03/23/01

I asked Swami yesterday how Cornelius was doing. He said he didn’t know. I guess Cornelius cussed him out and walked off the job some time recently.

So much for Cornelius being rewarded by Swami for his steadfast service with his own lush riparian oasis of the proportion of Eden.

Maybe you would like to take over his position, Swami says to me to my astonishment.

I don’t know why, but my reply of ‘no’ came after some hesitation. Phebe’s got me housebound with the care of the baby most days. I practically have to beg for pocket money from her. Somehow the thought of a job--- my own way of making money apart from hauling scrap metal to Middletown--- seemed attractive at that moment even while knowing the job involved servitude to an asshole slumlord. All I ask is to have some time outside of the house once in a while and some money of my own in my pocket. Is that too much to ask, Phebe?

I’m becoming Betty Fucking Crocker.

I’ve been letting Phebe handle all the communication with Rocky’s lawyer. I haven’t really been able to face it. I just have these depressing thoughts that Rocky will either be killed in prison or I’ll be dead before he ever gets out---that we’ll never walk together again in freedom. Not to say we ever got along very well before that we took walks together, but you know what I mean. There’s no happy outcome that I can see. From what I can gather from Phebe it looks like they’re working on a plea deal for Rocky to admit to manslaughter with a certain number of years added on to his sentence.

The idea of me possibly being Mookie’s main father-figure growing up seems way too screwed up to me.