Dan Fante’s story narrators are bullshitters—drunks who pass the time between sips telling expletive-filled tales of debauchery, drugs, and drinks: scamming detox programs and taxi fares, lying to lovers, issuing threats, raising cane, and so forth—the whole race-to-the-bottom scene. Like his father John’s friend, Charles Bukowski, Fante’s narrators are also closeted men of culture: articulate, well-read, having a sense of good taste but also a taste for self-destruction. (Fante, unlike his father and grandfather, eventually dried out for good.)
In Short Dog, these fictionalized exploits include encounters with a malicious doorman of a swanky hotel; a relationship with a woman whose on-again, off-again nature reflects when the narrator is in or out of detox programs; befriending addicts with a boa whose needs outweigh their own; rolling drunks and getting STDs; and so much more, living down-and-out in L.A. The stories make for fun reading, mainly because they’re read from a safely hygienic distance.