April 3, 1998 (Diary of Tim Scheft)

Read the introduction to the diary here.

April 3, 1998
Dear feeling's eater,

I don't know what to say anymore. I'm having the worst time with women. My mother won't stop with the baby talk. Just because my brother became sterile from excessive bull riding, doesn't give anyone the right to push for children. In all honesty I would love to give my mother a grandchild, but that isn't the problem. It's really the womens fault. What does a guy have to do to get noticed? Maybe I'll start boxing or something. (NOTE: call Clark about boxing trainer) It's just to tough for me to start anything new, let alone meet a nice girl.

Like today, for example, I was sitting in a subway car, on my way home from work and something caught my attention. After squinting, it became apparent that the shape was actually a woman. For some reason she was looking my way and was winking incessantly. I looked behind me to see if she was signaling someone in morse code, but there was just an add for safe sex "Don't wink unless you know the consequences." I looked back at her and pointed to myself and she nodded assuredly.

The subway car skidded to a stop and I exited the car only to notice the woman follow me out. I turned around and looked at her curiously.

"Can I help you?" I inquired.

"Who me?" she said in a playful manner. "You could help me with a lot of things."

I blacked out for a few seconds as I suddenly realized, this is how many erotic videos and audio tapes start. I took a deep breath and examined her. She was wearing a business type light red blouse, with a black skirt and shiny heels.

"I'm sorry, I don't know what I can help you with." I stuttered.
"It's OK sweetie." she said as she took my hand.
I became like a child as we walked up the subway stairs to the street. Who was this woman taking my hand? The last time a woman took my hand I was spanked and put in time out.
It started to get dark out, but I felt safe with her. She saw my eyes light up when I looked at the cart selling snow cones and she stopped to buy me one.
"What kind do you want?" she asked.
"Blue." I responded. God I love blue flavored snow cones.
"That's my favorite to." she smiled as she said it. I almost fell to the ground, but thank god she caught me. We continued to walk, until we got to a hotel. She invited me to her room and I agreed on the condition that I could use the bathroom first. I hadn't gone since lunch.
Her room was nice, especially her bathroom. She said it was all done by a modern designer, Claubert. When I got out of the bathroom, I found her sitting on the bed, taking off her heels. I sat on a chair near the window, which I'm pretty sure was a desk, and took off my shoes, remembering what my mom says about shoes on the carpet "Patty Hearst wore shoes on the carpet and you know what happened to her."
We started to talk and she continued to undress. It became really awkward and at one point she was just in her pantyhose and hair clip. She just lunged at me in the chair and we had sex. It was amazing. I'm pretty sure I satisfied her, because when I asked her if I did, she said, "I'm pretty sure." We laid there, on the chair, her naked and me in just my overcoat, just taking in the modern decor. I wondered if Claubert had made love in his room and if he knew his chair/desk was the perfect place for two people to have sex and then organize their files. He probably did.
She got up and started dressing again. I asked her why she had sex with me.
"Because, I wanted to." she replied calmly.
I was happy and excited, since I thought we'd pretty much spend the rest of our lives together. I asked her what her name was. "What ever you want it to be, darling" she said.
I thought to myself, "Wow, she really is a catch. She just wants to please me."
I walked up to her and tried to kiss her, but she suddenly got cold. She asked what I was doing, and I said I was trying to kiss her. She said she didn't do that and was wondering when she was going to get paid.
That's when I realized she was a prostitute. Apparently my mother found her on a site, where she was listed as a "friendly companion who's willing to go all the way". When I later told my mother about it, she said she thought it meant to go all the way to the alter and that's what she told her. Lola, as I later found out her name, did give me the Tuesday special which was sex in a Claubert designed room (or "The Alter" as they called it).
I was a little paranoid when I finally got home. Partly because I didn't have the $400 on me that she required for her services and because their was a knife stuck in my front door with a note attached that said "$400 or your nuts. You decide."
I guess I'll have to go to the bank tomorrow. Ah women.

The Diary of Tim Scheft

Introduction to "The Diary of Tim Scheft" by Meseret Haddis:

How many of you keep a diary? Captain's Log? Journal? Memoir? I personally don't keep a diary, because the thought of reliving my day on paper is nauseating. But I have found it a common occurrence of people finding writings or things of the sort, in the trash, or in coffins and then posting them on the internet, or showing them to their friends. It's a odd thing finding something that wasn't meant for your eyes or wasn't of very much value to the original person. It's less illegal than voyeurism, but still as thrilling.

This here is the diary of Tim Scheft. Let me tell you the story of how I happened upon the diary. One day, I was walking on Mercer street, in lower Manhattan, admiring the noises of an Armenian man yelling at Dutch tourists for not understanding that they aren't the only people walking the sidewalk. Walking along the street, I saw a small little grassy area, which is amazing to find in Manhattan. For people who move to a city that has so much concrete per square mile than almost any other city, they sure love there small grassy patches. Lying in them, reading Kafka, silently judging people as they walk by. 

Walking by I noticed a park bench, but what was under it really grabbed my attention. From my distance I couldn't asses the hand sized item. Being a citizen of America and especially a citizen of New York, I adhered to the common practices of civilized humans. Before approaching said item, I called the police and the bomb squad to be safe. I saw something, now I must say something about it. After they cornered off three blocks, putting traffic into a deadlock, they decreed the suspicious item not harmful. After a steep fine the started to pack up there things. Apparently it's a new policy, where if the police are tipped, and the bomb squad finds nothing dangerous, the person that tips the police off is actually fined for the inconvenience. So I proceeded to pick up the item, which was this diary of Tim Scheft. I began reading his diary, partly because I couldn't find him (he wasn't listed) and I had recently burned all my books. Little piece of advice: Don't sign up for a book burning, without contacting your attorney first.

January 20, 2001 (Diary of Tim Scheft)

Read the introduction to the diary here.

January 20, 2001
Dear book of thoughts,


As days go, this was a fairly good day. Unlike most people I celebrated Martin Luther King day today. Others like to take the day for-granted, by sleeping in and tipping black waiters extra. No I got up early this morning and boarded the C train. Or the F train. I've lived in NYC since Carter was president and I still don't know the subway configurations. I'm such a dunce.

I boarded the train and went north to Harlem. The place of choice where white people decide to go, when they wish to never be seen again. As I left the subway station, I marveled at how efficient muggings had become. They have now streamlined it to the point where there is no interaction. There is just a sign with a basket below it that reads "Please place all wallets, purses and all valuables in the basket below. Thank you for your cooperation. -Management".

I left the subway station and then embarked on my day of honoring MLK. After acquiring a cardboard piece and a two by four, I began to march down 120th St. next to Marcus Garvey Memorial Park. I began to get into the spirt of the march and began to chant "Down with white america.", which I later recanted when I saw Bill Clinton jogging by. Deciding to keep it funky, I walked to the opposite side of the park and found a procession of marchers, led by none other, Al Sharpton. I of course smiled at his hair (as I always do) and decided to join the procession. I was immediately thrown a few glances of curiosity. One man even approached me and asked to see my NAACP card, which is a requirement for an Al Sharpton march. I had my card revoked in the early 90's, which was a part of the NAACP's effort to retaliate against the Rodney King trials.

I became increasingly paranoid after awhile, partly because I was being followed by a few large black men in bow ties and black rimmed glasses. I wasn't sure if they were Republicans or if they were part of a made for TV movie about Elijah Mohammed.

It was quite the spectacle. I listened to speeches from Mr. Sharpton, Eugene Levy, Chaka Kahn, and the highlight, Donald Trump. Trump gave a heartfelt speech that would even rival MLK's march on Washington speech. I only say that, because...well he said it did. I also got to learn a dance which I think the kids call the Harlem Shuffle. You can never underestimate the learning of a new dance and it's affect on the community.

Eventually it started to get late in the day and I hadn't walked my dog yet, so I decided to make a break for it. It's almost impossible to leave a march in progress. Understandably not everyone can follow a march until the end, but for those who leave it, they are often ostracized or manhandled like the late Johnny Schakelman. He left a march for breast cancer (supposedly to go watch TV) and a group of angry women accosted him the next day and gave him breast cancer, which oddly I found out, isn't a contagious disease.

I learned a lot that day. Mainly that if a man puts his hand in his pocket and motions you to get in his van, be sure to get his license plates and his dental records (if available). And if you have a dream, make sure it's when you're sleeping because people might use it out of context.