Diary of a Discontent by Alexander Lurikov Page B

out before me and a pen in my hand. I must write, but I
don’t yet know how. Sometimes I pour myself a glass of whiskey, for
this is what writers do. I’ve tried writing articles for the local
newspapers, but they don’t want my words. I can’t really blame
them: my essays lack conviction. Whatever it is that gives the
journalist his certainty, it is not something I possess. But I
still scribble in my own way…
    ~
    This morning, as I left my apartment, I
passed a young girl sitting in the grass. Her legs were
crisscrossed beneath the billows of her linen skirt, and in her lap
rested a book. She had her head bowed, her eyes fixed fiercely on
the pages, and when I walked by she didn’t even flinch. No doubt
her book was more interesting than my existence. Perhaps she lives
in my building.
    ~
    I underwent the most dreadful experience last
night: I went to a bar by myself. It seems that before setting out
on this little misadventure I failed to anticipate the pathetic
stench that inevitably attaches itself to such solitary pursuits. I
was made perfectly aware of it, however, once I arrived. The
bartender’s face assumed an awkward expression of insincere
empathy. The other people in the bar, all of them comfortable
members of a group, looked at me as one would look upon a man
dressed in women’s clothing. It was a good thing that I arrived
half-drunk, otherwise it would have been unbearable. I hastily
ordered a gin and tonic, then a second and a third. My shirt was
dappled with sweat. My head itched and my pants were too tight.
After the third drink I left the bar. I walked straight home,
wondering all the while what it was that had inspired me to do such
a thing.
    ~
    Thank you, father, for the inheritance you
left me. You must have known that I wouldn’t be able to earn a living; you must have taken one look
at my face and said to yourself, “Now, here is an odd one! Surely
this creation of mine will be an incompetent little outcast. I must
provide for him well…”
    And indeed you did. For what would I do if
forced to find a job? How could I go on living if I had to do it in
public, on a schedule, for a paycheck? I cringe at such thoughts; I
imagine a thousand different versions of myself—working models, so
to speak—men who function, men unfamiliar with the sweet scent of
obsolescence. My real self, however, is like an artifact uncovered
by an anthropologist. “What purpose could this have served?” he
will ask himself while brushing away the dust. But no matter how
carefully he turns me over in his hand, no matter how keen his eye
or penetrating his mind, he will find no answer to his
question.
    ~
    This morning, through the basement window:
the corner of a rose-patterned blanket, a discarded white blouse, a
ruffled paperback.
    I walked to the coffee shop on 12th Street,
next to the university. The woman behind the counter was
elaborately tattooed; to look at her was a challenge. I took my cup
of coffee outside and sat at a table on the sidewalk. There was a
group of students next to me. They had their books spread open
before them, their bags lying limply at their feet. One of them, a
gangly man-child with greasy hair, smoked a cigarette. I detested
every movement and sound he made.
    I thought back to my days as a student.
Surely those were exciting times. I still had friends back then,
still had ambitions. I noticed the girls at the adjacent table;
they weren’t pretty, but they were young .
They were probably studying sociology or psychology, and in the
evening they would go to an art house to watch an enigmatic foreign
film. It is always difficult to imagine the parents of these
people.
    After finishing my coffee I succumbed to that
strange and stultifying self-pity that comes with the realization
that one has absolutely nothing to do. I had no job to rush off to,
no meeting to attend, no friend to visit. There were books I could
read, but the weather was too pleasant and the natural surroundings
too