I have not been able to find anything to-day.
May 16th.
So long as I have thoughts I can write a journal; but while my life is that of an animal, it doesn"t seem very necessary. I have always felt myself an outcast--a poet has to be that; but I never felt it quite so much as at present. I wander around from door to door; and those who have homes and money and power--they simply order me out of the way.
May 18th.
I do not think I can stand this much longer. I never had such a time before finding anything. I think my state must be written in my face--men no longer have any use for me.
I fear my coat is seedy. And I know my collar is soiled; but the two I left at the laundry won"t be done till to-morrow.
I have broken my last two-dollar bill. I watch in terror for the next week--I can not face that woman again. I must save enough for that.
May 19th.
I applied for a position as office-boy to-day--I was desperate. I have not enough to last me through a week, if I pay the woman anything.
But they said I was too old.
My feet are most horribly sore. I can hardly walk. And I have the strangest ringing in my head. I could not eat any supper--and the milk won"t keep in this warm weather, either.
May 22d.
The day before yesterday, when I woke up in the morning, I could hardly stand. My head was on fire, and I do not think I have ever been so sick before. I got around to a drug-store--the man said he would give me some powders; he said they were forty cents, but I dared not pay it. He gave them to me for a quarter. He said I should have a tonic, but I haven"t had it.
I was too ill to move all day yesterday. I am better to-day, but still I daren"t go out. I have only eighty-five cents left.
I must manage to get out and get some work to-morrow, or I shall go mad.
I had a scene with that horrible creature yesterday. It was the second week--she thought I was shamming, I know. She said she never allowed her "roomers" to get behindhand--it was her invariable rule. O G.o.d, I was so sick I could scarcely see--I did not care what she did. I told her that I had no money; that I was waiting to get some work; that I would pay her the first moment I could.
"Why don"t you keep work when you get it?" she demanded. "You have been idle nearly all the whole time you"ve been here."
I could not argue with her; she can turn me out when she likes.
May 24th.
I dragged myself out to-day. I feel better except for the blisters on my feet. But nothing to do! Nothing to do! Oh, I am half mad.
I thought to-day I would call upon some of my relatives. But I bit my lips together--no, I will not ever do that!
It is the ghastly heat that kills me. Yesterday was almost stifling, I thought I could not bear it. I never knew it to be so hot so early.
May 26th.
I have got but thirty-five cents, and to-day I was so tired I had to rest for two hours nevertheless. Oh, merciful heavens, but this is fiery torture!
It is half a week again. I know she will not let me stay another week. I did a strange thing--I wrapped up all my papers and carried them out under my coat. She can keep everything else I have, but my papers are mine. I took them to the grocery-store where I buy things and asked the man to keep them for me.
May 27th.
What does a man do when he wants to work and can"t find anything? Does he really starve? Or does he get locked up? Or what?
I said to-day: I will eat nothing but bread and oatmeal till I get something to do.
May 29th.
It was just as I thought. She has demanded her money--and I have but fifteen cents! I helped a man up with a trunk and got ten.--She told me that I would have to get out. It is clear to-night. I shall sleep somewhere in the Park. I can not write any more.
May 31st.
I got some work to do after all--at the height of my despair. I am giving out samples of a hitherto unequaled brand of soap.
It was yesterday morning, I met one of the men and asked him where he got the job. He said they wanted more men, so I got on a car and rode down there in haste. I made fifty cents yesterday, for half a day, and a dollar to-day. Thank G.o.d!
I spent the night before last in the Park, and last night in the room where I am writing. It is in a tenement-house. I paid fifty cents a week for it, and there is a drunken man snoring on the other side of a board part.i.tion.
I sha"n"t go back to the other place, of course, until I get more money.
Besides, she has probably rented the room.
I am so relieved at having gotten something to do. I believe I am even proud of the soap.