novel excerpt

What follows is a short excerpt from the novel I've been working on.


Club 88. Elephant Smeat decided he wanted it, even though it was an abandoned, rundown piece of crap. But he didn't care what it looked like, or even if it made any money. Dr. Bernhard Schultz, Professor Emeritus of German Studies at the university, had named it for the year he himself had bought and opened it. Achtundachtzig, as he would say. He had envisioned it to be an authentic reproduction of a Biergarten in Munich. But he was never able to achieve that ideal, as even on its best days, it looked like nothing more than just another nondescript hovel.

During its heyday, if such could be said of it, Dr. Schultz would pounce on unsuspecting patrons as they walked through the door, welcoming them into his place with a spray of native German saliva directed into their faces: “Wilkommen zum Club Achtundachtzig!”. The few returning customers would learn to sneak in through the side door. Barely two years later he had already gone out of business. The fact that he was able to keep it afloat for even that long was a miracle.

Being unoccupied for another two years did nothing to improve its appearance, as one of the local gangs had seen fit to bust out the windows and tag the hell out of it. And the inside looked even worse: trash strewn all over the place, broken furniture, more graffiti and a smell that El could not identify. Even the rats and cockroaches wanted nothing to do with it. If Eurystheus had been able to add Club 88's renovation to his list., Hercules would've shit himself. But El never had a second thought; it suited him just fine.

He decided he would keep the name. When he heard the number 88, the first thing that popped into his head was the 88 mm anti-aircraft gun used by the Germans during WWII, a piece of history that was near and dear to El's little heart. He even had one mounted atop his warehouse hidden deep in the woods in Bastrop county . He thought about moving it to the top of the bar, to give it a little class. But that would draw too much attention to the place. That would not do.

He had often fantasized using it (he kept it in fine working condition) if the rapture ever came, and it was raining angels. A crooked smile would wrap around his cigar as he imagined himself shooting down as many of the winged bastards as he could before they dragged his sorry ass to hell—provided he could get to it in time. And provided that angels actually existed…or a heaven and a hell…or a god, for that matter, which El seriously doubted. It was difficult to believe in an all-powerful, ever-loving supreme being when you had seen and done the things Elephant Smeat had. But, still, just in case.

He knew he didn’t know the first thing about running a bar. But it couldn’t be that hard, he thought. He had run across enough bar owners in his dealings over the years, and not a single one of them could be considered a mental giant. Besides, he knew he would have to hire someone to run it for him anyways, as he wouldn’t be spending that much time there, what with all of his runs down to Mexico.

The closing was scheduled for Monday morning, May 11, 1992, at 9:00 am, usually much too early for El. But Dr. Schultz had insisted on it, claiming he would not be able to accommodate a later time, as he had a plane to catch that day to his beloved Deutschland, “und vuld not be beck vor zum time.” He really seemed anxious to get through it as quickly as possible, and after the last signature was recorded, his short, fat legs propelled him like a bullet out the door and into a waiting taxi.

Once El was the official owner of Club 88, his first order of business was to place a call to Chango, the leader of the local gang who El identified the tags with. He had barely hung up the phone, before the nervous gangbangers showed up to repair and repaint the place. He told them he didn’t care what color they painted it, and left to go back to his apartment and crawled back into bed.

dirty old man

Now, this time say it with me, but with a British accent: “Yuh a duhty olde mahn, bubba. Wot a filthy olde buggah, you ah!” There, now don't you feel better? I know I do. Now back to bidness.

Well. I’ve gone and made some major changes to the novel. I cut out almost half the original characters—suckers have been dropping like flies. I realized there was quite a bit of redundancy, with two or three characters carrying the weight which one could easily heft, making them much too one-dimensional. This allowed (required) me to tighten up the storyline(s), so it’s starting to look much more manageable.

But. However more manageable it has become, one thing I have noticed is that all of a sudden there seems to be quite a bit of sex going on. Where the hell did that come from? Everybody is shtupping everybody else! It's rally quite disgusting, you know. What I had intended to be a serious story is turning into erotic literature. Ah, who am I kidding? Can I in all seriousness attach the moniker “literature” to what I write? Not this piece of hackish trash. Maybe it would work as a screenplay for a porno? Do porno’s even have screenplays? And why all the sex? Hmmmm? A lackanooky at home driving this?

Oh, and what was that about intending it to be a serious story? Me, serious? I can't open my mouth without cracking a joke, or making a wisecrack. Haven't my wife and daughter pointed this out to me umpteen times? “Can't you be serious about anything? Why does everything have to be a joke to you?!” So. They're right, of course. And of course, of course...A horse is a horse, of course, of course, And no one can talk to a horse of course. That is, of course, unless the horse is the famous Mister Ed. So of course, I never intended it to be serious. Of course not.

But there is humor, and then there is humour. So humor me for a second while I cogitate on what type of humour my novel might exhibit.

The other day, well, it was yesterday, actually, I was listening to something on youtube on my phone on the way home. What was I listening to, you ask? Why the song from Blazing Saddles, you know the one, the one Madeline Kahn sings on stage, “I'm Tired.” And why was I listening to it? Well, my boss mentioned he was tired, and used a line from that song (he loves quoting from Blazing Saddles, but then again, who doesn't,) and I realized I hadn't heard it in a while, so I found it on youtube, and enjoyed it on the way home. And then I remembered that Madeline was in another of my favorite movies, “Young Frankenstein.” And then I started thinking about my book, which I spend most of my waking hours thinking about. And I thought to myself, if I am truly myself with this thing, and write it how it would amuse me, wouldn't it be along the lines of a Mel Brooks film? I don't know, I'm just riffing out loud, you know? Mainly the Scotch talking. But when 16 yo Lagavulin talks, shouldn't one listen?

Interesting little side note: I wanted Mena (one of my major characters) to stay with a family in my little German town, and have the husband be the Burgermeister (please forgive the missing umlaut) there. When I looked the town up in wikipedia, just to make sure it actually has a Burgermeister (because, you know, my knowledge of how local German government works is woefully thin,) I was surprised to see that the current one’s last name is the Germanized version of my own Polish name! How weird is that? Is that a sign I’m on the right track? I’m not superstitious, not in the least, but when things like that happen...

Happy Blahday

Another birthday. Another year older. I remember birthdays as a kid were so exciting. It wasn't so much the gifts, it was more about just having a special day all to yourself. Your one day a year you could call your own. May 12th. That date used to have such meaning. Such power. Now it's just another day. But the power I always associated with that date never completely went away. There's still a slight residue there, a niggling feeling something special should happen. But it never does anymore.

I had taken the day off from work, to spend it at my daughter's school. Today was their track and field day. She was very excited, and I was excited for her. She means everything to me. But it was rained out. We needed the rain, no doubt about that. But it meant I spent the day accomplishing nothing.

But I have had some time to think. And I have resolved to myself that before I see another birthday, I will have finished writing my book. Goddammit, I have to accomplish something in my life! Because if I don't, what was the point of it? I don't want to look back on a string of wasted years. Wasted years of dreaming of doing something, instead of just doing it.

When I was a kid, all I thought about was being a writer. I figured that by 35, I would have at least one good thick novel out. Now, 35 seems like a lifetime ago. And aside from a handful of poems published in some small publications, I have nothing to show for it. I need to focus all of my attention on my writing.

Up to now, I've just been tinkering around with it, working on the outline, trying to flesh out some characters, but haven't done much real writing. It's like I keep finding excuses not to write it:

• I haven't found my voice.
• I haven't completely figured out the storyline.
• What should the narrative structure be?
• The characters are still too ambiguous.
  
• I really don't know what the fuck I'm doing.

When what I really need to do is just write--and not give a shit what it looks like.

scribble scribble scribble

So, the story goes something like this. After finishing his first volume of the Decline, Edward Gibbon gives the Duke of Gloucester a copy of it. When he finishes the second volume, and presents him with a copy of that one as well, the duke replies "Another damned, thick, square book! Always scribble, scribble, scribble, eh, Mr. Gibbon?!"

And why am I sharing this? Well, aside from still deluding myself into thinking I'm actually going to finish that work one day--but dammit I will! I just keep getting distracted. It's not that I can't get into it. Hell, Gibbon's prose is a delight to read. No, it's that damned Oliphant Smeaton! Why did I have to get the Modern Library version, with that little sniveling twerp editing it? And having to endure him putting his own annoying, footnotes into it? And right alongside Gibbon's footnotes! You cannot choose to ignore the footnotes, because Gibbon puts some of his best lines in them. But you never know "whose" footnote you will accessing when you go to one. And when you go to one, and then find it is just Smeaton taking a jab at Gibbon (Gibbon was mistaken on this point....Gibbon errs here...), it's annoying as hell! The little bug! I've got to find another copy of it, there's just no getting around it.

Okay, where was I? Ah yes, it's not about the book, but about the duke's snide remark. And how I so wished that could be applied to me. I have such a hard time trying to keep at my writing. I'll have stretches where I get going pretty well, but all too soon, nothing.

The best time for me to write is in the mornings. Early morning. But the latest little ploy I have found is telling myself I should really be using that time to go to the gym. And I really do need to lose some weight, you know. And when else am I going to do it? But do I actually go to the gym? No, I end up doing neither. Result: still fat and no words.

But at least I think I know why I keep defeating myself. As long as I just fantasize about it, I can be the most brilliant and sought-after writer on the planet. My prose is so creative and groundbreaking, everyone who opens one of my books is amazed at my skills. And how many interviews have I done in my head? So many that Terry Gross and I have become good friends, and periodically meet for drinks. Cosmopolitans. I bet she drinks cosmopolitans.

The hard truth I am presented with, is when I actually sit down and start to write, all of those flowing lines aren't there. In my fantasy world, I'm a wonderful writer. In the real world, I'm just a hack.