Mark Leyner and Disinclined Me by Edward Drobinski - HTML preview

Hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o, hell-o. No offense intended; just hampered by the required tiresome preliminaries.

“Finally! Let’s play.”

“Thought you’d never ask. What’s the game?”

“I’m the boss and I’m giving you a job you don’t want to do?”

“How about I’m the boss?”

“Either way. It’s in Paris.”

“Oh, either way.”

The scene is the office of the chief editor of the “Paris Review.” He is talking to or at me. I am one of his reviewers-interviewers. My name is Will. “Will, I want you to take a trip to the US and interview Mark Leyner.”

“Oh, no. What did I do wrong this time?”

“Not a thing. It’s mostly because you’re fluent in English.”

“Your standards must be low. I just lived there an unfortunate while. In all fairness, I was the one got stuck with Leyner last time.”

“Okay. Thing is that top brass is on my case to do some more American coverage. US subscribers must be complaining. It’s either Leyner or Rainbow Rowell. Take your pick.”

“Merde. Where’s the pick?”

“ .................... “

“Rowell in Peoria?”

“Yeah.”

“Leyner in Jersey City?”

“What else?”

“Couldn’t we meet in Manhattan? At least there are some good restaurants there.”

“Leyner gets intimidated there and clams up.”

“Okay, so what did he do this time? Another one about his mother and father?”

“Just mother this time.”

“ ......................... “

“It’s an improvement.”

“You know that I went to a lot of school to get here; and it really sucks to get stuck back there with that moron.”

“Well, I don’t mean to be rude, but frankly, if you were all that hot, you’d be the one being interviewed.”

“It’s just a matter of reconciling a few hundred pages of incorrect existentialist viewpoint with the incorrect viewpoint of ......”

“Awesome. Here’s the tickets. You can doodle on the plane.”

“Come on. Look. I’ll even volunteer to be the next one to get yelled at by Zadie Smith.”

“She not American.”

“Oh. With that big mouth? How about that indie Hackle guy? Did a good one a month ago.”

“Unreachable. He’s off somewhere seeking inspiration from illegal alien poops.”

“Genius. How about that other one. Can’t get the name. You know, the one who was bright enough to be embarrassed by the shit and changed his name.”

“He’s getting all serious now; and despite that will probably be talking about Leyner.”

“That’s SO meta.”

“Bitch. Look, Leyner is funny. It just doesn’t seem so in his books. But, if you read the down homey in conjunction with his pretentious interviews, he’s quite amusing.”

“Just tell me that he’s not doing the nutsack thing with his mother.”

“Honestly, I didn’t read much. But, you know he often talks about his knowledge of mythology, ......... and I guess it’s possible. But, again; you don’t need to read more than a few pages of the stupid book. Just list a few of the big words in the Wikipedia definition of post-modern literature; mention them to him, and he’ll just rattle on five pages worth. He’s gotten brave since DFW is not around to fuck him up.”

“Flying into LaGuardia?”

“Newark.”

“Damn. Got a bodyguard?”

“Christ man. Can’t you see how Americans love the Pigalle.”

“Pigalle’s been gentrified.”

“See the lady in the Paris dress with runners in her nylons.”

“Joni Mitchell, like circa 1972.”

“That’s it, end of conversation. Rowell or Leyner.”

“Newark, here I come.”

A few days later the scene is Journal Square, Jersey City, NJ, USA. For those of you not sufficiently privileged to be familiar, square is a misnomer in the mathematical sense. My briefcase is back in my left hand after a short switch to the right, necessitated by the cabbie’s insistence on being paid for the ride from Newark Airport. Seems relatively fair. I am right in front of “The Griddle,” where I am scheduled to be meeting Mark Leyner, to gather information I can make sound like an interview for my standardly inconsiderate employer at; “The Paris Review.”

For those of you not sufficiently privileged to be familiar, Mark writes books which get much more publicity than sales. For those of you not sufficiently privileged to be familiar, “The Griddle” is exactly that; a long standing establishment which burns the black lines into hamburgers, retails them, and mercifully also supplies indecipherable stuff in a plastic cup to ostensibly aid with swallowing. Admittedly, I might be out of date with that assessment, as I thought that I had escaped the environs of my birth twenty years prior. Gentrification is possible, but if Genny has been here, she’s been wearing a mask; no, an entire costume, replete with shiny red shoes. “Damn,” I thought. “Here I am again, despite prodigious efforts to watch ‘My Fair Lady’ infinite times, eventually able to decipher the jest. The discount stores which once lined the streets are gone the way of Walmart and Amazon; many replaced by governmental or quasi-governmental entities which charge to process ‘free’ government services; including not being overly scrutinizing in processing drivers’ licenses. The open bus depot is still in the middle and those waiting for one are still pissed.” Bad memories imposed and my mind wandered in a manner which seemed quite coherent to me. “Stupid, fucking professor only gave me a shitty C+. I suspect that he thought he was being insulting. How could he know that my motive was just to get the magical piece of paper; sufficient to get away from the greasy griddle, in order to be allowed the honor of paying more for the tiny veggie portions? Yes, to my unseen and unwanted audience; you’ve correctly gleaned that I’m lazy. However, for those of you not sufficiently privileged to be familiar, you may not have gleaned that I often consider that my proudest accomplishment. I digress. I do apologize for the momentary lack of concentration. One should always first do their job and to satisfy the bosses, while making it appear as if it were one’s fondest ambition. But coming back here has sparked some old memories and ......... never mind. Allow me to step out of this phony trap. This whole day is not about me. It’s about this jackass, writer guy, who is hopefully waiting inside in a booth. Yes, a booth. Unless they’ve re-decorated, ‘The Griddle’ fills their unheated, dark space with relatively small tables, surrounded by these ‘plushy’ seats which afford no discernable separation between the one to your left or right. I always sought an end seat in order to cut my chances of rubbing elbows with an asshole by 50%; the results debatable. In a frosted nutsack, it was an acquired taste of sorts, eventually made tolerable primarily through the relative comparison with the potentially cutting, hard swatches of leatherette or something which emanates from the dried out naugahyde or something cushions. Sorry. This day is supposed to be reserved for chronicling Leyner’s whine. Allow me to finish with an apology-excuse-reason-apology. I hope not ‘whine.’ I will merely note that I didn’t ask to be here. I didn’t like it when I was. If I could make it different I would have gladly done so. But, it’s no my job. .................. Well, yeah, I admitted worshipping laziness, but that’s really a bit of an apples and oranges thing with interchanging skins, and the hybrids ....... Ah, fuck me. It’s time to pretend to be enthralled by the ‘star’ with the big deal 7,000 sales.”

I simultaneously hated an unidentifiable something in myself which was capable of thinking that ........... for the eternity which approximated two palsied clicks of a digital clock. If it was easily discernable as jealousy, that would also make it easy to deal with. Basic stuff; only question; likely irrelevant or at least moot; whether natural or an acquired taste. I was reasonably certain that it was something else. In ‘evidence,’ there have been many long forgotten moments exploring the possibility that I was particularly cursed for not only not knowing the answer, but not even recognizing the question. In one form of a merciful diversion my lazy ass body and ‘can’t-think-and-chew-gum-at-the-same-time’ mind focused in the now. “Fuck, man; like I got a choice here. It’s like either pay attention or try to stick your head through the smudged, fortified glass on the door right in your face. Nuff said, I think,” I thought. “This is getting absurdly meta.” As I pushed on the horizontal handle, I touched the metal replete with the bar’s decorated-with-Homeland-Security-quality fingerprints, trying not to be repulsed by the lucrative farce, or a possibly imagined manual, reflective transparency married to a clandestine ooze, which came to light under my otherwise, previously free hand. Perhaps aroused by the foreplay, on the third push the door creaked open, drawing no scrutiny from those already entombed. Footnote: For those of you not sufficiently privileged to be familiar, it is the repulsion which is imaginary; the possible product of stupidly paying attention to and putting undeserved credence in foreign points of view. It quickly becomes quite pleasurable, making one reluctant to go all the way in, necessitating the letting go of the handle. As I have already stated; it’s not my fault as I didn’t design this, didn’t ask to be here ...... or something like that which at one time prompted my mother to say; “I hope that someday you get a kid just like you.” That may have been my first encounter with an ambiguity of substance. It seems safe to say that it would be somewhat of an improvement if the metal did not produce imperfect, waggish reflections.

I was in. The cashier was to my right, head down in the register, lazily attempting to check out some slicked back neanderthal with wifey in tow at his rear. The small “n” is late, but not coincidental, as he archaically used cash rather than a credit card, slowing down the line of one; out-voting multiples apparently a product of the eyes-to-the-floor, cashier’s, low and thereby pragmatic point of view, as she likely pretended to be inconvenienced while she fumbled in the open drawers of the register. Fuck the long ass shit; black bitch was playing; playing real for those who have been around the block. I wished that she took her eyes off the cash drawers and looked to me. But, the sight of her wheel-enhanced, seated, hiked-up, pantiless sincerity reminded me of the good old hirsute part of the bad old times. I was compelled to say: “Hey, babe,” and she was compelled to ignore that. Old times; yeah; we think we know. Back to some semblance of contemporary reality, I was somewhere along the line to have been unfairly condemned to be reluctantly aware that Leyner said that he had publicly changed his costume more times than I had; no great feat by any measure I could understand, other than a possible attempt at a possible throw-back to one of their ignorances of Fellini’s well known fifties grotesques; that seemingly accurate idea and resultant biased phrasing, in and of itself, consistent with a poor cover attempt at obscuration, likely to be taken as merely indicative of the writer’s personal predilection by the learned, in other words those closest to the writer alone; who thereby stupidly, comically, and tragically pursue some kind of acceptance, never to come; not knowing when it is time to quit and thereby be released. Key word back a block; in this case being “said.” Leyner was sufficiently brain dead to think that he had invented his own lonesome form of personal perception; totally unaware or fearfully crying while hidden that his ancestral brothers and sisters had long ago written that story; without copyrighting it, hoping that future men, as unobstructed as is legally permitted, in his perceived as increased level of understanding would someday soon be able to change it. Leyner was fixated only on the copywriting aspect and whether or not his mommy liked him. Cut him some slack; he’s only sixty. Modest as his goal was, he proved to be burdened with expectations he couldn’t come close to meeting. He uncontrollably cried when he thought that he had let them down. He then chastised them for asking much too much of him. He was kinged in overwhelming absentia. He was dethroned; often fantasizing the guillotine which apparently went out of fashion in eighteenth century France.

Was that me (Will) or Mark? .......... Who knows and who cares?

On the Square called Journal, I was once again in “The Griddle,” this time different in that I was now job compelled to find and talk to this asshole writer, rather than being allowed to do previous, pre-Paree strut. Who is “he” again immediately became the readers’ question. Their unstated answer was that “sloppy writing accidentally created an unnecessary issue,” prior to their chucking the book onto the griddle, or the e-version into the hellaciousness of cyber deletion.

Orders are indeed orders. I tried to get someone’s attention; inadequately and in hidden redundancy mentally improvising what I would say in the unlikely event that I did. Those operating the grill to my left were occupied with their dead flesh burning endeavors, drawing falsely considered meta inspiration from the blackening edges of “Et Tu Babe,” in a way complementing the efforts at the check-out line. What was probably a smiling rookie in a nondescript, one-size-fits-all, red cap, with the stretchy thing just above the back of the neck, balancing a half-eaten hamburger tray, the hamburger that is, to the naked eye, precariously over her head offered her assistance to my blank look; saying; “Can I get you a seat?” “Yes, please, maybe,” I replied trying to induce a laugh somewhere prior to step three. Unsure, I added; “Is there a Mark Leyner person here? He is expecting me.” For those of you not sufficiently privileged to be familiar with the dominant protocol, half disregard this as another example of a required, platitudinal deference to a mutually required, “politically correct,” perhaps conveniently unaware of the “in” part deference to that which deserves no particular deference and asks none in return; that reserved for old glass, she asked or said; “That skinny old guy nursing in booth four?”

“The nursing part seems consistent.”

“Huh?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, I guess. Go have a seat.”

I approached booth four, suddenly and in logical, irrational feeling intimidated by the stature of a very dim star, long ago burned out if ever lit, yet still confounding in its cold light, to those desperately addicted to the measuring instruments with “visions existent” in our best of scopes, black holes somewhat of a perplexing caveat. Simplicity stepped in through the two foot tall, red number 4; which magically appeared to magically hover above the booth. Only a godless sinner would mention that it was a crinkled piece of paper, presently the beneficiary of glue and a wall. ................. Ah, leave it. At least the handless clock wasn’t mentioned.

As I reluctantly ambled over the characterless linoleum which purportedly once had a color, I did my best not to slide on the current, greased manifestation of what was doing its utmost to impose itself on the soles of my shoes.

As I had previously been blessed with meeting as well as having seen reasonably current photos of the “funny” US almost-star, I recognized the puckered man seated in the booth sucking on the fat straw, despite his most recent change of appearance from a bearded-receding-greased-back to a clean-shaven-more receding-flyaway; the sucking aspect the telltale giveaway. “Mr. Leyner?” I said in a manner I intended to be taken as merely businesslike, not necessarily regulatory, nor overly solicitous, nor distastefully bored, nor ...... . Through my recent excursions into the depths of Goodreads on-line, minorly tolerant pronouncements, well supported by calculated, emotional, “cutting edge” ventures into proper feeling or more likely, the lack thereof, I had learned to pragmatically consider any overt statement to be the “unwise” and silly manifestation of that which is considered irrefutable Prince “Pop Life,” unfortunately or not, devoid of his beat. Still, farce that it was, it was kind of fun to do what the paltry income habitues could not while they tried to hide their lust for it.

“Mr. Penny?”

“Yes. Will, please.”

“Certainly. A hoss is a hoss, of course, of course, unless that hoss is the famous Mr. Will, a gifted, mercurial, oddly unpredictable and somewhat childlike man who is not ‘a good captain, which a great writer must be’ but might one day rise to the occasion if he had ‘the right material.’”

“Somehow I knew you’d say that, since I hadn’t heard it since sixth grade.”

“You’re just saying that in 20-20 hindsight.”

“May I sit, Mark?”

“Please.”

I sat at the end of the booth, the point most distant from Mark and tried to sound enthused when I said “Thank you,” not very different from the most perfunctory of requisite “good” manners. It wasn’t for my usually panned lack of perceived effort. It was for a negative inspiration reading on some yet-to-be-invented hi-tech product. Eyeing Mark’s quarter eaten burger, I seized the opportunity to divert the brainless one from his “amusing” assessments by saying; “I see you have gotten a head start.”

“The waitress will soon come.”

Within what seemed a second, this desirably hefty, black chick was leaning over, her cleavage my pleasant, unrequested, current focal point, saying what sounded like; “HiIyourwaitressmayleewelcumtothegriddle;” as she dropped the !2X12 plasticized card in front of me. My nostrils seemed to pick up the glorious, yet somehow sad scent of a fading Morningstar, a precious flower with colors exceeding that of the rainbow; also known as Sirius in the night sky; either that or an XM radio station put on some maps by Howard Stern. Somehow undefinably lost somewhere in the canyon, I smiled in a self-consciously obligatory fashion and without an intent to do so, was effective in pronouncing the safe sort of banality she had heard a hundred times daily and said; “I need a few minutes.” She said; “It’s all hamburger, baby. It just comes down to a matter of the lettuce, tomatoes, and ketchup.”

“Yeah, yeah, okay. I kind of see that after you said it. Bring me a big one with everything you got on it.”

“Anything to drink?”

“Sure. How about this large sized lemonade without the ice cubes?”

“Ummm. Yeah. Not supposed to say, but between us and the stop sign now out front, probably not a great idea, as two-thirds of it is the ice.”

“I don’t know. You tell me. If I let it sit long enough the ice melts; so either way is fine with me; just a matter of the immediacy of the potency of the golden.”

“You talkin’ dirty to me? I like my tips, but there’s a point at which .................. “ “Hey, hey. Don’t get yourself all worked up. Just want a hamburger and an un-diluted lemonade. What’s all the shit about?”

The person attached to the little “Lettie” placard, which was pinned on the thick polyester which three quarters covered her tits looked to Mark and asked if he was fine with his drink. For him this seemed a difficult question; he eventually ending the pregnant pause with a nod which could have been taken either way, which Lettie chose to interpret as a “Yes,” which freed her to relay my order to the cook and service other tables.

Out of her earshot, I said; “Jersey fuckin’ City.”

“I was born here.”

“Me too. Five miles away, and uh ....................... “

“Left, like everybody else.”

“I guess. I never kept tabs on the others. Everybody said they were leaving at age 16, but sayin’ ain’t doin’, you know.”

“All the way to Gay Paree, I take it.”

“Yeah, kind of. Words change their meanings regularly. Often, the crux depends on what year is one’s frame of reference. And I ain’t here to give out history lessons.”

“So what are you here for?”

“Gotta be a trick somewhere. But, I’ll pretend not to notice it and reply; ‘To interview big name, star writer Mark Leyner.’”

“ ....................... “

“Hey, nothing personal, Mark. I thought you opened some kind of door solicitous of not unreasonable compliments.”

“I don’t understand. Was that possibly the result of a mediocre French translation?”

“Testimony might suggest something in excess of mediocre; but to ‘impress’ you is probably the lowest priority on my personal list. See, as far as you’re concerned, in expectation of me playing the rational game, is the way it works is that you impress a deaf me and get a published interview which makes you sound interesting and worthy of seven or eight bucks, not considering the ‘come on’ gift card. What else is going on which I’ve missed or am pretending to have missed?”

“Unanswerable as structured. Try the gypsy mannequin, mind reader, if really interested. .................. Here comes Lettie. If you stuff your face with food, maybe something useful will go on here.” Lettie dropped it in front of me and the other within arm’s length of Mark. As was her standard, phony curtain, she said; “Eat up; it’s all good.” Just to be a prick with a lead-in, I said; “Yeah, yeah, okay. I kind of see that after it already happened. Bring me a big one with everything you got on it.”

“Anything to drink?”

“Sure. How about this large sized lemonade without the ice cubes?”

“Ummm. Yeah. Not supposed to say, but between us and the stop sign now out front, probably not a great idea, as two-thirds of it is the ice.”

“I don’t know. You tell me. If I let it sit long enough the ice melts; so either way is fine with me; just a matter of the immediacy of the potency of the golden.”

“You talkin’ dirty to me? I like my tips, but there’s a point at which .................. “ “Hey, hey. Don’t get yourself all worked up. Just want a hamburger and an un-diluted lemonade. What’s all the shit about?”

The person attached to the little “Lettie” placard, which was pinned on the thick polyester which three quarters covered her tits looked to Mark and asked if he was fine with his drink. For him this seemed a difficult question; he eventually ending the pregnant pause with a nod which could have been taken either way, which Lettie chose to interpret as a “Yes,” which freed her to relay my order to the cook and service other tables.

Out of her earshot, I said; “Jersey fuckin’ City.”

“I was born here.”

“Me too. Five miles away, and uh ................. So, I’ve kinda been there .......... or here ......... or whatever.“

“Know the feeling. Know the game.”

“ ******** “

“ ******** “

“ ******** “

“ ******** “

“Whose turn is it?”

Tray overhead in an apparent play for the audience, Lettie came back to our table and said; “One with all the trimmings and half a glass for the gentleman.” I said the expected; “Thank you.”

“And a refresh for the captain?”

“Yes, I’m almost dry.”

Lettie nodded and jiggled away as someone’s quarter activated Bachman-Turner Overdrive doing “Takin’ Care of Business,” making her ass move more than usual. When she was out of sight, I said; “Okay, if I take this thing off?”

“Yeah; whatever. I’ve heard it before. Catchy tune; wouldn’t you say?”

I pushed the button, succeeding in muting the sound at our booth; still mildly annoyed to be cognizant of the faint reverberations emanating from undisclosed spaces on all sides.

“Why do I detect a note of dissatisfaction?”

“Tuned to the wrong channel? Faulty ears? Absurd value judgements? The possibilities may be endless. You might do well to broach the subject the next time you’re in front of your, well used, full length mirror. In addition to having a natural aversion to the teaching profession, I also tend to ignore the headlines of ‘Psychology Today.’ Sorry. ......... Not really.” With her big ass irrationally in someone’s tow, Lettie snuck up on us, or we. I was not quite sure, simultaneously viewing that irrelevant consideration as just another manifestation of the played out genre, marching in the seemingly endless procession of totally unnecessary, Nyquil-effecting attempts at distraction; their numbers the only possible reason for any possible scientifically inclined consideration. She leaned over the table and put another glass of something tan colored in front of Mark; her nameplate as such minimally prominent, and in its eminent domain, brushing by my face on its or their way. “Thank you.”

“Thank you.”

“Enlighten me.”

“About anything in particular? I could answer that in a few ways. For now, suffice to say that you apparently copy DFW short stuff reasonably well. Obvious trick for you is to stay short. You can’t take him long. He’ll beat you short, too, but it’s not his home field, so he might be checking out the boundaries at first.”

“Tell me about it.”

“Saw the original Rose tape.”

“A fan I presume.”

“Of?”

“Thoughts.”

“The expected wipeout. Frankly it was kind of funny. When you start talking about your po-mo theories it belies the stuff in your books.”

“Ever hear of un-reliable narrator?”

“Hasn’t everyone? Good excuse for bad writing. Got some news for you. Po-mo merely means after modern. It’s a time measure; not a definition of or dissertation upon any particular type of style.”

“Thanks for the information. Been interviewed on many TV shows?”

“Not yet.”

“Look, I did my homework and read some of your interviews. You’re just a counter intuitive, contrarian with an over-weighted penchant to lean on nineteenth century naturalism, while conversely denying the detachment and scientific outlook. If I say apple you say orange and vice-versa. Real difficult stuff. Tactically, all I have to do is say the opposite of what I want and you take my side.”

“ ...................... “

“Well, what do you say to that?”

“Orange and vice-versa? ...... I’m waiting for the criticism part.”

“ .............. “

“Left out the outdated existentialist inconsistency.”

“I try so hard to be nice.”

“You also could have done a 180 on what is said of you, and charge me with being able to make people cry, but not being able to make them laugh, thereby displaying your fantastic grasp of the immediately obvious, conveniently ignoring the nuance of the long story you just are too dumb to get.”

“Have fun arguing with what you say I said and didn’t. I don’t bring out the big guns when playing with Little Leaguers.”

“Forgive me for not recognizing the Hudson County version of noblesse oblige. You might recall that I said I left here twenty years ago.”

“Left or was thrown out?”

“Duh. Doesn’t matter to an existentialist.”

“Just another discredited construct to hide behind.”

“For the benefit of those who haven’t touched them, the ‘grand’ obstacles are made of easily permeable, still wet, papier mache.”

“Frenchie.”

“By choice. Unlike you, I was never saddled with any restrictions regarding my place of birth. I’m not here to be a teacher. Fuck that. The bottom line is that I really don’t have any interest in reaching tiresome, predictable, and burdensome morons. ........ Look, this is getting as tedious as Lettie. I’m working for this French outfit which wants a few interviews with Americans. For some reason your name popped up; likely because you got some publicity from DFW essentially calling you an asshole. No, that’s too complimentary; a half asshole at best. So, I’m here to facilitate that. That’s fucking all. You’re here because you think some media coverage will help you sell that dragging mommy regurgitation. That’s fucking all. So, why don’t we just go through the motions and I’ll get the fuck out of here as soon as I can, printing something about your stupid po-mo ‘ideas.’ The tape is on. You often say that your work is contemporary, but you choose not to make an issue of the rapidly changing technology. Given your astute observations of other issues, there must be a good reason. Would you care to share that with our readers?”

“Technology is just a tool like any of the others. You can use it to more easily put in screws or you can use it to make a hole in your head. For me, it’s as interesting as writing about a hammer. I reluctantly did it in one of them, hoping not to sound like the clergy represented by Peter, Paul, and Mary; and if so, as a joke. Technology exists; always has; each generation thinking theirs the ultimate; the next to worship their own concoction. Kind of trite to detail in pedantics.”

“Screwdriver.”

“Essentially, the only question is the target; and that’s so easily interchangeable, I’d rather not specify just one, though it might be viewed by many in that manner.”

“What current authors do you admire?”

“Chris Rock. The nigger who apologized for not knowing that Obama wasn’t a nigger. ........ Going back a bit, Vonnegut and Bukowski. If the time were different, so would the answer follow suit.”

Feeling this was so far much too flat to be of any interest, excepting the gratuitous use of the faux inflammatory word ‘nigger,’ still effective in petit bourgeois US circles; in the interest of the ostensible article I had been assigned to produce, I took a cue from the well-established tradition of risk avoidance. I feigned smiley interest and linguistically led Mark into the vague bullshit he had directly and indirectly, claimed to revel in in other perfunctory interviews; a good bet for another publishable, perfunctory interview; business as usual; no more, no less; slippery puke on every subway staircase; avoided by the ones able to see the floor. For a second, I thought that he had to indeed avoid regurgitating the thought that the likely ploy seemed too well-played and detectable; but at the core the initial fake came conclusively back in the form of the realization that Mark was too much into himself to notice anything else; and the audience all too soon found it preferable to skim, even those not so naturally inclined, thereby unsuccessfully trying to miss any possible nuance or detail the page might have tried to dangerously convey; hoping not to necessitate a need for self-protection; the invariable result a pillow which requires frequent changing. The reader, trying to appear content to partially see and facially mock only that which she sees as a form of self-survival, that which was written in the big letters under the cheery picture, smiles for her audience of one; who returns the favor in a desperate and detected lie; unrevealed in words. Vaguery enhanced with now acceptable fuckery and unheralded bizanthropy mix with dictionary words as the post-Joycean routine. Professionally forgetting my complete disrespect for and disinterest in this man, I perfunctorily intoned; “The Mark Leyner character in this book, for the benefit of those of our readers not yet familiar, is a reference to yet another Mark Leyner named character, as is apparently now an automatic admission into the post-modern hall of unclear, imperfectly reflective infamy gleaned from the shaving mirror, and this one is said to be much more reflective, sensitive, and forthright than the Leyner displayed in his early ‘Et Tu, Babe’ and the up-until-now, midway offering of ‘The Tetherballs of Bougainville,’ which are sometimes regarded unjustly. Not to cop out to the commonly utilized straw man of easy retort, I must say that personally, I think of them as well-loved exercises in an exuberant youthful irony. I suspect that your now October dated clock sufficiently makes its presence known, invariably inducing a reflection or three. Your newest effort evokes Vonnegut in its ‘humorous’ depiction of a writer who virtually no one is interested in; in this case that one person his mother; as in Kurt’s ‘God Bless You, Mr. Rosewater.’ You have called this book autobiographical. Regarding or disregarding that, do you have the hope that ‘Gone with the Mind’ has a retroactive effect on the popular view of the Leyner of the earlier books?”

“I guess so, fabulist as I am. One of the things I especially like about this book and talking about it is that now, it seems as if it forces the readers to ask about the process of writing it and the ‘real’ Mark. It seems to be an efficient manner in which to surreptitiously suggest that there’s no such thing as a real me or a real you. We’re all engaged in manufacturing and selling an ongoing fabrication of ourselves, making or not making audiences out of one another; the subsequent derivations, at their best that which makes money for some producer and his underlying investors. In that context this ‘new’ book is just a rumination on what could possibly be going on below, seemingly ‘deconstructed’ for readers by a foreigner capitalizing on an old theory, now called a po-mo exercise. I suppose it was silly of me to expect that someone else would realize this, but when I wrote ‘Et Tu, Babe,’ I thought the persona was so obvious. The character in that book is a kind of antipodal representation of myself. It’s so hyperbolic as to be the inverse of me in every way; so honestly the opposite of who I am; and for that reason I felt that there was no irony to it. I even thought, at the time, that I was being so completely vivisected with candor about it. So to hear that this is some kind of postmodern irony, to me it was like Robert Lowell or Sylvia Plath telling you; ‘Really, everything?’ In the days of grand book tours, people would see me and invariably I could see them, sigh, and shrink in disappointment. I was this small, nice guy, and they were like; ‘Oh, that’s it?’”

“Is that indeed it or is ‘Gone With the Mind’ some sort of clarification, as you have sometimes said?”

“I saw ‘Et Tu, Babe’ as the most unsparing portrayal of someone little and insecure, of the little kid in Jersey City looking across the river at Manhattan and thinking; ‘I’m going to live and die here, and perhaps never make it.’ That author is a complete fantasy of the child from that socioeconomic milieu thinking; ‘That can never be me.’ Coming at it from that angle, it was strange when someone would see me on the PATH train and this happened a number of times. ‘You take the PATH?’ Like, you’re not choppered in or shot through a pneumatic tube or something? ...... Hmnnn. So that’s a beautifully empathic, insightful thing to ask me about. Will ‘Gone with the Mind’ have a retroactive effect? Yes, I hope. I think of it whenever I’m appearing somewhere to read from this book or that for these few people in the audience, think it good. They’ll all go back to the previous personae and see that there’s more, actually, to them. They’ll maybe be aware of the deep, mystical constant between us which will only be fully revealed when the messiah comes. Ever since I was a little boy, I've been trying to reconcile constructivist aesthetics and fascist metaphysics; lucidity and violence; and the endless implications of that dichotomy."

The rambling, indirect, self-congratulatory message induced a laughter in me not professionally contained; but perhaps as a deference to some obscure concept of clarity, not totally realized. Mark eyed me as he used the opportunity to chomp on his decorated, dead meat. Again fully contained, I said; “Three years ago you said you wanted to write about fascism; about the very real conception of Mussolini, if that is in its very parlance not a violation of po-mo rules; especially in consideration that Mussolini’s worldwide time prominence pre-dated what is the consensus beginning of po-mo. It is that essentially same consensus which suggests that plenty of fascism seeped into this hinted-at-to-be a final book, but it’s there obliquely. Is that a question?”

“I have a very longstanding fascination with fascism, with despots and demagogues. What is it like, I wonder, maneuvering each day and not trusting anyone? But I shudder when Trump is metaphorically compared to Mussolini. I feel bad on Mussolini’s behalf. Mussolini was an enormous intellectual, and spoke several languages. He wrote many, many, many, many things throughout his life, and had relationships with D’Annunzio and Marinetti. And then, come on, we’re talking about Trump?”

With some of his first still remaining, Mark’s unordered, next meal arrived and was presented to him by Lettie. It featured a hamburger with all and another hamburger which has to be comparatively described as one without the trimmings, accompanied by a tall glass containing a yellow liquid with some ice. It half approximated my last order; Mark not making any concurrently. Despite that, Mark smiled and said; “Thank you so much, that looks beautiful. What nice, neat looking things.”

My mind wandered back to Leyner’s disparagement of Trump. It seemed that his rhetoric made less of Trump’s lack of a philosophical viewpoint, while not recognizing that his own books are as much guilty of the charge. The attempted clown was criticizing someone else for sharing his traits. In the interest of conducting business, I professionally ignored his peeves and said; “You’ve set the book in a shopping mall, almost too memory-heavy a place for people my age, who grew up as malls were first showing signs of becoming a downtown with escalators and parked cars. Many of my formative experiences are knit up in these aspects of a runaway, efficient consumerism that, in an intellectual way, we’re supposed to revile in a perhaps contrarian sense. But there’s an emotion there, too. I have these immensely pleasurable memories of drowning myself in an upscale consumer culture at malls, and then a few years later they were filled with low end gift shops or were empty space; almost as empty as the cyber which replaced them. ‘Burnin’ Down the House I was Brought Up In’ or some such old song.”

“I have the same memories on a large scale, but over a longer period of time. When I was in high school, malls were relatively new. There were two pretty big ones near where I lived in New Jersey. At the time, they seemed to be thriving, if you can imagine this word being applicable, because malls are such moribund things now, symbols of American death culture; but then they seemed very futuristic. Like something out of The Jetsons. They brought all the stores into this one incredible space station, like a colony on an asteroid, and everything was filled with wonder. The ambient noise of the fountains, the smell of Mrs. What’s-her-name’s cookies wafting. There was a chain bookstore called Brentano’s, long folded, and there was one really nice one in this mall. My friend and I would get a ride from someone’s mom, and they’d drop us off at this Brentano’s and come back and pick us up, like, seven hours later. We would stay there, split up, and just look at books. For seven hours. And so, oddly, one of my enduring, abiding associations with malls is books. The mall is supposed to represent the citadel of totalitarian consumerism, and yet there I’d be, reading some Yeats. That was something that interested me. The main valence of the mall is this moribund quality, and I used that in this book. It’s the site of my own constant reappraising of what I’ve made of myself in life. And what better place to reappraise than a completely empty, dying mall?”

“Yes, I was always astonished at how the upscale glitz coincided with the mystical Indian jewelry until in later years I attended a Buddhist meeting at the home of multi-millionaires; which brought the ersatz dichotomy to a personal level rather than a corporate one. I suppose that to think that anything salable is not sold and absorbed by the marketplace, is indicative of a fundamental misunderstanding of DFW; common sense; or even Marx for that matter. Groucho. The novel opens with a forty page introduction from your mother, Muriel, ostensibly the coordinating director of the ‘Nonfiction at the Food Court Reading Series.’ Much later, we learn that her remarks are drawn ......... I’m sorry. I feel entirely ridiculous talking to you about things which are condemned to sound pretentiously high-brow coming from one with absurd titles and concepts inclusive of nutsacks and the implications of cunt aroma. Pardon me. We already have enough on tape for me to make an article which sounds sufficiently serious. Let’s just cut it as I’m finding it increasingly amusing in an annoying way to be talking to an author who speaks of concepts never directly broached in a bunch of self-centered books which were generally received at best as less than middle brow from all levels, despite the play for sad-ass nostalgia.”

“The part in my voice is painstakingly created to seem extemporaneous. Sometimes I’m giving clear signals that it’s not, because I’m using a certain kind of big word; say indexicality. I would pretend to search for that; the uh ...... uh ..... um ......... indexicality. I sat and thought, maybe I need another uh in there. It’s so easy to vitiate the effect of extemporaneousness. The tiniest thing can fuck it up and disrupt it, where then it seems very contrived in a way I didn’t want; and then at other times I did want to open the door a little on the contrivance. It was very tricky, doing everything I wanted in that register. I write sentence by sentence. I’ll write a sentence and then ....... “ I shut off the tape machine and said; “Mark, Mark, Mark. I’m really beyond my bullshit limit. Indexicality, my ass. That’s not even a word. I’ve had quite enough of this pretentiously whiney, mommy and daddy stuff. I’ve heard about all I can tolerate. There’s enough here already for me to turn out a good interview; after I fix up some of your misconceptions and contradictions. You keep talking about current literary theory and then supplement that with books with ninth grade jokes in them; maybe fifth. ‘The maestro says it’s Mozart, but it sounds like bubble gum.’”

“Leonard Cohen’s next line was; ‘And me, I’m up here waiting for the miracle to come.’ You know we’re both sitting here on the same seat and we both put on our pants the same way.”

“You’re sitting in the safe middle and I’m on this precarious edge. Allows me get out quicker. And regarding those pants of yours; do you put them on left foot first, right foot first, or both at the same time? Do you do it standing, sitting, or otherwise? ............... No. Don’t tell me. I don’t really want to know.”

“ ........... “

“Well?”

“You said you didn’t want to know.”

“Oh, so you admit that you follow my directives.”

“When convenient to me. And by the way; I can safely get out of here anytime I want using the exit you’re not blocking. Middle is as valid a safe choice as the edge, as no one knows where it is. Ever see any Lynch?”

“Yeah, and after a brief dalliance with money making, over-the-top, garishness for the US market, he settled into making things for French TV. So here again, Leyner tries to have it both ways. I don’t want to bust your Jersey City bubble, but for your own good, realize that even Franzen beat you there as well with the ‘regionalization’ concept and actually sold some books in the process.”

“Franzen’s not funny.”

“And you are? I seek the rebellion. Maybe when I get to your age I’ll settle for the lies.”

“I was doing this when I was younger than you.”

“My condolences.”

“ ******** “

“Worse, the ‘real’ Mark Leyner? Who really gives a shit who that is or isn’t? All this about you. One doesn’t multiply. It takes two. Even two negative numbers produce a positive one.”

“That always made no sense whatsoever to me.” I snickered while I said; “Honestly, me either. It’s just one of those things all the teachers say, and I find it useful to regurgitate once in a while.”

“Yeah, and that’s the crux of one of the perennial writer’s problems, you know. They ask you if you write what you want to or if you write what you think your audience wants to read. If you say that you write what you want it can be interpreted as not considering your audience at all. And if you say that you try to write what they want to see, the critics, as well as many readers, consider it drivel. The truth is somewhere in-between and probably changes from page to page, so I try to say that in the length required by the asshole unpublished interviewer using the big words they so love. Everybody must get stoned. One time I told some magazine guy the truth and said I was just trying to write a stand-up comedy routine. The lousy on-line rag, which by the way got the interview for free, included two very negative reviews in the same issue which carried the interview. Not one, but two.”

“Oh. So there’s a practical reason for saying one thing to one and another thing to the other.”

“That tape is off. Right?”

“Yeah.”

“I really didn’t think that I had to tell you this. You intimated that you understand both sides of the coin, and sometimes you do. But, damn. Didn’t you figure out by like age five, that you phrase it one way to your father, and another way to your mother?”

“I don’t remember. But, it doesn’t sound very likely.”

“ ..................... “

“You really like these dried out hamburgers?”

“No! ‘The Griddle’ is just a traditional thing around here; so nobody dares to knock it.”

“Got an idea. Why don’t we split, take the PATH into Manhattan, and eat at that five starred French place that’s been around a while, receiving almost unanimous rave reviews.”

“It’ll cost a week’s income. ..... Each.”

“No sweat. I wangled an unlimited expense account from my boss for taking this distasteful job.”

“Fucker.”

“Playin’ both sides; that’s all.”

“Okay, I got some tokens.”

“Good. And just to be clear and straight, you understand that I don’t think you’re all that funny. Cool?”

“Cool. And you understand that I don’t think you’re all that smart. Cool?”

“Cool. You know, I heard that Michael Pietsch goes to this place regularly. It’d be really funny if we got him talkin’ about how he fucked up DFW’s books on tape.”

“Man; you always lookin’ for trouble.”

“I don’t know. Important thing is that my wife thinks it finds me; so she always gotta protect me. Nowhumsayin, bro?”

“Hehehe. Gotta ask?”

Just a bit later the PATH train carrying Will and Mark to Manhattan made its regular stop at Pavonia. Mark said; “Gotta switch here. Come on before the doors close.”

I took his word and followed him out, but said; “What?”

“Like I said, gotta switch here. The route to Manhattan ain’t direct.”

“Oh, I get it. You’re metaphorically telling me that if and when we meet Pietsch I play your role and you play mine, out of the necessity of you, being traditionally published, not wanting to jeopardize your business situation, while for me being un-published have no downside if he gets insulted, because he doesn’t want to take a chance on offending ‘The Paris Review,’ and ........................ “

“What the fuck you talkin’ about? Pavonia is just the place where you physically have to change trains if you don’t wanna get to the dead end of the line in Hoboken.”

“I can’t help reading more into that. What is Pavonia anyway?”

“How many times do I have to tell ya. It’s the place where you switch trains, that’s all. I don’t know. A long time ago some architect must have fucked up the plans and shoved this thing here as some kind of adjustment. I mean, there are not even any stairs to take you to the street; and frankly I don’t even know what’s up there and don’t give a flyin’.”

“You keep saying things which make me think you’re intimating something else. Surely, you realize that.”

“Yeah. I’m just fuckin’ with ya on one level, but not the other. What I said about physical Pavonia was no lie. Here comes our train. Just get on the fuckin’ thing. ...... You know, you serious dickheads can be quite funny.”

We got on and stood holding onto the overhead straps, though we didn’t have to. Ninety percent of the car was empty. I said; “Hey Mark. I think you’ve been straight with me; and I’m feelin’ kind of guilty about one thing. You know, when I said that I didn’t know by age five to talk differently to my mother and father I was just taking advantage of the way you phrased it. I don’t think I knew at age five; maybe did; but am not sure until a little later. I was kind of figuring that to be an easy way to end our argument.”

“No problem. I figured that possibility.”

“Like hell you did.”

“You can never be sure.”

“Nor can you. But look. Here’s my thing. You got an AAA level agent and publisher. Pretty good; not quite major league. And it really ain’t the biggest shit in the world to me; but it’s currently more than what I got. I mean like my life is spent going to ugly places to interview dick-heads or dick-asses. No offense intended; present company excepted; and all that required sweetie cute shit. So, could you use your ‘influence’ to get them to take a look at my book. Won’t cost ya nuthin’. It’s about this imperfect existentialist guy reconciling his beliefs with the beliefs of this imperfect meta chick .................... “ “Awesome.”

“Fuck you Mark. Just plain fuck you right up the ass.”

“Like I said, you serious dick-heads often strike me as really quite funny. Makes me think you might be surreptitiously seeking the laughs.” Mark paid no attention to my following protestations as he approached a seated woman who didn’t seem to know or care where her tight skirt ended. Despite possible misinterpretations, sometimes I do know when to shut the fuck up.

I looked up at the ads posted over my head. The curvature where wall met the ceiling made the distinction between it and the wall indistinct. I read one which said;

“The Ten Commandments of Bizzaro”

1) No speak of Bizarro.

2) No edit Bizarro.

3) No straight face Bizarro.

4) No make fun Fats Melnick.

5) No delete or burn Bizarro.

6) No covet neighbor or his wife. Fucking neither, either or both is OK.

7) No write that Bizarro books suck big blue dicks. 8) No read non-Bizarro blasphemy. 9) No rate any Bizarro book less than four star and click every “like” button available. 10) No mention that Bizarro Planet is square; despite contrary photo evidence.

The above message has been written and paid for by “Penniless Predatory Palestinian Portland Perverts, PLC,” and is subject to change without notice. Copyright © 1998. We were in Manhattan! Mark shook off a “No” at each of the stops at Ninth, Fourteenth, and Twenty-third Streets. He either wanted to get as far uptown as possible or maximize his time with the tight skirt chick. Like a parochial school Catholic, I spent my time trying to memorize the commandments. “Thirty-third Street; last stop,” was called out through the scratchy screech of the intercom; mimicking the train’s brakes. We walked off, climbed the stairs and found ourselves on Broadway. The shopping area often improperly called “Herald Square” had street vendors with tables set up near the curbs selling everything cheaply, from obscure books to t-shirts to electronic gadgets that didn’t work. The sidewalks were as wide as the front of many suburban houses, and the people made use of every foot. There were no idlers. Everything moved or risked being trampled. The “legitimate” stores on the inside held all the wonders of the world for those with serious plastic; all the treasures one could want and carry out; delivery negotiable, highlighted by Macy’s flagship store, less than a block away. The bustling people were of every possible color, most speaking in their native tongues. What they had in common was that they all searched for bargains; and imparted “secret” information to those near concerning that.

After the distracting street level sights were checked out, we felt the cooling canyon effect of the skyscrapers. The sun had passed into the western sky, providing indirect light to some spots and not others. The double parked, eight lane, one-way road did better than the sidewalks in that respect. Mark said; “Want to see the Empire State Building? It’s just a block away.”

I answered; “My folks took me there a few times when I was little. Besides; if I look up I can see it from right here. If you want to see it; it’s okay with me.” Mark said; “Just checking.”

Perhaps re-calling my time in New York and nearby New Jersey, I forced a tight lipped facsimile sham smile. We were technically still on the fringe of Greely Square. The popular confusion stems from the common reference to the triangular park between West Thirty-Second and West Thirty-Third Streets being the Greely bounds. The small park contains trees, shrubbery, and iron fencing. It is used as a rest area for the tons of shoppers, a lunchroom for midtown office workers, and an occasional background for a film. Herald Square is north of that and between West Thirty-fourth and West Thirty-Fifth Streets. Its primary focal point is the huge clock with Minerva, the Goddess of Wisdom in Rome, with her owls; and Stuff and Guff. To further confuse things, this entire area and more is often referred to as the “Garment Center.”

We walked uptown. We stood side by side as much as possible; the human traffic periodically dictating a single file; their position the determinant of who got behind. Mixed in with the street merchants on Thirty-Eighth and Broadway was a thin, energetic or nervous, black man fumbling with three cards. He had an audience of five; two prominently holding onto their bent and crumpled Jacksons. The dealer and the shills kept calling out short, substantially indecipherable verses likely calculated to draw in players. It was “Three Card Monty.” The game is simple. In full view, the dealer moves around three face down cards on the table. Two are black and one is red. When he’s through the player puts his twenty or twenties on the one he thinks is red. If right the dealer pays him even money; if wrong the dealer adds to his stash. The dealer shows where the red one is after every shuffle; so the possibility of fraud seems less than that with a US presidential candidate; though paying even money on a one in three chance bodes well for long term considerations of the dealer. So the questions boil down to; “Do you think your eyes are quicker than his hands?” and “How greedy are you?” We slowed down, our eyes apparently on the prize. Mark said; “Ever play this before?” Will answered; “No. Only watched. You?”

“Same here.”

“Let’s watch a while.”

“ ........... “

Probably like all Three Card Monty watchers, we followed the dealer’s hands until they stopped; then mentally picked the card we thought red; sometimes uncertain and abstaining. It was actually disconcerting to us to sometimes be so sure; only to see that the red card was in a different location. Yet, we considered it an advantage to only play when sure; while the dealer had no choice but to be in for every hand.

Mark said; “Getting ‘em right?”

“Not too often.”

“Me, too. Sometimes I could swear that I picked the right one, and then he shows it elsewhere.” I said; “You referring to your agent?”

“That’s agents with an ‘s’ and yes.” Human traffic thinned out, and we turned right (east) on Thirty-Ninth Street. Mark led the way saying; “Let’s avoid Disneyland,” referring to renovated Times Square. “Where is this restaurant anyway?”

“I’ve got it written down. 60 East 65th Street, at the corner of Park. It’s called ‘Daniel’ and has been rated number one for about twenty years.”

“How about a cab?”

“No. I’d rather walk it. Might never be back again. Okay with you?”

“Yeah.”

“We can work up a big appetite for those fruits, vegetables, truffles, omelets, and soft, soft lamb. And you can tell me more about what it’s like to be a big name writer.”

“You starting again?”

“No, not at all. I just like to find out what it’s going to be like for me someday.”

“What’s it like to be a writer? Hmmnnn. ...... It’s a bit difficult for me to answer, primarily because I’ve never done anything else. I suspect it’s not very different from other jobs in many respects. You put in your time; the boss makes derogatory comments about it; and you don’t get enough money.”

“Then why bother?”

“That’s what I say. I think that some of us are just cursed.”

“Oh, come on. You’re just being fashionably despairing.”

“Well, a bit. But if the income from writing books was so great, I wouldn’t have stopped doing it to write for Hollywood.”

“ ........ “

“There are fun parts. When they send you out to do the book signings, you always get a few of these. ‘Hi, I’m Karen. But could you address it to my nerdy nephew, Roger? I don’t like your stuff at all, but I’ve gotta get the little nerd a birthday present. ........ I mean I don’t know if he likes you any better, but the thing is on sale.’ I really don’t mind and some of the commentaries provide me with material I can use. But, I was in a silly mood one time and I made it out to ‘Nerdy Nephew Roger.’ The woman saw it, and said; ‘You can’t write that,’ and I said; ‘That’s what you told me to do.’”

I laughed and said; “I think that someday I’m going to steal that one.”

“Might as well. Wallace already took plenty.”

“Wallace? Steal from you? Woo hoo. Let’s pretend we’re on earth for a while. Okay? How many fingers am I holding up?”

“I beat him to this absurdist thing. He was still in school when I broke the ground with ‘Et tu, Babe,’ doing the professor’s idea of po-mo. He later admitted being embarrassed by ‘The Broom of the System.’ When he did ‘Infinite Jest’ I got stuck being on TV with him and Franzen. He kept trying to start up with me by following me, very cutely saying; ‘I agree with Mark, ...... fifty percent. Ha ha ha. And he did it three times.”

“Mark, I saw that interview a few times. It’s now been cut up. But, I once saw the original. DFW got right in your face and you lost. Period. End of conversation.”

“I was too quiet. In retrospect, I should have engaged more. Up until then ‘literary’ talk shows were not places for contentious rhetoric. In fact that approach was considered a confession of being insufficiently erudite to handle things with subtle humorous wit .......”

“Well, you didn’t do that either. Jeez, ever see Nabakov?”

Mark put one open palm into my face and pushed. I took two unplanned steps to the side; remaining on my feet. I lowered my shoulder and charged back; Mark sidestepping and administering a one armed headlock. I made a fist and punched at Mark’s balls; but missed. Mark let go of my head and said; “Whoa, whoa, whoa. You wanna get us fuckin’ arrested?”

I looked around to see that we were getting an inordinate share of sidewalk attention; some appearing as if they wanted to see some action and some appearing horrified by its hint. I quickly reassessed and said; “Me? You started it.” I chuckled out; “This must look amusing. Two literary lightweights coming on like Mike Tyson.”

“Speak for yourself.”

“Don’t push your luck, granpa.”

“Thank you. I had ‘Et Tu, Babe’ out for a year before he even started ‘Infinite Jest.’”

“Ah, I think we made a circle here somewhere, and I don’t feel like going around twice.”

“Left on Fifth?”

“Yeah; more people than Park. Cut there at the last minute.”

It did prove to be more population sparse on Fifth Avenue than Broadway; the body count affording the average group ten feet of space between them and the next group. Specialty retail stores dominated the structures to their sides. Their glass windows each depicted a warped image of the passers-by. With a high degree of accuracy one could differentiate the habitués from the visitors by noting the fascination displayed over the fun house mirrors. An even more accurate method was just to see who was in the stores which sold designer labels on shoddy merchandise. The lead member of a group of three boys about sixteen, with loud Jersey accents and de riguer punk attire; leather jackets, chains, and hair-at-all-angles cut in front of us. He pointed at Mark and said; “You Mok Liner?” apparently not realizing that this was the last person you’d like to hear answer that question. Being accustomed to these brash intrusions and not wanting to blurt out excerpts from his next book, Mark nodded, smiled and said; “Yes. Are you one of my fans?” The kid looked back at his two friends and said; “See, I told yuz.” He then asked me; “You ennybody?”

I said; “No,” and made two sidesteps to get out of the direct line of fire.

The kid shook Mark’s hand in some weird way which seemed to approximate an effort to break a wrist. He said; “’Gone wit duh Mind!’ Gone wit duh mind? Gone wit duh fucking mind.”

Mark said; “Ed du, babe.”

Though it seemed a bit forced, the kid slapped his thighs and started laughing. He said; “You’re all right, man.” He gave Mark another wrist-breaker, and turned to his friends saying; “Let’s go.”

Mark called out; “Like it?”

The kid said; “Didn’t read it.”

I rejoined Mark and said; “Remind me not to become a celebrity.”

Mark said; “You’re handling that pretty well on your own. ...... That was an easy one. It’s when they start crying that it becomes difficult to deal with.” We approached the 42nd Street renovation. Mickey Mouse greeted us with a mechanical wave from ten stories above. Pedestrian traffic intensified. I said; “Crowds have one good point. You can get lost in them.”

“Do I detect a note of misanthropy?”

“Hell no. I love people. I just have a bit of philosophical difficulty in reconciling that with the fact that I feel so much better when none are around.”

“Bukowski said something like that and proceeded to contradict himself by going to bars.”

“Yes, precisely. You’d do well to take note of the word ‘bars.’ It’s plural. It seems reasonable to say that when he was at one sufficient time for the denizens to start getting overly familiar, he switched to another. Sounds like a confusion- contusion thing.” Mark’s eyes lit up when he spied a remnant of the old Times Square. He said; “Hey, they still have the sword and machete place.”

“Don’t tell me that they let Akira remain.”

“Grandfather laws, you know.”

“Got a machete? They have numerous uses.”

“Three; all gifts from admirers.” Near the corner of 44th we saw the old time replica signs in the windows of “Nathan’s Famous,” including a barber pole which ostensibly must have had some significance in the sense of scalping; as there were none present in the establishment who currently offered traditional tonsorial services.

I said; “I ate here a few times when I worked in the area. No exaggeration; they had the worst hot dogs I’ve ever had. There was like a quarter inch of hard crust on the exterior and an interior core which seemed un-cooked. They were topped with a string of semi-solid mustard which required a few seconds of saliva before swallowing. The ‘bun’ was something akin to re-heated toast and I got to enjoy the delicacy standing next to a clumsy old fart who had not changed his clothes for at least a week.”

“Shows you the value of branding.”

“The cattle do seem to universally partake. ............ Omigod, watch out! It’s a huge wave of people!” Mark calmly said; “Just keep walking with your head down. The groundswell shall part.” Somewhat uncomfortably, I took Mark’s advice and indeed, the next thing I knew was that we had passed through the throng and again were relatively free in a sparse 45th Street crowd.

I must have appeared incredulous, which prompted Mark to laugh and say; “When they think you’re not looking they get out of your way.”

“That’s faith.”

“Clear sailing now.”

We continued uptown encountering “Scribner’s” midway between 47th and 48th Streets. I said; “Years ago I worked in this area. I spent some lunch hours in the back room where they kept the obscure books. Sometimes I talked with Patti Smith, who used to work here before she became Patti Smith.”

“Omigod, we’re in for it. Wish it was Patti. Zadie Smith is headed our way and is looking right at us.”

“Where?”

Mark said; “I don’t want to point. The one in the black do-rag with the oversized earrings. Probably pissed that nobody likes ‘Swing Time.’”

“Oh boy! Hope she doesn’t remember that I interviewed her when ‘White Teeth’ was released.”

Zadie stopped in front of us and said; “Mr. Mark Leyner, if my memory serves. ......... And the interviewer. What brings you boys into the Big Apple?” Mark said; “Just the hope of seeing you, Zadie. And my prayers have been answered. And my friend’s name is Will.”

I genuflected and said; “The correct term is literary critic, Ms. Smith.”

Zadie said; “Duly noted. Write or read any good books lately?”

Mark said; “As a matter of fact, yes. ‘Swing Time’ was quite impressive as it almost showed emotion.” I said; “Pity, the reception. People just expect so much from their brightest lights.” Zadie said; “Mark and I do have something in common after all.”

Looking for trouble, I said; “What you do not have in common is that Mark actually met and went toe to toe with David Foster Wallace.”

Mark said; “Dammit, Will. Now she’s really going to get started. You just hafta .................. “ Predictably Zadie went up a few octaves saying; “What exactly are you saying?”

I said; “I’ve seen you go absolutely ballistic on TV claiming some special knowledge of DFW, while people who actually knew him were the other guests. I mean, are you clairvoyant or do you just want readers to think that you have some of his abilities?”

Mark hung his head, exhaled noticeably and said; “Zadie, my sincere apologies. Will thinks he’s being funny when ........ “

Zadie said; “Shut the fuck up, Mark. The fundamental concepts of great fiction do not change. Myopic technicians record the different garb and letters, without a clue to the Bronte on Austen take of real versus true. The artists merely depict with unfamiliar colors administered through new technologies. Wallace’s syntactically difficult sentences and invented words command your attention at a distracted time, in an attempt to break the rhythm which excludes thinking. Perhaps something like James a century prior, but the DFW age segued into a time in which everyone began to think that they knew everything. After all they would soon have the net to answer any question they might have in a matter of nanoseconds, and in a number of flavors. His biggest problem was how to then both recognize that for its ‘gains’ and then jokingly disparage it; much like the excesses of academe.” I said; “What?”

Zadie chose to ignore the question. She went on saying; “’NW,’ too, was about how to break the rhythm. You can easily see how this approach would be unpleasantly jarring to many readers; hence the polarized opinions. I’ve memorized the opening. ‘The fat sun stalls by the phone masts. Anti-climb paint turns sulphurous on school gates and lampposts. In Willisden people go barefoot, the streets turn European, there is mania for eating outside. She keeps to the shade. Redheaded. On the radio: I am the sole author of the dictionary that defines me. A good line ....... write it out on the back of a magazine. In a hammock, in the garden of a basement flat. Fenced in, on all sides.’ ‘Swing Time’ is a more everyday depiction of this process told through the eyes of friends on different paths. Where both books break from Wallace is essentially my insistence upon self-definition rather than putting any credence in the point of view emanating from outside myself. It’s really a kind of obligatory and necessary ‘fuck you’ to other considerations; though that thought is customarily couched in layers of contradictory and confusing rhetoric. ........... Thought you were going to flip me out I’ll bet. Don’t believe everything you see on TV once.”

I said; “As much as I like that opening, you gotta admit that it owes something to ‘The Pale King,’ and DFW.”

Zadie said; “Yeah, sure. Variance previously noted. If you have a debt, is there anyone better to be beholden to?”

I said; “No. Just a weird sense of humor on my part. Actually, I like what I’ve seen of your stuff. But, as you’ve said, it’s not a duplication of Wallace; though there is an overlap. Just thought I might be able to get a rant going.”

Zadie said; “I expected that. It’s easy for me to detect that now, as that is what many do after that one televised blow-up. Actually, a thoughtful disparaging comment helps me much more than a mindless accolade. Hear that, Mark?”

Mark was silent, perhaps because a response would require him to step outside himself. Zadie got her feet moving and said; “Ciao, guys. Write me a good review, Will. You got enough. Cool?” I said; “You got my word that I’ll try. Boss is on this American fixation. Cool, baby. Ciao.” Mark said; “What the fuck?”

I said; “I don’t know. You saw and heard it.” Mark said; “ ........ “

I said; “Just keep walking. I’m getting very, very hungry.”

 

We passed in front of St. Patrick’s Cathedral, situated th between 50 and 51 st Streets. The gothic revival structure which was finished in 1878 once was the tallest building in the immediate vicinity. Now larger, more modern structures abound in all directions; Rockefeller Plaza and its skating rink right across the street. Except in the mind of another failed Le Corbusier, none of them could compete with St. Patrick’s beautiful detailing. Upon crossing 53 rd traffic dropped to a trickle. Low volume, expensive specialty boutiques occupied the street level, with residential condos above. The other businesses in the area preferred to keep a low profile. There was a certain logic to that as the businesses were literary agencies, agents, advertising agencies and an errata of other clandestine quacks. I said; “I’ve rarely gotten this far uptown. Just 59th one time and only because Roberta insisted.”

“Hehe. Big fat Roberta?”

“Ummnn, yeah. Couldn’t be the same one, could it? And isn’t there some sort of socially acceptable euphemism for that?”

“I don’t know. The lady does get around some, re-living her West side youth. I like her. She just never met the right one, I guess. And, of course there’s a socially acceptable euphemism for everything now. This one’s BBW, big beautiful woman. Writers have to keep up on these matters of parlance. One slip can lose 75% of your buyers. I find it amusing that when you say big beautiful woman everybody thinks fat girl.”

“Yeah. Time for a Bierce update to stem the confusion. I just don’t get it. Too much a coincidence. In an area of 7,000,000 people we know the same Roberta? Just can’t be.”

Mark shrugged and said; “I don’t know. Does it matter?”

“I assume you’re speaking of Roberta and not making a general observation.”

“No. ............. Yes. ............ Maybe. .......... I’ll figure it out tomorrow, right after I find out who I am.”

“No, you won’t.”

“I was joking, but that’s impertinent.”

“No, it’s the heavy duty odds. You’ve been trying to figure out who you are for a couple of decades. The possibility of that happening tomorrow is like one in a trillion trillion billion.”

“Your concept of tomorrow is solely calendar based, I see.”

“Oh, no. Don’t get all poetic with me. You can’t have it both ways.”

“Sure I can. There are certain advantages to not knowing who you are or claiming such.” The concentration required of both parties attendant to this deep conversation rendered us oblivious to surrounding scenery. Most significantly, we missed “Tiffany’s” at the corner of 57th. We veered away from the island pedestrian hangout where the road widened on 59th, and walked up the side street toward the river, someone inventively named the East River. A mild zephyr had infiltrated the side street with a fragrance not easy to describe. Away from the majority of the fuming traffic-based distractions, a scent which seemed both rich and earthy, combined with a perhaps paradoxical inorganic property to pleasantly permeate the pathway. It had at least one further feature, which feasibly approximated the finesse of a fragile manifestation. While whatever is not a well-known whiff in most federations; it sort of becomes that when one is blessed with the experience. We remained silent, apparently overwhelmed. Nothing else had yet made us shut up for more than five seconds. We turned left on the misnomer of Park. The return to the proximity of a highly travelled eight lane road, and the safety glass which stretched the length of the block broke the bouquet and the ambience. The Mercedes dealership exhibited various advertising pitches. Those banners at the northern end stressed the attendant status and/or exclusivity of the product being hawked; while those at the southern end said things like; “Lease for just $199 per month.” Those in-between were likely first domiciled on the Tower of Babel; and really weren’t worth looking at.

At the corner of 60th Mark said; “Where did you say this place was?”

now. ....... Oh, oh, oh. You mean the restaurant. 60 th East 65 I said; “I don’t know. We’re off the trail of it Street, at the corner of Park. It’s called

‘Daniel.’”

“You gonna be all right?”

“No, I’m not GONNA be all right. I’m already all right. What the hell you talkin’ about?”

Mark held his hands like a stop sign and said; “Nuthin’.”

“You are so fucking weird sometimes.”

“You’re making a big shit over one word.”

“No, it’s a whole attitude.”

“You spend much time at the happy farm?”

“Just do me a favor. Don’t tell me about it. Just put some U’s on my report card like my fourth grade teacher used to do. Nobody gives a shit; not even my mother.” Mark said; “All right, all right. Didn’t mean to touch a raw nerve.”

I said; “Okay, I’m going to be intelligent for once in my life.” I pointed toward the river and in an urgent voice said; “Omigod, look at that monster.” When Mark looked away, I slapped him in the back of his head and ran down the street.

when he purposefully walked toward a now stationary me. th He said; “I haven’t seen shit like that since 9 Mark was frowning and looking at the concrete sidewalk grade;

and even then it was done by a retard.” I puckered my lips and made an exaggerated fart noise. It was not a previously unheard sound. It was just a matter of finding a sufficiently huge ass coupled with a mineable supply of gas. For some unknown and thereby anonymous reason the word “marriage” came to mind; likely as a counterpointing jest. I got a kick from the sound and kept doing it until I went dry.

Mark said; “In one sense I don’t mind. But in another, will you please be appropriately considerate as to refrain from embarrassing me? There are people in this area who know my face.”

“Big, big deal. Are we not? The overabundance of fans hang at the ledges to get a glimpse of their star. Scuse em wah. I didn’t realize that I was in the company of Kanye West. Tell me Kanye. Do you employ the same dermatologist Michael did?”

“Just plain fuck you. All right? That’s not a question. Ever since temper-tantrum-Zadie pretended to be friendly to you, you’re on this whole condensed Beatles trip. Get real, man. You ain’t them.”

“Aren’t you the least bit familiar with the concepts supposedly introduced to the post-industrial world through Borges, Derrida, and the many others of their ilk? That’s superimposing on me your own limitation, which is primarily based on a false construct currently convenient to YOU as a place to safely hide? The furtherance of any potential discussion requires a definition of terms, at the very least. And that is a kind statement as your indicated values are totally fucked up.”

“You made more sense while doing the fart noise.”

“Exactly, compadre. We are essentially the same; with a penchant to attempt humor through appearing contrary.”

“Don’t flatter yourself. I’m the star here.”

“In relative simplicity I am compelled to suspect the possibility of the safe introduction of a sarcastic viewpoint.”

“Where does that leave us?”

“Depends where you are in the multiverse. Otherwise it obliges the mindset limited to unicycles; which is only permitted to be delicately said; leading directly to farce and boring accusations of being anti-social.”

“You’re combatting me by taking my point of view.”

“So? All’s fair? No?”

“Morally or in practice?”

“Both, but I guess you don’t get the first aspect.”

“Is that intended as an insult?”

“Sometimes you can bore as well as a real estate agent or DFW. Look. I ain’t Cain and neither are you. The re-run channel ain’t yet picked up the option. And I hope the fuck that neither of us are Abel. You certainly don’t give off any such signs.”

In a display of either disgust, capitulation or both, Mark looked away from me and glowered at the dark canyon crafted by the gray, upscale skyscrapers; at the same time aware that they scraped nothing which had yet required the assistance of even the miniscule band aid designed for paper cuts. All they really did was block out the preponderance of the light. We were all talked out and just walked side by side, oblivious to all but the green and red corner lights.

immobile, tall structures provided nothing which could th grasp our attention. At the near corner of 65 The uniformity of the sidewalk and its resident, a

disheveled man was accommodated on a folded, blue blanket, playing jazz saxophone. Mark and I looked at each other and simultaneously said; “Giant Steps.” We each put a buck into the upturned hat and the seated man nodded in a brief, obligatory fashion; apparently more interested in the sax and whatever was behind his glazed eyes.

Mark said; “You like Coltrane?”

I said; “Not as much as Parker.”

Mark said; “I knew that.” We approached my chosen dining establishment, and Mark added; “If Pietsch is in there are you going to give him any crap?”

“Nah. It’s been a long day and I’m starting to feel tired.”

“Good.”

The overhang extended to the street, with the name “Daniel” simply stated. The faded, capitalized red letters sat in a row of grayish-white blocks, horizontally on the extension’s side, presumably both of them. The letters filled six of the eleven available spaces. The absence of natural light made it difficult to read from a distance in excess of twenty feet. Perhaps an after dark source of ersatz luminous radiance was provided for the benefit of newcomers. The absence of other noticeable advertising clandestinely suggested that either residential condos or a morgue occupied the abundant floors above Daniel; the distinction not sufficiently compelling for me or Mark to further inquire. The pristine neo-classical design subtly made itself known to those familiar with fashionably passé architectural styles. The boxwood bushes which lined the Daniel length at both sides of the footway were of an almost identical five and one half foot height, excepting two shorter arrivistes. Their seven inches of errant leaves in all directions indicated some sort of petty rebellion or an under-the-weather “landscaper,” the net effect typically French in American eyes.

Mark and I entered the single white front door, to be greeted by the chef, temporarily out of place. While his voice seemed a tad agitated he graciously led us to an open table and advised that our waitress would soon be with us. A contrast to the neo-classical exterior was too obvious to not note. The interior was rather nondescript. While most would have graciously called it modern or popular, light contemporary, those not so inclined may have used the words “Ikea affordable.” Our small square table was topped by an off-white embroidered, lace doily which had not been changed since the last pottage misfortune. The soiled treasure sat between two chairs reminiscent of the traditional, unstained Bentwood style, perhaps a modern deference to the Native Americans who cleaned up after closing. It was customary and thereby perfectly comfortable to the ass. A demure young woman, who spoke like an American college student brought the menus. Shortly after came the amuse bouche bite sized appetizers. I had the turkey and stuffing while Mark went for the venison, of course accompanied by wine; gauchely red. Refills dulled our palettes sufficiently to make the custard tart and chiboust éclair most enjoyable to the sense of texture.

Mouths remained occupied with the culinary necessities. Finally, refilled, refreshed, and precariously holding my fourth or fifth glass, I said; “You don’t see Pietsch, do you?”

“No; and I wouldn’t tell you if I did.”

“I won’t even say what you should know I think of that.”

“Can’t fucking behave at all, can you?”

“Nope.”

“You know, you don’t upset people like Pietsch. They just go back to their high income places and get their asses kissed. You’re just a stupid, inconsequential, jealous jackass to them.”

“That’s where you’re wrong, Mark. That’s exactly what they pretend to think and much too obviously go out of their way trying to show it. Deep down they know they’re pieces of clever shit, and it bothers them that someone doesn’t worship them. How many Greek and Roman potentates declared themselves a god?”

“So, you’re here to put them in their place?”

“When in proximity and when the mood strikes.”

“So, what does that change?”

“Probably nothing.”

“Then why?”

“Cause it’s fun. You of all people gotta ask that?”

“Guess you didn’t see the part after Goliath was slain. His bigger brother took over. The kingdom of David is a fantasy.”

“Christ. There are so many ways to answer that I’m not even going to bother. You titled something; ‘Gone With the Mind?’ You must have been joking.”

“I was and got some money for it.”

“Pietsch got more for doing nothing.”

“He does do something. He worries his ulcers into a frazzle over whether Amazon is going to put him out of a job.”

“Ha ha. Maybe I oughta give Pietsch a break here. Lessers of evil and all of that. Hey, you know; I’m feeling rejuvenated. How about you?”

“I’m fine.”

“We’re like two blocks away from the hottest new club in Manhattan. Let’s check it out.” We walked east on 65th toward the river, again picking up that pleasant scent. The basement store fronts of the three storied brownstones had their lights on just a bit ahead of the impending loss of the natural pale. Most were food stores there to accommodate the nearby residents; their wares ranging from organic, through ethnic specialties.

We turned the corner of Second Avenue and there it was. The purple lettered sign on the white background said that we had reached; “THE PROMISED LAND.” Mark and I approached the main door which was straddled by two burly sentries. Their 250 pound plus frames bedecked with leather and brushed denim silently indicated that they weren’t people who it would be wise to cross. In a voice which indicated a Bronx origin or pretense, the one which was ostensibly male politely said; “Would you mind waiting here one second?” the question mark absent. He huddled with his female partner; the two producing mumbles, evaluative backward frowns, a shrug and a nod.

He returned to Mark and me and said; “You’re Mark Leyner, aren’t you?”

Mark grimaced and nodded in the affirmative. The sentry kind of asked me; “And you are?”

Perfectly stationary and absent of any inflection which might indicate an emotion; I stared at him and said; “Nobody.”

The sentry kept staring a few seconds and I returned the favor. The doorman was apparently not used to dealing with anyone who did not attempt to spout their many “credentials” in an effort to satisfy an un-credentialed functionary. He finally said; “You can go in,” indicating Mark; “But, you can’t” indicating me. Mark said; “Hey, I’m not going in without my buddy. He’s a ............. “

I cut him off saying; “Mark, Mark, Mark. Listen. Don’t play this asshole’s game. It only makes the little shit happy and he’s just going to keep repeating ‘No’ anyway.”

“But, .............. “

“I again interrupted and said; “Fuck but.” I looked at my watch and added; “I’d only be able to stay a few minutes anyhow. I got a plane to catch and I’m going to have to get to the PATH and back to Newark Airport.” I embraced Mark, patted him on the back, and said; “Go get ‘em fucker,” and then I started my return journey. Mark hesitated and watched me, calling out a tentative “Bye.”

I kept moving and waved. I refrained from words, fearing that my voice would break.

THE END, WHATEVER