Meeting David Adams Richards

I haven’t met many notable writers. In fact, I’ve met only one. Even then, it wasn’t so much a ‘meeting’ as it was an ‘alienating.’ I have a knack for that sort of thing. Why discriminate based on fame or notability? That’s what I say. Of course, I didn’t say a blessed thing upon meeting Mr. David Adams Richards: one of the finest living writers in the English language. And probably other languages too. But that’s not the point.

The point is, I met David Adams Richards at a book-signing a couple of years ago and behaved in a manner befitting an asshole. I was living in Miramichi that summer and got word he was appearing at a local bookstore to sign copies of his then latest novel, The Friends of Meager Fortune. I had yet to read it and decided to drop by after work to pick up a copy and maybe chew the fat with the man himself. It didn’t quite turn out that way. You see, I can be a rather awkward young man in most social situations.

I froze. Solid.

There he was, sitting at a table chatting pleasantly with an elderly lady who had probably known him since childhood, had probably been his neighbour. His surrogate mother. She had probably mended his clothes and cleaned his skinned knees with peroxide. Fed him too, with what little she had. Sidemeat. Potaters. Boiled pork bone broth. Giving – always giving, only to fall prey to the bottle after the mill closed, her husband left and the little boy next door moved away. Now she spent her days and her pension on scratch tickets and cooking sherry, with her lone solace, her sole oasis of clarity: the anticipation of a new novel by the boy she had cared for all those years ago. That same boy who had grown into the man who now sat facing her, smiling warmly beneath her gaze of approval.

But here I come, destroyer of worlds in ill-fitting shorts and ugly sandals.

The bookstore was empty save the table’s occupants and the clerk, busying herself with godknowswhat behind the counter where another man leaned casually, nursing a mug of coffee. I made my way down the aisle, trying to look interested in a book on display in the comedy section so as not to appear too aggressive. It was too late. He had already seen me, ambling aimlessly along like a tranquilized chicken with its head cut off. We met eyes. The lady turned around to acknowledge me, cut her conversation short, shook his hand and rose slowly from her chair, making her way past me with a smile and a nod.

I sat down.

And there I was, face to face with a man whose words have often left me inspired, awed and, well, terribly depressed to be honest, but in a good way. Right? I was near panic, but showed a steely calm. What do I say? What do I do? Do I ask him cliched bullshit about inspiration and integrity? God no. Should I mention that I write too? No, that would be ridiculous. He probably gets that all the time from every Moleskin-toting jackass on the block. Besides, what have I written? A lot of crap. Has any of it been published? Well, no, of course not. So I said nothing and sat like a bump on a log, a barnacle on the arse of time grinning like a halfwit with my hands on my knees, wringing the fabric of my shorts as though they were my only lifeline back to the place from whence I came. A place where I had never met David Adams Richards. A place where I had slightly more than average confidence in my ability to function as a generally normal human being.

I feigned a smile.

He didn’t smile back. He stared a hole through the back of my skull then gestured at a pile of novels to his left.

“You want one?”

Of course I want one. I need something to show for this spectacle of quiet suffering.

“Uh, yeah. Yes. Please.”

He plucked one from the top of the stack and opened it. Still, I said nothing. Small talk? Not happening. What do I say? What do I do? Nothing. He’s waiting. What was he waiting for?

“Your name?”

Of course, my name!

“Uh, Kirk. Kirk Williams.”

Shit. I should have used a fake name. Shit, I should have used a fake me.

He scribbled something, closed the novel firmly and pushed it across the table at me and sat back in his chair looking expectant and, possibly, confrontational. That’s what I quickly told myself, silent the while, sitting there like some ignorant d-bag. This guy hates me. I interrupted his maternal bonding session and for what? This. That’s what. I put the chase to his pseudo-mom only to sit here, stealing oxygen. And still, he stares. Why is he staring? Probably because I’m sitting across from him. Why can’t there be more people? A lineup, like a mass or holy communion: here’s your autograph, you’re a good egg, now off you go. An assembly line of cursive gratification. Thank god I didn’t say that out loud. All I manage is

“Thanks.”

And up I got. I wandered to the counter, nodded pleasantly to the clerk and browsed the high-end chocolates. Then I proceeded to engage the man with the coffee in a spirited fifteen minute, multi-topic, free ranging philosophical discussion on everything from potatoes to toe jam. All the while, no one else came in. David Adams Richards sat alone at his table looking confused and maybe a bit pissed off. After a couple of minutes, he got up, gathered his belongings and said his goodbyes to both the clerk and the man with the coffee.

I stood on, grinning like an idiot. He’s leaving. You’ve just met one of your favorite writers and you’ve acted atrociously. Now is the time to make amends. Say something. Say “I read your book, you magnificent son of a bitch!” and hope he gets the reference. Say, “Sorry for being such a miserable wretch.” Say anything.

But no.

There I stood, stock still and mute, slack-jawed grin firmly in place as he approached, meeting my eyes briefly then looking away with what I imagined to be a look of utter contempt. He walked past me as though I was not there and how I wished for the ground beneath to give way and swallow me whole.

How Many MC’s?

‘How many MC’s must get dissed

before somebody says don’t <beep> with Chris?’

- KRS-One

Chris likes hip-hop. Chris loves hip-hop. He quotes the above passage, uncredited, twenty times a day. Like a verbal tic. Like some pathological mission statement. Until recently, most evenings would find the lad down the pub, busting his rhymes — well, his rhyme — to a less than appreciative crowd since, after all, knowledge reigns supreme over nearly everyone, with the emphasis on ‘nearly’ swaying personified in that of our dimwitted hero.

Too drunk to stand, he takes the mic. Rather, he tries to take the mic — every five minutes of every Wednesday night hip-hop extravaganza peopled mostly with university students too young to have ever heard Big Daddy Kane and people looking to have sex with university students too young to have ever heard Big Daddy Kane. Chris would count himself among the latter, although his rhyme scheme would lead one to believe that his preference for sexual partner would probably have to have a child or, at the very least, be with child.

Here he goes.

‘How many MC’s must get dissssed!?
before sumbuddy says dohn fuck wit Chrissss?
don’t fuck wit Chris motherfucker!
Leave you with a black eye motherfucker!
I’m a bad motherfucker, motherfucker!’

And so on, until he either falls off or gets dragged off stage, pitched unceremoniously to the wet floor fairly shining with broken glass and bodily fluids, his patterned hoodie soiled with the sheer joy of it all. He loves his hoodie. It makes him look like a meth dealer or a half-assed mall skater/snowboarder. Whatever, man. It’s his ‘fit. He wears it with pride. Ignorant pride. Suburban, WASP pride. The pride bestowed upon the idle and shiftless by well-heeled, well-intentioned but ultimately inept parentage. The sort of pride that gets one such as Chris through his twenties with little more to show for his ‘efforts’ than a string of misdemeanors, a couple of OD’s and a hangover that will last for the rest of life. But he’s got one hell of a home-remedy.

His folks love him.

‘He’s a good kid.’

He only beats his woman when he’s drunk, after all. Hell, he even held the same job for two whole years one time. Good kid, that. And he doesn’t smoke crack, just blows the occasional rail. If we can keep him away from serious trouble, we can reward all his hard work with a business of his very own. A retail operation of some kind, bankrolled with our savings. Until then maybe we can ship him off out West where there’s enough easy work and soft-ish drugs to keep him occupied for the next few years. The difficult years. Hell, times are tough. Right? Honey? Times are tough for kids these days. Our Chris, he’s a champ. He’s the best.

He’s not a rapist. He just likes rough sex. He’s not a loser, he just plays the wrong games. Hell, times are tough. It’s tough being an upper middle-class Caucasian. He’ll come around. God, I hope he does. We spent enough money on hockey gear and road trips and video games and sneakers and clothes and booze and cops and judges and lawyers and food. He owes us. The little fucker.

He owes us.

But still, he grabs that mic. Still, he spits those lyrics on a Wednesday night. Still, he beat a bitch ass when she get outta line. And he drinks and he yells and he bitches and he whines. He freaks it. Grabs the mic and cold tweaks it. Son. So you know you better run, cause when Chris is on the mic motherfuckers get done. And you know it. But still you can’t show it. He grabs that motherfucker and he stone cold owns it. Motherfucker. And if you got beef, you can go ahead and grind it, form it to a patty in a pan and cold fry it.

Bitch.

And I’m a get mad pissed,
but how many MC’s must get dissed?

Ownership

I own a home. I can wreck the walls, I can fuck the paint
up. I can do whatever I want and not give a single shit
about what a landlord has to say and who has to pay
because I know it will be me or my wife or future wife.

And I don’t care.

I do not care. If my roof leaks I will deal with the mold.
I will deal with the fallout without picking up the phone.
I will pretend as though my life has changed for the
better without ample reason outside a mortgage.

And I don’t care.

But maybe I should. Maybe being thirty one years old does
matter. Maybe debt is the determining factor between
something and nothing. Maybe credit is God and bad
credit the Devil. Maybe my guitar will stay in tune.

But I don’t care.

And it’s cold. And it’s windy. And it’s lame. It is all these
things and more. I read it in a flyer and I heard it at the
family reunion and I bought a pile of shit at the store.
It was half-price, fifty percent off and two for one.

But I don’t care.

Do you?

Naked East

The folks at Naked East, a blog dedicated to New Brunswick writing and culture, have been kind enough to publish one of my stories, ‘Our Game’ — so check them out!

Harper’s Last Stand

 

 

A sweater vest, a sweater vest!

My kingdom for a sweater vest!

O friends, o friends! Of all people,

how could this happen to me?

My bold-faced hubris has left me stark,

exposed and tied to a tree.

 

But fret not friends, fret not on this day!

I can raise your dander, if not your pay!

Get out and march and rally round the flag,

then we’ll crush the unions and beat up on “the gays”.

 

And I’ll be there with my well-fed friends

to cheer you on your way,

to speak the truth and preach the word

and tell you what to say!

Because the words we chant have power

when the meaning’s stripped away,

so pick up the phone and breath through your nose

and hold forth with no delay:

 

“Is this, uh… communist cuba north or a free democracy!?”

Do It For The Children

Sit down, sit down. And how are you today? Great, that’s just great. Wonderful, even. Have a good weekend? Super, just super. Now, I just wanted to have a word with you about the management program you’ve shown interest in and maybe gauge where you’re at developmentally-speaking. We both know you’re a good worker, but there’s much more than hard work involved when it comes to management and I think you know what I’m talking about. Yes, two words.

Volunteer work.

Volunteering is a very important part of the culture here at SoulDestroyingMultinationalCorp, as you well know. We feel that taking an interest in the community is more than just a nice thing to do; here at SDMC, we see volunteering as a responsibility, a vital component of our brand image — an image, I might add, that has been polished to a high lustre by hundreds – no, millions – of hours of volunteer service by management and underli – er, teammates alike.

Now, you have made it well apparent through your work ethic that you are both a go-getter and a self-starter, a team player who values hard work, even harder currency, and knows how to kiss just the right amount of ass so as not to come off as an outright ass kisser. In other words, you, my friend, are management material. The only problem is, I do not see much volunteer history on your resume. No, sorry — serving coffee at union meetings does not count. In fact, doing anything union-related actually counts as negative volunteer hours, so you had best pipe down while you’re still ahead.

You see — and this is just between you and me — no one here actually gives a shit about the people on the receiving end of our bankable volunteer hours. I mean hey, look at me, I might donate flavour crystals and old floppy disks to the local English as a Second Language school but I’ve never lost any sleep over starving Africans. I mean really, Africa isn’t even a real country, is it? Certainly not. Sure, they might have a flag and an anthem, but… well, do they? I really don’t know — No no, don’t answer me; that was a rhetorical question. Anyways, where was I?

Right, volunteering. 

Volunteering sends a message. What message is that? No — stop trying to answer me. Do you want to be part of the management team or not? The message volunteering sends is this: “I am willing to work a few extra hours here and there without expectation of monetary compensation.” This is the most important message one can send if one wishes to be considered for the management team. Now, wait just a minute now – you wipe that smug look off your face. You think you’re better than me? I’ve given twenty years of my life — the best twenty years of my life, to this company. How long have you been here? A year and a half. Indeed! I bet you don’t even have a drinking problem yet. In fact, I’d be willing to bet you have a happy home life, a wife who loves you and children that don’t cringe at the mere mention of your name. Ha, I’m right, aren’t I? I bet you can even remember every moment from last weekend, no – every weekend from the past five years! I bet you’ve never even drank a quart of rum in five gulps and blacked out on the sofa for twelve hours when you were supposed to be watching your kids. Huh? Not so smug now, are you? Ha.

Now get back to your pod. I’m disappointed, but I’m not going to let you ruin my day. I just bought some new plexiglass polish for my twenty-year service cube and I want to try it out before I have to go to the airport. Yeah, that’s right: I’m volunteering tonight. The assistant VP of upper eastnorthwestern regional marketing and logistics, beta division – no, not like the VCR – is coming in for a sales-lead powwow and I get to pick him up, maybe grab a bite to eat, few drinks and, if it goes as well as last time, maybe squeeze in a massage later on. I’m getting quite good, you know. Upper management says I have the hands of a much younger man. I credit the booze. It’s a preservative, you know.

And once and for all, wipe that goddam smug look off your face!

Novel Writing Month

I realize that my posting habits have always tended toward the sporadic, but as of late I haven’t really done much of anything with this place. An excuse for November, though: I’m going to (try to) write a novel or, to be more precise, a chunk of novel-length prose that I will proclaim to be a novel. I figure I need to hammer out two thousand words a day which means I really need to shed my usual hangups, not worry about much of anything and just let that shit flow. In homage to Kerouac, I’m writing the whole thing as one long text file in Notepad, horrendous formatting and all, in an updated version of ‘the scroll.’ It will most likely end up being little more than an embarassment, but what the hell. Right? So, I doubt I’ll be posting much of anything here for the next month or so. So to my three or four faithful readers: sorry. To everyone else: don’t worry, I won’t be taking the picture of ‘dogs playing poker’ down any time soon. It’s reponsible for 90% of the hits this place gets. It’s my cash cow. Rather, my poverty cow. Or, more accurately, my working-poor, no savings, debt-laden cow.

Customer Support

The font of stupidity overflows,

soaking the worn floor of common sense 

as even the most mentally surefooted

slip and slide like greased pigs in a pen.

 

Ineptitude overwhelms. 

“What does that mean?”

Nothing, nothing at all.

“What do you mean?”

It’s well apparent, my dear;

 

Well apparent why ninety percent

of business fails within the first year.

Where There’s Smoke

“That’s not what I’m trying to say.”

“Seems obvious what you’ve trying to say. You hate firemen. You’re anti-fireman.”

“No no no, what I’m trying to say is that I’m anti-fire.”

“Same thing.”

“It isn’t even remotely the same thing. You don’t get it.”

“Oh I get it alright. What I don’t get is how you can stand there and call yourself an American and then slander our poor firemen. I don’t see you out there fighting, putting your life on the line for our nation.”

“All I said was that it’s too bad that a family of four was burned to death in their sleep. Fire is destructive, it kills indiscriminately. How can any sane person be pro-fire?”

“Destructive? Fire keeps me warm at night. Fire keeps my lights on. Fire puts food on the table. Fire keeps thousands of firemen gainfully employed. You want to take food away from their children? From my children?”

“You’re a moron.”

“You’re a liberal.”

“You’re an asshole.”

“Well you’re an intellectual.”

A Fist Before Dying

There is no kind of freedom and liberty other than the kind which the market economy brings about. In a totalitarian hegemonic society the only freedom that is left to the individual, because it cannot be denied to him, is the freedom to commit suicide.
– Ludwig von Mises

~

Man, there sure is a lot of people dying these days. More than usual, it seems. I mean, I don’t claim to be an expert on the matter, but the fact of it is that people die everyday. Anyone ‘d know that. And that’s every single day, understand. Death is not lazy. She doesn’t have benefits or a pension plan. Perpetual work. Good thing too, considering how many people are dropping dead lately. Oh, but I should explain myself. I don’t mean to assign death a female quality out of spite, I’m just a bit old fashioned. Cars, death, and boats are women. Always have been, always will. Don’t ask me why, that’s just the way it is. But if I was to guess, I’d say it’s because cars and boats are sort of sexy-like with their sleek curves and sensual indulgences. Much like womenfolk. But death? Well, shit. I should just shut up while I’m ahead.

It’s not that I feel about death the same way I feel about women and cars. Well, maybe it is. All I know is that since I started noticing how many people it is that have been dying lately, I’ve been happy again. For the first time in a long time. Probably since that thing with the markets. Then everything turned to shit. Well, I don’t think of it as shit, but that’s what everyone else is saying. Never was much of a surprise to me, but then again, I never had much faith in a system based on a roomful of angry little men in blazers shouting and gesturing wildly at each other. But what do I know? 

‘Course, I got eyes all the same and I been noticin things. Always have.

I’m an observant sonofabitch, I am. I see things everyday. Most of them is real, too. I see them on Newschannel 4. That’s where they show all the news that doesn’t matter anymore. Stuff like people dying in large numbers, football scores and other stuff I usually don’t bother with. Lately, though, Newschannel 4 has been all death, all the time.

‘Course, they never call it by name. They use that flowery language so often favoured by politicians and newscasters. Like “passed away.” “Lost” was the first choice, but it seemed better suited to small scale death. Death with a small “d”, if you will. Capitalized death is a whole different animal. “Five thousand people were lost today” sounds pretty bleak, but ”five thousand people passed away today” is positively heartwarming in comparison. 

None of it sounds right if you ask me. Just doesn’t sound right. Doesn’t roll off the tongue the way “three strikes… yer out!” or “all things come of thee oh lord and of thine own have we given thee” does. Doesn’t feel right. Makes you feel as though you should apologize without knowing why or what you’re sorry for.

But I guess I don’t really care. I know how I feel and I won’t be told differently. Told what to feel, that is. Most everyone seems alright with it, but maybe they don’t know any different. It was that way long before things got bad. No one cared or noticed then, so why should it be different now?

And maybe I should do something about it, maybe I should go outside and grab the first person I see and give them a good hard shake and scream into that blank stare until I get some kind of reaction. Sometimes I find myself on the way downstairs. Sometimes I’m halfway out into the street when I come to my senses, like waking up in the middle of a sleepwalk, disoriented. Sad that it was all just a dream, but grateful for the exercise.

There’s never anyone one outside anyway. So I drag myself back up the stairs, put on the kettle, sit down infront of Newschannel 4 and start observin again.

But someday, oh someday I’m gonna do somethin. For now, though, I’m just too happy to care. But maybe someday I’ll do something. Maybe before I’m lost or passed away.

Maybe before I die.