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e read it and only frowned。 He wanted to know what I was laughing about…didn't I take this Detweiller fellow seriously？
〃Oh； I take him seriously。 。 。 sort of；〃 I said。
〃Then why in hell are you laughing？〃
〃I guess I just must be a warped plank in the great floor of the universe；〃 I said； and then went off into even madder gales of laughter。
Frowning so deeply now that the lines in his face had bee crevasses； Herb laid the letter on the corner of my desk and then backed into the doorway； as if whatever I had might be catching。 〃I don't know why you're so weird lately；〃 he said； 〃but I'll give you some good advice anyway。 Get yourself some personal protection。 And if you need psychiatric help； John…〃 I just kept laughing…by then I'd worked myself into a semihysterical frenzy。 Herb stared at me a moment longer； then slammed the door and walked away。 Just as well； really； as I finished by crying。
I expect to speak to Ruth tonight。 By exercising all of my willpower I have managed to hold off on calling her； expecting each day that she must call me。 Maddening images of her and the odious Toby Anderson cavorting together…the locale which keeps recurring is a hot…tub。 So I'll call her。 So much for willpower。
If I had a return address for Carlos Detweiller I think I'd drop him a postcard： 〃Dear Carlos…I know all about covening the powers of Hell。 Your Ob'd Servant； Poop…Shit Kenton。〃
Why I bother to write all this crud down； or why I keep plowing through the stacks of old unreturned manuscripts in the mailroom next to Riddley's janitorial closet； are both mysteries to me。
March 23； 1981
My call to Ruth was an utter disaster。 Why I should be sitting here and writing about it when I don't even want to think about it defies reason。 Perversity upon perversity。 Actually； I do know…I have some dim idea that if I write it down it will lose some of its power over me。 。 。 so let me by all means confess； but the less said； the better。
Have I written here that I cry very easily？ I think so； but I haven't the heart to actually look back and see。 Well； I cried。 Maybe that says it all。 Or maybe it doesn't。 I guess it doesn't。 I had spent the day…the last two or three days； actually…telling myself that I would not a。） cry； or b。） beg her to e back。 I ended up doing c。） both。 I've had a lot of gruff locker room chats with myself over the last couple of days （and mostly sleepless nights） on the subject of Pride。 As in； 〃Even after everything else is gone； a man's got his Pride。〃 I would draw some lonely fort from this thought and fantasize myself as Paul Newman…that scene in Cool Hand Luke where he sits in his cell after his mother's death； playing his banjo and crying soundlessly。 Heart…rending； but cool； definitely cool。
Well； my cool lasted just about four minutes after hearing her voice and having a sudden total remembrance of Ruthsomething like an imagistic tattoo。 What I'm saying is that I didn't know how gone she was until I heard her say 〃Hello？ John？〃…just those two words…and had this searing 360 degree memory of Ruth…God； how here she was when she was here！
Even after everything else is gone； a man's got his Pride？ Samson might have had similar sentiments about his hair。
Anyway； I cried and I begged and after a little while she cried and in the end she had to hang up to get rid of me。 Or maybe the odious Toby…I never heard him but am somehow sure he was in the room with her； I could almost smell his Brut cologne…picked the phone out of her hand and did her hanging up for her。 So they could discuss his love…ring； or their June wedding； or perhaps so he could mingle his tears with hers。 Bitter…bitter…I know。 But I've discovered that even after Pride has gone； a man's got his Bitterness。
Did I discover anything else this evening？ Yes； I think so。 That it is over…genuinely and pletely over。 Will this stop me from calling her again and debasing myself even further （if that is possible）？ I don't know。 I hope so…God； I do。 And there's always the possibility that she'll change her phone number。 In fact； I think that's even a probability； given tonight's festivities。
So what is there for me now？ Work； I guess…work； work； and more work。 I'm tunneling my way steadily into the logjam of manuscripts in the mailroom…unsolicited scripts which were never returned； for one reason or another （after all； it says right in the boiler…plate that we accept no responsibility for such orphan children）。 I don't really expect to find the next Flowers in the Attic in there； or a budding John Saul or Rosemary Rogers； but if Roger was wrong about that； he was sublimely right about something much more important…the work is keeping me sane。
Pride。 。 。 then Bitterness。 。 。 then Work。
Oh； fuck it。 I'm going to go out； buy myself a bottle of bourbon； and get shitty…ass drunk。 This is John Kenton； signing off and going for the long bomb。
From the journals of Riddley Walker
3/25/81
After what seems like ten weeks of unadulterated excitement…all of it the unhealthiest variety…things at Zenith House seem to have finally settled back into their accustomed drone。 Porter sneaks into Jackson's office and sniffs the seat of her office chair during the five…minute period which es every morning between ten and ten…thirty when the seat is vacant （it is during this half…hour each morning that Ms。 Jackson removes herself and a copy of either Vogue or Better Homes and Gardens to the ladies' bog； where she has her daily dump）； Gelb has resumed his surreptitious visits to the Riddley Walker Casino and after a rash double…or…nothing proposal earlier this week now owes me 192。 50； Herb Porter； after his brief fugue； has once again mounted into the seat of the great political lootive which he imagines only himself； of all the earth's billions； really capable of driving； and I have resumed these pages after a three…week hiatus in which I have peacefully swept dirt by day and spread narrative by night…and if that is not pomposity masquerading as eloquence； then nothing is。
But the accustomed drone is not quite the same as before； is it？ There are two principal reasons for this。 One is down the hall and one is right here in my little janitorial cubby。 。 。 or perhaps it's only in my head。 I would give a great deal to know which； and please believe me that my tongue is nowhere near my cheek when I say so。 The change down the hall is； of course； John Kenton。 The change in here （or in my head） is Zenith the mon Ivy。
Herb Porter doesn't realize that anything at all is wrong with Kenton。 Bill Gelb has noticed but doesn't care。 It was Sandra Jackson who asked me yesterday if I had any idea why John had suddenly decided to go through every old manuscript in that corner of the mailroom I think of as The Isle of Forgotten Novels。
〃No ma'am！〃 I said。 〃I sho don't！〃
〃Well； I wish he'd stop；〃 she said。 She popped open her pact； peered into it； and began to poke at her hair with an afro b。 〃I can't even go in there anymore without sneezing until I'm just about blue。 Everything's covered with dust and all that dry creepy stuff that es out when those cheap padded mailers tear