a hundred blanks to some guy from the neighborhood, and he’d forge the names of forty or fifty different doctors on them, using writing samples I’d also sell him. The guy would turn around and peddle the blanks on the street for ten or twenty dollars apiece. The speed freaks and the nodders loved it.
And after a while I found out just how much of a balls-up the hospital drug room was in. Nobody knew what was coming in or going out. There were people lugging the goodies out by the double handfuls. Not me. I was always careful. I never got into trouble until I got careless-and unlucky. But I’m going to land on my feet. I always do.
Can’t write any more now. My wrist’s tired and the pencil’s dull. I don’t know why I’m bothering, anyway. Somebody’ ll probably pick me up soon.
January 27
The boat drifted away last night and sank in about ten feet of water off the north side of the island. Who gives a rip? The bottom was like Swiss cheese after coming over the reef anyway. I’d already taken off anything that was worth taking. Four gallons of water. A sewing kit. A first-aid kit. This book I’m writing in, which is supposed to be a lifeboat inspection log. That’s a laugh. Whoever heard of a lifeboat with no FOOD on it? The last report written in here is August 8, 1970. Oh, yes, two knives, one dull and one fairly sharp, one combination fork and spoon. I’ll use them when I eat my supper tonight. Roast rock. Ha-ha. Well, I did get my pencil sharpened.
When I get off this pile of guano-splattered rock, I’m going to sue the bloody hell out of Paradise Lines, Inc. That alone is worth living for. And I am going to live. I’m going to get out of this. Make no mistake about it. I am going to get out of this.
(later)
When I was making my inventory, I forgot one thing: two kilos of pure heroin, worth about $350,000, New York street value. Here it’s worth el zilcho. Sort of funny, isn’t it? Ha-ha!
January 28
Well, I’ve eaten-if you want to call that eating. There was a gull perched on one of the rocks at the center of the island. The rocks are all jumbled up into a kind of mini-mountain there-all covered with birdshit, too. I got a chunk of stone that just fitted into my hand and climbed up as close to it as I dared. It just stood there on its rock, watching me with its bright black eyes. I’m surprised that the rumbling of my stomach didn’t scare it off.
I threw the rock as hard as I could and hit it broadside. It let out a loud squawk and tried to fly away, but I’d broken its right wing. I scrambled up after it and it hopped away. I could see the blood trickling over its white feathers. The son of a bitch led me a merry chase; once, on the other side of the central rockpile, I got my foot caught in a hole between two rocks and nearly fractured my ankle.
It began to tire at last, and I finally caught it on the east side of the island. It was actually trying to get into the water and paddle away. I caught a handful of its tailfeathers and it turned around and pecked me. Then I had one hand around its feet. I got my other hand on its miserable neck and broke it. The sound gave me great satisfaction. Lunch is served, you know? Ha! Ha!
I carried it back to my “camp,” but even before I plucked and gutted it, I used iodine to swab the laceration its beak had made. Birds carry all sorts of germs, and the last thing I need now is an infection.
The operation on the gull went quite smoothly. I could not cook it, alas. Absolutely no vegetation or driftwood on the island and the boat has sunk. So I ate it raw. My stomach wanted to regurgitate it immediately. I sympathized but could not allow it. I counted backward until the nausea passed. It almost always works.
Can you imagine that bird, almost breaking my ankle and then pecking me? If I catch another one tomorrow, I’ll torture it. I let this one off too easily. Even as I write, I am able to glance down at its severed head on the sand. Its black eyes, even