Steven Eggleton's Blog: Pater's Potpourri

Anyone who knows me, knows that I am not easily shocked. But even I must admit, Hurbert Selby Jr.’s Last Exit to Brooklyn is like Bukowski on acid. More often than not, when writers try to tackle the unsavory aspects of the human condition, it comes off as cheap and affected. It takes a true wordsmith to nimbly navigate the putrid waters that can inhabit the human soul, Selby is one such writer. With the blunt frankness of a six o’clock news cast, he shines light on topics that make the average person squirm.
I can honestly say, I found many of the stories that make up Last Exit to Brooklyn, truly disturbing and haunting. They’re the kind that repeatedly replay in your mind whether you wish them to or not. Selby’s world is virtual Island of Dr. Moreau, cold place inhabited by characters devoid of any redeeming quality, where only the strongest survive. These pimps, perverts, addicts, and mad men are both perpetrators and victims, all at once. This is man at his utmost baseness. Prepare to observe an indifferent carnage, the likes of which, I have only witnessed in nature documentaries. Squeamish beware, Selby’s Last Exit to Brooklyn is a detour through Hell.

I think every writer would ultimately admit, that out of all the books they’ve read, there was one that stood above the rest. One that lit a fire in their belly and ignited a passion for writing. For me that book was, The Road to Los Angeles.
I was in my early twenties and living in this tiny apartment that was perpetually infested with ants and leaked when it rained. I was depressed, trying to write, and reading all the Bukowski I could get my hands on. I was looking for something, but I didn’t know what. Like most people my age I was trying to find my place in the world.
At any rate, it wasn't long before I had read everything Bukowski had ever wrote. I felt lost. After being steeped in the world of “the dirty old-man”, how could one be expected to go back to reading the Bronte sisters or Melville? I just couldn’t do it. Everything else was like sand in my mouth. In an attempt to sate my hunger, I went back and poured through all of Bukowski again, and decided I would read all of the writers he had mentioned in his books, his heroes. Perhaps they would provide the fix that I needed to slowly wing me from the intense grip of “the poet laureate of skid row”.
Sadly it wasn’t the case. I read them all: Celine, Hamsun, Saroyan, Li Po (and while all excellent in their own right); none of them packed the punch that Bukowski did. Finally, at my wits end, I came to John Fante –The Road to Los Angeles, specifically.
It was like striking gold in the desert! Here was this crazy little book written in the 30’s screaming at me through time and space, and daring me not to relate. Like Bukowski, the language was simple and fresh. Yet Fante had a poetry to his language which Bukowski lacked. His words carried a warmth and love I never felt in Bukowski or any other writer for that matter. The pain was mixed with humor, making you want to laugh and cry all at the same time.
In Arturo Bandini, I found a fellow brother in arms. A smart aleck who covered up his low self-esteem with a veneer of biting sarcasm. A lonely intellect forged through late-night erudition. A lost soul struggling to find his way. In short, a madman.
Like I had Bukowski, before him, I would soon consume all the Fante I could find. Dissecting and studying his style like an eager student, I mimicked him like an ape. And though all of his books should be considered national treasures, none of them are as dear to me as the first one I read –The Road to Los Angeles. A book full of insanity, character, and most importantly –love.

“Pop, this is ridiculous! You’re too old to be taking a fight. Especially on such short notice. This is suicide. What do you got to gain?”

“I’ve been fighting since before you were born. So don’t tell me about fighting. I’ve been on my own since I was a kid. You ever hear of El Gato Negro?”

Only about a hundred times since the age of 5.

“He was the best fighter in all of Zacatecas. Mean. And a cheater. I found out years later he loaded his hand wraps with plaster. We fought ten rounds. He broke three of my ribs in the fourth. It was a slugfest. My trainer wanted to call it. But I refused. In the tenth I came out and landed a devastating over-hand right when Gato threw a haymaker that barely missed. I laid him out cold. And you know what I did it for? I’ll tell you! A plate of beans and a couple of tortillas. It was never about what I stood to gain. A fighter, fights!”

“Pop, you’re a liar. Nobody goes through all of that for a plate of beans.”

He slugged the heavy bag.

“Ok, plus 500 pesos! You know how much that was, in those days? Five dollars. And I sent half of that to my Tia Carmine in Naco.”

It was pointless arguing with him. He was a stubborn as ever. He would never listen to reason. My only option was to pray he came to his senses.

I watch the cat walk
down the hall as
my young daughter
chases him

smile

the smell of
cinnamon rolls
in the kitchen

What’s that
I’m saying?

poets
are
pretentious.

I know writers tend to romanticize the past, but it’s only because it was truly better. Even with a broken heart it’s better. And I had a big hole in mine. A girl had put it there. A big fist sized hole that wept mud.

The magical thing about your first love is, you think it will never end. Its innocent and naïve. But then it’s gone, and a terrible pain runs in to fill that void.

It was 1998 and I was 21 years old. I had been living with this girl for about a year. We weren’t married, or anything. We had only been playing house. She was a sweet girl, not without faults, but a sweet girl. I was an angry young man. Pompous, tortured and mean. And one day she had enough. She left.

There is something strange about being dumped. It never feels good. Even if the relationship has run its course. Even if you were thinking about leaving her. No one wants to be the dumpee. It’s always better to be the dumper. It’s ego really. It’s just too hard to believe that someone isn’t as obsessed with us, as we are. It hurts to find out you aren’t the center of the universe.

Time stretches after a heartbreak. The days slow to a crawl. There are never enough distractions to keep your mind occupied. It’s you and the sadness. Day after day. “Good morning heartache, what’s new?”

Nighttime is the worst, though. There is always hope when the sun is shining, but with the night comes bleakness. The voices outside your door carry. Noises become amplified. You hear people laughing in the hallway. Everyone appears to have people coming and going, visitors. Not you though. Suddenly everyone you know is busy. Friends have no time for the broken hearted. The gloomy make bad companions. You struggle to keep your dignity, while begging for an invitation whenever you don’t want to spending an evening alone. This is the life of a bachelor. The loneliness crawls on you, whispers in your ear, until you can stand no more.

Just when you’ve almost decided to retire to the sofa for the evening, the restlessness grips you. You become fidgety and on edge. You can’t relax. Instantly you find yourself springing to your feet, grabbing your coat, running your fingers through your hair, and bounding into the cool night air. You start to feel good again. The twinkling lights. The wind in your face. The sudden walk. Maybe you’re almost over you ex. You’ll probably meet someone new, really soon. That checkout girl at the video store always seems to smile at you. And they are still open for another hour. Yep, this solitude is coming to an end! You have options. There is a tiny flame being stoked deep inside you --hope. The promise of a new day. Until “two lovers entwined pass you by, and heaven knows your miserable now.”

~

Every Tuesday, the video store down the street had a deal. You could rent 5 movies, for 5 days, for 5 dollars. For a poor bachelor like me, this was a God send. At the very least I could spend an hour in the video store looking for the 5 perfect films. That’s one hour down, twenty-four more to go.

I spent most of my time in the foreign/arthouse section of the store. Afterall, I was an artist at heart, and I seriously believed the art you consumed was in direct correlation to your intellect.

I’d fill my arms with the films of Jim Jarmusch, Akira Kurosawa, Jean-Luc Godard, and Hal Hartley. I’d carry my selection to the front register and lay my choices before the girl at the counter, so she could bask in my worldly tastes. She was a pale skinned “alternative” girl, with heavy black eye makeup, piercing green eyes, and a nose ring. Emo, but pretty.

I was a conventional looking fellow. I wasn’t cutting edge, but I was an ardent fan of The Cure and The Smiths. I wasn’t a square. I found their melancholy lyrics right in-line with the disposition of my heart. I was tortured and full of sorrow. Seriously, you’d have to search far and wide to find a sadder boy than me. A relationship wasn’t out of the question. After all, opposites attract. This girl and I could have a very meaningful relationship. I mean, stranger things have happened. And there was this tattoo I was considering getting. That is, I was toying with the notion, anyway. A skull with glowing blue eyes. Real edgy.

She looked down at my pile of movies.

“You have interesting taste in movies. Bande a’ part, I’ve never even heard of this,” she said

“Yes, Godard! He’s quite brilliant. French New Wave and all.”

“Oh, do you know French?” she asked.

“I’m brushing up, actually. I’m planning a trip to Paris in the spring. I intend to visit the Sorbonne.”

The voice inside my head was screaming: Shut up Vincente, you idiot! You desperate fake!

She raised her eyebrows. I continued on.

“I plan on starting my novel while I’m there. You know, the whole expatriate thing. Hemingway. Gertrude Stein. Have you ever read, For Whom the Bell Tolls?” I asked.

She kept ringing me up.

“The Unbelievable Truth, I love this movie,” she said.

“Yeah, very existential. Hal Hartley has had a humongous influence on my writing.”

A spark of joy erupted in me. I was scoring points. She came to the last movie in the pile.

“Bloodsport?” she asked. I could see the disdain all over her face. “This movie is disgusting. I hate violence.”

I didn’t know what to say. I loved Blood sport! Ninjitsu. Secret tournament. What wasn’t to like? Frank Dux was the kind of guy you would be proud to call your brother.

“I concur! It’s terrible. Cliché. Chauvinistic. I’m merely viewing it for a treatise I’m writing
on gratuitous violence in film. This movie is one of the top offenders.”

She slid my selection across the counter, repulsed.

I tried to salvage some of my dignity.

“Well, I best be going,” I stammered. “My girlfriend should be getting home from work soon. She had a big shoot today. Being a model and all, you know.”

I hurried to the exit and struggled to pull the door open, never realizing, it was the kind you
push. The dang thing wouldn’t budge. I gave it a good yank. The stack of movies slipped from my arms and slid across the floor like snakes, scattering in every direction. I could feel the counter girl’s contempt burning into the back of my skull. I was a worm. A liar. The lowest of the low.

I bent down to pick up the movies and felt my pants split in the seat. Things had evolved into a sitcom. It was the Three Stooges, only I was alone. Suddenly my butt felt cold. Was the whole world against me? After what seemed like an eternity, I realized I had to push the door to open it . I backed out, tripping over my feet and catching myself.

As I made my way outside and hurried to my car, the cool air slapped me in the face. My embarrassment was unbearable. I was burning with self-loathing. Even the moon seemed to look down and laugh at me.

There was some guy sitting in the parking lot with the engine running. He was wearing eyeliner and had a ring in his lip. He was waiting for the counter girl. He had definitely never read, For Whom the Bell Tolls. He was a boob. I’m sure he smoked clove cigarettes. Probably couldn’t even spell expatriate.

I crawled into my car and threw the movies in the seat next to me. What was I doing? I was pathetic. I thought about what had just happened with the counter girl. I didn’t care. She was beneath me, anyway. She wasn’t pretty. She wasn’t pretty at all. I didn’t find her even remotely attractive. Things were going to start looking up. I had a lot going for me.

I put the keys in the ignition and turned the engine over. Thankfully the car started. I made my way back over the hill to my small apartment. It was October and unusually cold. The streetlights glowed down a warm yellow light. Before I knew it, it would be December.