October 17th, 1999

I am sitting here watching Jason stirring this thing on the stove, that he isn’t going to clean up after, and in fact probably he’ll just take right off the stove and put the pan straight into the refrigerator, if you’re lucky, covering it with a towel. When I came to this depressing town, I am not sure why but I was gripped with this vision of me living under a bridge, making a lean-to out of cardboard and fighting off sexual offenders under the bridge with a bent wire hanger, and so when Jason said he had a room, the room over the garage in this lousy house on Liberty Street (but conveniently right across from the grocery store), I was wildly thankful, and laughed for a week at least about the rents, how much cheaper renting is here in Washington, compared to California.

I see now that Jason is as equally disturbed as any other half-cocked, churlish weed-smoking 20 year old roommate I had back in college, except he’s 30, and, as I learned just yesterday, divorced, with a wife and son who live in Spokane. I try to stay out of his way, but the truth is, that I would probably have to list him, at this point, as next of kin or something, if I had to fill out one of those kinds of forms, because I don’t really know the actual address or phone number of any other living human in the state.

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