Saturday, April 29, 1978
2 PM. I feel nice. I just sat in the backyard in my shorts for half an hour in the sun. And I can see the beginnings of my summer ’78 tan. It was a long winter, but it’s over.
Even the stubborn London plane tree in front of our house has bloomed. My window is wide open. It’s 70°. Radios are playing and it’s almost like summer. About time, too.
Tomorrow it’s supposed to be blustery and chilly again, but we’ll worry about that tomorrow, eh? Tonight we lose an hour’s sleep and tomorrow it won’t get dark until 8 PM.
Last night I called Middletown and ran up my phone bill by talking with Ronna for twenty minutes. She’s doing well, but as I suspected, it’s unlikely that her thesis will be finished by the May 13 deadline.
I assured her that these things always drag on; Ronna says she’ll probably 
leave Penn State when it’s done and go back for August graduation. She’s decided not to go cross-country with Phil and Richie – and that makes me glad.
Her lunch with George was very pleasant, she reported. George is charming, very down-to-earth and unpretentious – and he was wearing a suit. He’s about six feet tall, lanky, and blond, with glasses and a prominent jaw: about how I pictured him.
They talked about folklore and Africa and me and had a good time. I hope George will be in New York this summer so I can meet him at last.
Ronna mentioned getting calls from Leroy and Elijah last Sunday. Leroy, who had phoned her sister, “sounds somewhat more subdued” and told Ronna that she doesn’t sound “cutesy” anymore.
Elijah called to ask if Ronna had heard the news of Rose’s death; he got it from Kenny, who’d spoken to Cara. Apparently it happened last November. Elijah is doing fine, working two jobs downtown – near where Melvin, Costas and Phyllis all work.
“Everyone is so impressed with Phyllis,” Elijah told Ronna. I guess Ms. Legal Eagle has a slight taste of power now and must hunger for more. Not that I’m interested, of course. (C’mon, Rich, admit it: you’re jealous of anyone who’s successful.)
Ah well, one day they’ll give me a party at Studio 54, too, and I’ll be on the 
Stanley Siegel show and get my photo on Page Six of the Post. (Fran Lebowitz says the nice thing about success is the vengeance factor: it really is a form of hostility.)
After writing last night’s essay, I feel very “up” on my work. This morning I thought of collecting all my personal and self-conscious fictions into a collection called – immodestly – Meet Richard Grayson.
Am I deluding myself or am I correct when I believe that such an idiosyncratic book just might make it in the commercial publishing world – like Fran Lebowitz’s much-praised Metropolitan Life.
I can even see the book jacket for Meet Richard Grayson: me in a tuxedo at the end of a receiving line with my hand extended to greet someone.
I’d start the book off with “Reflections on a Village Rosh Hashona 1969,” and include all of the stories in which I am the main character – from “This Way to the Egress” to “Go Not to Lethe Celebrates Its 27th Anniversary” to last night’s essay.
Oh well, it’s an idea.
David Vancil sent me another too-kind letter about the stories I sent him; it’s much too embarrassing for me to do more than glance at. (Maybe tomorrow. . .)
Tonight I’m going to have dinner with Teresa and some of her friends. The 
birthday party has been canceled, so we’ll probably just go out to eat and maybe to a movie.
Gary called, telling me that he hates his job at Merrill Lynch and is glad he didn’t get a permanent position there. He goes on interviews and still has hope. Gary and Betty must live the most boring lives of any young people in New York City.
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