　off）　for　almost　three　weeks。　I　might　not　get　even　that　far　this　time；　but　it　doesn't　really　matter。　This　was　Roger's　idea；　and　Roger's　ideas　are　sometimes　good。
　　I've　junked　the　novel…oh；　don't　think　I　did　anything　melodramatic　like　casting　it　into　the　fire　to　memorate　the　spontaneous　bustion　of　My　First　Serious　Love；　I'm　actually　writing　this　first　（and　maybe　last）　entry　in　my　diary　on　the　backs　of　the　manuscript　pages。　But　junking　a　novel　doesn't　have　anything　to　do　with　the　actual　pages；　anyway；　what's　on　the　pages　is　just　so　much　dead　skin。　The　novel　actually　falls　apart　inside　your　head；　it　seems；　like　the　parson's　wonderful　one…hoss　shay。　Maybe　the　only　good　thing　about　Ruth's　cataclysmic　letter　is　that　it's　put　paid　to　my　grandiose　literary　aspirations。　Maymonth；　by　John　Edward　Kenton；　sucked　that　fabled　hairy　bird。
　　Does　one　need　to　begin　a　diary　with　background　information？　This　was　not　a　question　which　crossed　my　mind　when　I　was　eleven…at　least　not　that　I　recall。　And　in　spite　of　the　great　shitload　of　English　courses　I've　taken　in　my　time；　I　don't　recall　ever　attending　one　which　covered　the　Protocol　of　Journals。　Footnotes；　synopses；　outlines；　the　proper　placement　of　modifiers；　the　correct　form　of　the　business　letter…these　were　all　things　in　which　I　took　instruction。　But　on　how　to　start　a　diary　I　am　as　blank　as　I　am；　say；　on　how　to　continue　your　life　after　its　light　just　went　out。
　　Here　is　my　decision；　after　a　full　thirty　seconds　of　weighty　consideration：　a　little　background　information　wouldn't　hurt。　My　name；　as　mentioned　above；　is　John　Edward　Kenton；　I　am　twenty…six　years　of　age；　I　attended　Brown　University；　where　I　majored　in　English；　served　as　President　of　the　Milton　Society；　and　was　exceedingly　full　of　myself；　I　believed　that　everything　in　my　life　would　eventually　turn　out　just　fine；　I　have　since　learned　better。　My　father　is　dead；　my　mother　alive　and　well　and　living　in　Sanford；　Maine。　I　have　three　sisters。　Two　are　married；　the　third　is　living　at　home　and　will　finish　her　senior　year　at　Sanford　High　this　June。
　　I　live　in　a　two…room　Soho　apartment　which　I　thought　quite　pleasant　until　the　last　few　days；　now　it　seems　drab。　I　work　for　a　seedy　book　pany　which　publishes　paperback　originals；　most　of　them　about　giant　bugs　and　Viet　Nam　veterans　out　to　reform　the　world　with　automatic　weapons。　Three　days　ago　I　found　out　my　girl　has　left　me　for　another　man。　Some　response　to　this　seemed　to　be　required；　so　I　tried　to　quit　my　job。　No　sense　trying　to　go　into　my　mental　state　either　then　or　now。　It　was　none　too　calm　to　begin　with；　due　to　an　outbreak　of　what　I　can　only　call　Crazy　Fever　at　work。　I　may　elaborate　on　that　business　at　some　later　date；　but　for　the　time　being　the　importance　of　Detweiller　and　Hecksler　seems　to　have　receded　far　into　the　background。
　　If　you　have　ever　been　abruptly　left　by　someone　you　did　and　do　love　deeply；　you'll　know　the　sort　of　fugue　I　have　been　experiencing。　If　you　haven't；　you　can't。　Simple　as　that。　I　keep　wanting　to　say　I　feel　the　way　I　did　when　my　father　died；　but　I　don't。　Part　of　me　（the　part　that；　writer　or　not；　constantly　wants　to　make　metaphors）　would　like　to　make　it　into　a　bereavement；　and　I　believe　Roger　was　partly　right　when　he　made　that　parison　at　the　mostly　liquid　dinner　we　had　the　night　of　my　resignation；　but　there　are　other　elements；　too。　It　is　a　separation…as　if　someone　told　you　that　you　could　no　longer　have　your　favorite　food；　or　use　a　drug　to　which　you　had　bee　addicted。　And　there's　something　worse。　However　you　define　the　thing；　I　find　that　my　own　sense　of　self…esteem　and　selfworth　have　somehow　gotten　mixed　up　in　it；　and　it　hurts。　It　hurts　a　lot。　And　it　seems　to　hurt　all　the　time。　I　always　used　to　be　able　to　escape　mental　pain　and　psychic　distress　in　my　sleep；　but　that's　no　good　this　time。　It　hurts　there；　too。
　　Ruth's　letter　（question：　how　many　Dear　John　letters　have　actually　been　sent　to　Johns？　Should　we　form　a　club；　like　the　Jim　Smith　Society？）　came　on　the　eleventh…it　was　waiting　in　my　mailbox　like　a　time…bomb　when　I　got　home。　I　scribbled　my　resignation　on　a　memo　form　the　next　morning　and　sent　it　down　to　Roger　Wade's　office　via　Riddley；　who　is　our　janitor　cum　mail…clerk　at　Zenith　House。　Roger　came　down　to　my　office　as　if　he　had　rockets　on　his　heels。　In　spite　of　the　pain　I'm　feeling　and　the　daze　I　seem　to　be　living　in　I　was　absurdly　touched。　After　a　short；　intense　conversation　（to　my　shame　I　broke　down　and　wept；　and　although　I　managed　to　refrain　from　telling　him　specifically　what　the　problem　was/is；　I　think　he　guessed）　I　agreed　to　defer　my　resignation；　at　least　until　that　evening；　when　Roger　suggested　we　get　together　and　talk　the　situation　over。　〃A　couple　of　drinks　and　a　medium…rare　steak　may　help　to　put　the　situation　in　perspective；〃　was　the　way　he　put　it；　but　I　think　it　actually　turned　out　to　be　more　like　a　dozen　drinks。　。　。　each；　maybe。　I　lost　count。　And　it　was　to　be　Four　Fathers　again；　naturally。　At　least　a　place　for　which　I　have　no　associations　with　Ruth。
　　After　agreeing　to　Roger's　dinner　suggestion；　I　went　home；　slept　for　the　rest　of　the　day；　and　woke　up　feeling　thick　and　dazed　and　headachey…that　feeling　of　mild　hangover　I　am　left　with　whenever　I　get　too　much　sleep　I　don't　really　need。　It　was　5：30；　almost　dark；　and　in　the　unlovely　light　of　a　late　winter　dusk　I　couldn't　imagine　why　in　God's　name　I　had　allowed　Roger　to　talk　me　into　the　promise　measure　of　making　my　resignation　provisional　for　even　twelve　hours。　I　felt　like　an　ear　of　corn　on　which　someone　has　performed　a　fabulous　magic　trick。　Taken　the　corn　and　the　cob　and　left　the　green　shield　of　leaves　and　the　fine　yellow…white　poll　of　tassel　intact。
　　I　am　aware…God　knows　I　have　read　enough　to　be…of　how　Byronic…Keatsian…Sorrows…of…Young…Werther　that　sounds；　but　one　of　the　diary　joys　I　discovered　at　eleven　and　may　be　rediscovering　now　is　that　you　write　with　no　audience…real　or　imagined…in　mind。　You　can　say　whatever　you　fucking　well　want。
　　I　took　a　very　long　shower；　mostly　just　standing　dazedly　under　the　spray　with　a　bar　of　soap　in　one　hand；　and　then　I　dried　off　and　dressed　and　sat　in　front　of　the　TV　until　quarter　of　seven　or　so；　when　it　was　time　to　go　off　and　meet　Roger。　I　took　Ruth's　letter　off　my　desk　and　stuffed　it　into　my　pocket　just　before　I　left；　deciding　that　Roger　ought　to　know　just　what　had　derailed　me。　Was　I　looking　for　sympathy？　A　tender　ear；　as　the　poet　says？　I　don't　know。　But　mostly　I　think　I　wanted　him　to　be　sure…really；　really　sure…that　I　wasn't　just　a　rat　deserting　a　sinking　ship。　Because　I　really　like　Roger；　and　I'm　sorry　for　the　jam　he's　in。
　　I　could　describe　him…and　if　he　were　a　character　in　one　of　my　fictions　I　suppose　I　would　do　so　lovingly；　in　too　much　detail…but　since　this　diary　is　for　me　alone　and　I　know　perfectly　well　what　Roger　looks　like；　having　trod　the　metaphoric　grapes　just　down　the　hall　from　him　for　the　last　seventeen　months；　there　is　really　no　need　to。　I　find　that　fact　unaccountably　liberating。　The　only　salient　points　about　Roger　are　that　he　is　forty…five；　looks　eight　to　ten　years　older；　smokes　too　much；　is　three…times　divorced。　。　。　and　that　I　like　him　very　much。
　　When　we　were　settled　at　a　table　in　the　back　of　Fathers　with　drinks　in　front　of　us；　he　asked　me　what　was　wrong　besides　the　obvious　unfortunacies　of　this　evil　year。　I　took　Ruth's　letter　out　of　my　pocket　and　tossed　it　wordlessly　across　the　table　to　him。　While　he　read　it　I　finished　my　drink　and　ordered　another。　When　the　waiter　came　with　it　Roger　finished　his　own　drink　at　a　gulp；　ordered　another；　and　laid　Ruth's　letter　beside　his　plate。　His　eyes　were　still　going　over　it。
　　〃'Before　long　his　tears　were　mingled　with　mine'？〃　he　said　in　a　low　just…talking…to…myself　voice。　〃'Each　word　has　been　like　a　lash　across　my　heart'？　Jesus；　I　wonder　if　she's　ever　considered　writing　bodice…rippers。　There　just　might　be　something　there。〃
　　〃Cut　it　out；　Roger。　That　isn't　funny。〃
　　〃No；　I　suppose　not；〃　he　said；　and　looked　at　me　with　an　expression　of　sympathy　that　was　at　the　same　time　deeply　forting　and　deeply　embarrassing。　〃I　doubt　if　much　of　anything　seems　very　funny　to　you　now。〃
　　〃Not　even　slightly；〃　I　agreed。
　　〃I　know　how　much　you　love　her。〃
　　〃You　couldn't。〃
　　〃Yeah；　I　could。　It's　on　your　face；　John。〃　We　drank　without　saying　anything　for　a　little　while。　The　maitre　d'　came　bearing　menus　and　Roger　waved　him　away　with　barely　a　look。
　　〃I　have　been　married　three　times　and　divorced　three　times；〃　he　said。　〃It　didn't　get　better；　or　easier。　It　actually　seemed　to　get　worse；　like　bumping　the　same　sore　place　time　after　time。　The　J。　Geils　Band　was　right。　Love　stinks。〃　His　new　drink　came　and　he　sipped　it。　I　half…expected　him　to　say　Women！　Can't　live　with　'em；　can't　live　without　'em！；　but　he　didn't。
　　〃Women；〃　I　said；　beginning　to　feel　like　a　figment　of　my　own　imagination。　〃Can't　live　with　'em；　can't　live　without　'em。〃
　　〃Oh　yes　you　can；〃　he　said；　and　although　his　eyes　were　on　me　he　was　quite　clearly　looking　somewhere　else。　〃You　can　live　without　'em　quite　easily。　But　life　without　a　woman；　even　if　she's　a　shrew　and　a　nag；　sours　a　man。　It　turns　an　essential　part　of　his　soul　into　a　pimple。〃
　　〃Roger…〃
　　He　held　up　one　hand。　〃You　may　not　believe　it；　but　we're　almost　done