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Hamilton Stone Review #31
Fiction
Nathan Leslie, Fiction Editor
Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois
Bees
After Rita’s baptism, white bees swarm around her. Her father, a scholar of Mezo-American culture, knows that there are stingless bees, but cannot tell whether the bees crawling on his daughter’s face have stingers or not. Either way, they are not stinging her. They seem not groggy with summer nectar, but placid, and she shows no sign of discomfort.
Either way, there’s nothing to do. This is a sign from God, and one does not interfere with God. But what does it mean? None of his other children’s baptisms had been attended by insects or other animals. Maybe these are the Three Kings, miniaturized, with wings, figures in a nano-creche. Maybe they are pollinating her with wisdom or kindness. They enter and exit her mouth without harm or injury. The beginnings of a smile trembles on her lips. Already she seems wise, already sweet, ready to blossom into sainthood.
She will be the Patron Saint of Difficult Marriages, a partner to Saint Gengelphus of Burgundy, who was murdered by his wife’s lover. Her friend Priscilla,of Who-Knows-Where? will be the Saint of Good Marriages. Priscilla wears sparkly red shoes and carries a magic wand. Rita is envious. She will live with a sense of unfairness her entire life.
Rita’s husband and sons are killed in a blood feud. The bees stay. They buzz wisdom into Rita’s ears, which she interprets the best she can. Even from infancy, she suffered from a hearing problem.
I have no miracles in my life, and have had no signs from God. I’m no saint, but I also start the day with a Sacred Ritual. In the old schoolhouse I call my home, which lacks electricity, I line up a row of light bulbs and, with my worn Redwing boots, the waffled bottoms caked with cow shit, I smash them one by one. I raise my can of PBR (Pabst Blue Ribbon), the national drink of Colorado (despite Adolph Coors) and the bluffs above Humboldt’s blue Pacific, and toast myself in Hebrew, not true Hebrew, but an ignorant caricature, loaded with guttural noises.
Richard Kostelanetz
Film Scenarios
In memory of Stanley Kubrick
An intelligent dog successfully protects the absent-minded inventor of
a universally destructive technology from predators eager to steal it.
A retired horror-film star confronts and disarms a man terrorizing a
large motion picture theater.
An American officer in occupied lands falls in love with an enemy
general's former mistress.
A lonely middle-aged man tries to win back the ex-wife he accidentally
encounters on a week-long warm-weather cruise.
A nervous young advertising executive so neglects his wife, less by
infidelity than through distraction, that she flirts promiscuously to
make him jealous.
The business designs of a trinket manufacturer are hampered by his
socially conscious--actually, social-climbing--wife.
A young husband, infiltrated by evil spirits, is rescued by his large
and saintly wife, who repels all attackers.
A shepherd family takes in a career criminal now on the lamb and makes
him tend their sheep, to his gratitude and pleasure.
A rich impetuous landowner, usually drunk, is repeatedly rescued from
dangerous situations by his loyal houseboy whom we know began life as
his illegitimate son.
A high-school football team adopts a four-legged animal who can
hind-kick the oblong ball directly at a target one hundred yards away.
Stacy Graber
Thoreaubot
Vegas pulls all the liquid out of pores until people nod to the irrational. Why the assistant professors in English made their careers indiscriminately touting the new technologies as the panacea for teaching reading and writing, even as students became unable to tolerate anything but the jump-cut.
“You must be dehydrated,” Dr. Silva said, and threw bottles of water at the new hires.
The baleful mesa, with a face only Werner Herzog could love, glowered down as she frowned on consumer complicity and power-skimming.
She began fall term, Topics in American Literature, with the following notice: “The most important thing to know is that Thoreau would have hated your guts,” and her department chair wondered about the impact on retention.
“What say we start with something snappy from Whitman? He would have signed affirmatively at the new,” and the chair threw a deuce.
Dr. Francine Silva contemplated quitting the English department in 2011 when her colleagues began shaking hands indiscriminately with the bullshit ideology pushed by TED Talks on student engagement. The fetish for technology left her cold and she swore they were all dupes of the IT companies who would soon mourn their credulity with the reification of Orwell’s nightmare language, Duckspeak.
She snarled: “It’s not sexy,” when she heard the catch-phrase “21st century tools” trotted out at conferences, or else announced: “Riefenstahl, table for one” at faculty meetings where propagandistic, digital stories quick cut with hyper-truncated phrases and darting images flickered fast past the opportunity for dialogue or refusal. And sometimes she contacted a funeral home and reported the death of a colleague when the person described a new teaching idea which proposed the utility of animated Pawz or Luchadorz figures speaking the words of Billy Budd. Or else she whispered seductively to the owner of a new tablet: “We don’t ride on the railroad, it rides on us, asshole.”
Her colleagues wondered if she could no longer smell a trend.
She was hot, she wore black tights over several days without rinsing them out, and she had gone rogue. Out of step with the new progress narratives, she made a terrible lunch companion, always irascible, unable to focus on anything except for the dying future.
But mostly she missed Thoreau. Though his hair looked ridiculous in the Maxham daguerreotype she was in love with his “No.” Operating from a consistent platform of negativity, he deconstructed every obvious con, trekked peaceably through Walden woods, conducted escaped slaves to freedom.
I want a guy who sees viscera in silt, she thought wistfully.
Everyone in the department knew she was unhappy and that she had to go. So the theory guys brought the Glenlivet and the lit guys brought the Ashtons and, for an evening, they all pretended they were fat-assed, Gilded Age tycoons.
The cowboy poet stepped up first and told Dr. Silva, “Francie, can’t have a rodeo without horses.” He presented her with a gift that everybody kicked down some feria to buy: A life-size sex-bot they’d seen advertised on Huffington Post created by an AI engineer turned pornographer. The group had dressed the figure in the sober cloth of the Transcendentalist and she recognized him immediately. When he spoke, it was in the pressing, misanthropic tone she’d always longed to hear: “Society is too cheap. We meet at very short intervals, not having had time to acquire any new value for each other. We meet at meals three times a day, and give each other a new taste of that old musty cheese that we are.”
“This party is over,” Dr. Silva announced, eyes glossy and human. “Get out.”
Thoreaubot sat in the passenger seat opposite Dr. Silva as they drove northeast to Ohio, to a cabin on the bank of another pond. She did not see a mechanical adult toy but the gray eyes of disobedience. It was love or the sex meld of flesh and hardware common to the fantasies of J.G. Ballard.
She bought a house in Mill Creek Park for her beloved and watched as he left the vehicle, judiciously chose a branch, stripped it of gold crumbling leaves, and disappeared into the living forest.
He did not pay attention to her in those first days. There was the cold coming, and when he wasn’t reading, walking, or staring out of the window he was taking measurements and making notes in the rain.
She tried to seduce him with cranberries. “Aren’t they just like jewels?” But he found the Ocean Spray bag in the trash and only glared.
The loamy, molding breath of November suggested he might never be her lover.
She reread Walden, “Higher Laws,” and reviewed his opinions on chastity. So prudish. One moment a high-sensualist whose cork popped over yeast and then a purity rant. Such a dry dichotomy: Abstinence ennobles, excess imbrutes. “Fucking New England inheritance,” she judged.
In those moments, trailing after him in the monochromatic forest, she realized the geography of sensuality. As she tumbled soaking leaves, she contemplated others she’d had: The fat Greek who’d dragged sleeves incognizant across his plate, kissed with his mouth full; the Israeli industrialist who’d considered dinner a wash without lifet, tongue fuchsia, love stains that wouldn’t release in the laundry. They came from warm climates, ate robustly, and were liberal with their sex.
And then she remembered the lonely apple orchard and drove Thoreau out to the blue pastures of Canfield.
“The apples are comely,” Thoreau remarked with pleasure and the trees assented. “It used to be that young boys would wassail the trees and entreat them to provide a good harvest. They would sing: ‘Stand fast, root! Bear well, top! / Pray God send us a good howling crop: / Every twig, apples big; / Every bow, apples enow!’”
“That’s from the lecture you delivered at the Lyceum. ‘Wild Apples’.”
“The song was accompanied by music played on an animal’s horn,” Thoreau continued, “—a Pagan fertility ritual in honor of the goddess Pomona.”
She thought about rough hands ladling hard cider, modest streams seeping into soil, and offered him a drink of Calvados.
Thoreau swallowed long and finally laughed, “—And you may know that it was one of Hercules’ labors to obtain the golden apples of the Hesperides.”
“I know that apples have a long-standing relationship with enchantment.”
The wind wailed through her coat and Thoreau bit the sour fruit. Jays dove into the last green. Apple peal and pulp all around, delicate disorder, and he promised she was the “apple of his world.”
December she was pregnant. She thought maybe the apple mash caused mornings to vomit apples. The burn wasn’t bad but improbable because she was in her forties, an unemployed professor of English, and he was a cyborg. Would Emerson stand as godfather for this child?
She tried to find him out in the woods where he went without discussion. If he was happy with the news then she would be glad in his balance, but she tasted apple spit.
Along the umber path were shards of aphorisms: “A rich man’s sold to the institution that makes him,” “Costs me less to disobey than to obey,” Don’t want to be a member of a society I haven’t joined.” Then she found him floating face-down in the pond staring through the well-loved stones to borrowed heaven.
In town they told her he had stopped by for news and someone mentioned the hydraulic fracturing due to start in the park so she supposed he’d learned enough, offed himself.
Upon her return to the West, an attorney tried to ask her out. She found him stupid and played a game she often played with men. She would recount the plotlines of famous literary works and claim them as her own until the person would realize she was plagiarizing.
Jana Wilson
A Posteriori and Lack of Wonderland
Tess, with no last name to speak of, sat. She always sat with her legs pulled tightly to her chest, her lavender-pink painted fingers laced together around her shins. She was sleeping when she rolled from between her personal silver rings and fell; not into a beautiful place, neither a heaven nor a hell, but onto roughly molded plastic that had an odd texture but no obvious shape. She was picked up by a clammy palm that she could feel through the cellophane and the owner of the palm held her close to his large face to look at the details of her form more closely before he unwrapped her. She hoped he would be more attractive once they were the same size, or that perhaps she was just having an odd dream. He carried her gently; both hands cupped around her, and although he did not seem to be what she anticipated, she was still excited.
The man placed her in the center of a brown sink that was already filled with warm water, the tap still running. In the water, Tess grew. Her legs bent at the knees, stretching over the edge of the sink and her dress became damp as it grew to fit her and she watched as her fingers grew to become proportional with her hand. When she had stopped growing, her full body erupting from the sink, she then used the toilet as a step, letting her short heels click against the linoleum.
Tess walked around the bathroom, stretching her arms, and the man who had carried her watched as she extended her limbs, twisting and contorting her muscles as she became comfortable with her new size. He seemed fidgety and nervous. Tess walked around the ugly bedroom, looking at the green floral wallpaper, and running her hands along the bed, the air conditioner wall unit, the bedside table. She opened a drawer and touched the telephone book and the Bible with the tips of her fingers.
The man sat on the bed. His pants’ legs were too short, showing his socks and sneakers, and he kept wiping the palms of his hands against his clothes trying to wipe away their clamminess, but he looked greasy.
Tess looked out the window and saw headlights reflecting in the glass as cars drove past on the street. “Can we go outside?” she asked. She already had her hands on the sliding glass door, anticipating how the outside world would feel. He stuttered for a moment, and she could tell that he wanted to say no, so she let go of the door handle for a moment and looked out the window to see neon business signs. The one that hovered just above her head read, “The Nightlight Motel” and underneath it said, “No Vacancy.”
She wanted to see so much, and she intended to see it in her life, so waiting a few minutes with the man that had decided to love her seemed like no time at all when she would soon see oceans, and monuments, and animals.
The man, who had held her in his hands and placed her under the warm water, was sitting on the edge of the bed, still repetitively wiping his clammy hands against the khaki material of his pants. Tess looked him over thoroughly. This was the man who had decided to love her. He was not ruggedly handsome and he did not seem like he had the ability to take her traveling. He seemed distraught and nervous. Tess saw his anxiety but did not say anything about it.
Tess examined his combed over and graying hair, his clip-on tie, his tweed jacket, his over-compensating belt buckle, and his too-short, but neatly ironed, khaki pants. In her opinion, he was trying too hard to look impressive, and this gave her the tiniest amount of respect for him, but his nervousness was overpowering. Although this man was not what had Tess expected, she reminded herself of the promises that she had made throughout her life. He had agreed to love her even if he did not realize it yet, and so she would love him back.
“I’m Tess.” She was sweet when she spoke to him.
He stood up from the bed to shake her hand and when she realized that she was slightly taller than him, she slipped her shoes off before he had the chance to notice.
“I’m Bill,” he said.
“Hi, Bill.”
“Hi, Tess.”
He started unbuttoning his shirt and she stood still watching him. She watched him strip down to his briefs. He had no chest muscles but it did look like at one point in his life he had attempted to strengthen his arms. He stepped behind her and he was no longer nervous when he touched the zipper on her pink dress.
“May I?” Bill asked. His nerves left with his clothing.
She nodded at his politeness and he pulled the zipper down so that her pink dress fell onto the floor in a pile.
He led her to bed slowly and then they made love. He more or less made love to her, still wearing his mismatched socks, while she stared at the ceiling and thought about what must be outside. Tess just laid on her back as Bill moved back and forth rhythmically and she could not understand how this action could bring people together. She didn’t feel anything and she didn’t pretend to, but he didn’t seem notice as she stared past him and waited for everything that she had expected of life to come rushing through the plastered roof and fulfill her.
Afterwards, Bill rolled onto the other side of the bed and slept as Tess continued to stare at the ceiling for a few more moments. When she was sure he was asleep, she put her pink dress back on and left her shoes on the floor.
Tess walked quietly into the well-lit hallway, looked both ways and decided to go left. There were no paintings or photos in the hallway, but had the same green and yellow floral wallpaper as the room. Tess drug her feet when she walked and thought about how all that she had ever known was sex, but she didn’t understand the thrill; it couldn’t even hold her attention.
She looked up from the floor when she heard laughing. A couple was kissing at the end of the hallway, against a door. He looked like a businessman and she looked a lot younger and thinner than him, with her fresh face. The businessman seemed more worn and tired.
Tess kept walking and realized that she knew the girl, she had seen her before but they had never met. Tess had seen the girl when they were both wrapped in cellophane. This girl was not like Tess. She wore very high heels, and a short skirt, and her hair was different colors while Tess had long blonde hair and a modest dress. Tess wondered if that was how she had always been or if she had done it all to herself.
The couple twisted against each other and went into a room and Tess continued to walk after they were gone, thinking about the girl until she rounded the corner and saw vending machines and the signs that revealed their contents caught her attention. There was one for ice, one for drinks, one for snacks, and one for women.
Tess looked through the glass of the last machine in the row and saw herself. There was a line of women wearing exactly her dress and her shoes, but they all had different hair colors and their faces were different than hers. She glanced through the other rows of women and saw the many faces of a female society trapped behind glass. The women that Tess saw were wrapped in cellophane, their legs pulled to their chests, and were all only the size of dollar bills. The unmoving women were unique, like handmade dolls. They each had their separate traits and styles to make men want them, yet they were labeled and generalized. Each row was different but the girls in the same rows were meant to be similar.
At the top of the machine, the women were labeled “conservative.” These women seemed well-mannered and dignified, like Tess. They ranged from thin to full-bodied, and from submissive to aggressive, and it went on. It seemed each row was separated by how demanding a man would want his partner. He would get to choose; beneath the row labeled “conservative” was “playful”, then “erotic”, then “kinky”, then finally, “dominatrix.”
Tess pitied these women, and she pitied herself for having lived in this life for what seemed like so many years. She wondered if time passed the same inside of the machine as it did outside, because it felt already as if Tess had spent as much time in this hotel with Bill as she had inside of that case. She thought that maybe she simply had more time to think in the machine than she had since starting her time with Bill, but either way it felt as if her life had been incredibly short.
She sat down in the space between the machine, where she had spent most of her life, and the wall next to it, and looked down at her hands to cry for a moment. She wondered how they could have ever been that small. She looked up from her hands and she saw a sign taped to the side of the machine which she read it to herself.
“All products expire. Fifty cent products expire after two hours. Two
dollar products expire after twenty-four hours. No Refunds. No Exceptions.
Sincerely,
The Nightlight Motel Management.”
Expired. Tess turned the word over in her head and wondered what it meant. She knew the definition of expired. It meant to come to an end or no longer be valid in operation, but she did not understand how this affected her.
Did it mean that she congealed into something?
Did it mean she spoiled, like food?
Did it mean that she died?
She assumed it meant that she would die in some way. She wondered how this would happen. Would she die violently? Murdered in one way or another? Would “The Nightlight Motel Management” kill her?
She sat quietly for a moment, her face feeling warm as she thought about Bill and how all that she had known in her life was sex. She knew that her life would be short and that she and Bill would never have children, and his tombstone would not read ‘beloved husband’ at least not to her. The understanding of her life made her cry into her hands.
When her heaving eventually stopped and she stood. She walked around the machine to where she could look at the other women and she saw the price tags beneath each row. There were only two prices: Fifty cents and two dollars. Her row, the one she knew in her mind was her row, was labeled fifty cents.
Two hours. That would be the span of her entire life, and yet she had no idea how long it had already been. She had no time to go anywhere else in her one hundred and twenty minutes of life. No time to travel in her seven thousand and two hundred seconds. At this thought, Tess could no longer stand to look at the machine and she walked back down the hallway. She leaned against a wall and thought to herself. Tess wondered: If she was a regular person with a regular life, and she knew when she was going to die, then where would she want to die? The question would have had a simple answer if it weren’t for the fact that Tess only knew one person. She had always wanted to die next to the person that she loved the most, but she only knew Bill, and she did not love him, no matter how much she promised herself that she would.
Tess’ hands became clammy as she walked down the hallway, leaving wet footprints on the floor as she walked. Her orifices and pores seemed to flood inside themselves, rising and sinking in turn. Her mouth filled with water and she swallowed it, but it continued to fill as fast as she could swallow. She went back to the room where Bill slept and she pushed the barely mussed comforter out of the way so that she could lay between the sheets next to the only person she knew. She got as close to Bill as she could without touching him.
Her body was sweating all over, her arms seemed to swelled with fluids, and her body cried, although she had no emotions towards the water that was now coming from her eyes. She hugged her pillow before slowly losing the feeling in her extremities. She closed her eyes and although she didn’t mean it, she whispered, “I love you,” and she was overtaken with an overwhelming calmness that made her feel at ease in the moment.
Immediately after Tess spoke, she melted into the bed sheets. She left nothing for the world to remember her by, except a wet spot on the sheets that would quickly disappear after Bill checked out the next morning.
Alan Swyer
The Record Biz
"Seeing record stores become extinct, do you feel like the last of the dinosaurs?" asked the interviewer from a now-defunct weekly, who was wearing what was then the de rigeur hipster uniform: a black fedora, a goofy shirt, a forearm tattoo, and a soul patch.
This was a touchy subject at a moment in time when even seemingly indestructible chains like Tower Records and Virgin Megastores had crumbled. But before Lerner could answer the question, a black colleague named Kevin, a guitar player in a funk band who clerked three days a week to pay bills, approached. "Porkpie Parker's on the phone," he announced.
"Tell him I'll get back," Lerner replied nonchalantly.
"He says it's urgent."
"What else is new?"
As Kevin walked away, Lerner faced the interviewer, who was suddenly wide-eyed. "You get calls from Porkpie Parker?" asked the clearly impressed journalist.
"From tons of guys in film and TV."
"Can I ask why?"
"Try getting suggestions from Mr. Youtube or Ms. Amazon."
"And the kind of help they're asking for?"
"The perfect song for whatever's filming," Lerner answered. "Or in the case of Porkpie, probably a whole bunch of tunes."
When Adam Lerner, whose great loves were Blues, old R&B, and Soul, but who learned about the music business while helping with his parents' Country show on a listener-sponsored radio station, got his first job at Dynamite Discs, Los Angeles was awash in music. In addition to clubs hither and yon, plus amazing radio stations on both AM and FM, there were great stores in every neighborhood: Aron's, Licorice Pizza, Rhino Records, the Wherehouse, Peaches, Moby Disc, Music Plus, and scores of others.
But as Lerner saw it, Dynamite, where he began by stocking bins with vinyl, then rose, during the CD explosion, to sales clerk, Assistant Manager, and finally Manager, was far and away the best.
Known first locally, then nationally, as the Musicians' Music Store, Dynamite provided day jobs for waves of on-the-rise vocalists, drummers, guitarists, and the like, not to mention aspiring music critics and producers, plus would-be disc jockeys such as Lerner, who soon became first the co-host, then later the main host of a weekly show on a college station. That kind of income was crucial in a business where it was possible to make a killing, but tough as hell to earn a living.
Since all humor is based on a man in trouble, such a situation spawned countless jokes that Lerner and his colleagues knew too well. For instance:
Q: What's the difference between a large pizza and a musician?
A: A large pizza can feed a family of four.
Not surprisingly, Dynamite's reputation and vibe inevitably made it a destination for sessions players, local stars, and even visiting headliners from places as far away as New York, Austin, Nashville, London, and Africa. A Mick Jagger sighting was part of the store's lore, along with tales of appearances by Solomon Burke, Merle Haggard, Ali Farka Toure, and Miami Steve Van Zandt.
Nor did it hurt that the bins were filled with choices that were eclectic yet discerning – vast, yet at the same time willfully exclusionary. It was the perfect spot to find Slim Harpo, the Carter Family, Grandmaster Flash, Jacques Brel, obscure Coltrane sessions available only on Japanese imports, and obscure indie bands. But there was zero trace of Cher, the Osmonds, or Kenny G. And if Justin Bieber had been recording in those days, his stuff too would have been banned.
The consequence was that in addition to the collectors scouring the bins of imports and used vinyl, Diamond Discs became the place for musicians to hang, gossip, and network. That, in turn, opened the door for disc jockeys and producers, plus music supervisors who were looking for inspiration or suggestions from the knowledgeable staff.
Foremost among those who came scratching repeatedly for info was Porkpie Parker.
SoCal born and raised, Adam Lerner knew full well that Los Angeles was the capital of what he termed self-invention. The town had film producers from Sherman Oaks who claimed to be street kids from Brooklyn. Directors from England who had transformed themselves, while going through Customs, from soccer hooligans to Etonians. Algerian and Moroccan entrepreneurs who successfully passed themselves off as Parisian aristocrats. And above all, Porkpie Parker.
Though his official bio depicted him as the wayward son of a Texas cowpoke, Lerner knew that there was no truth in either that or the claim that his musical apprenticeship was served on the road with a blind Bluesman. In reality, Parker was the preppy son of an oil tycoon, which meant that even when he was ostensibly scuffling, it was with the fallback of a humongous trust fund.
But thanks to designer clothes that made him look like a riverboat gambler, plus a self-selected nickname far more alluring than his given name of Prescott, Porkpie Parker, at a strapping 6'4", had created a marketable image and persona. And in Hollywood, as Lerner understood, image and persona were more important than talent.
Though willing to acknowledge Parker's adequacy first as a musician, then later as a music supervisor and producer, Lerner felt that the rising star's greatest skill was in a different area: self-promotion.
Worse still, Parker was a shameless and relentless user, which disturbed Lerner not merely philosophically, but personally as well, since Porkpie's abuse and exploitation was far too often at his expense.
To protect himself, and to avoid confrontations, Lerner came to realize that the best defense was simply to avoid Parker whenever, wherever, and however possible.
Not having had a moment to grab even a slice of pizza or a chili dog after a crazy morning, Lerner was nowhere near his most affable when into his office stepped an oily guy named Peter Turner. "Got a minute for a friend?"
"Who?"
"Very funny," said Turner, who billed himself as an enabler, though Lerner thought the more appropriate word was either schmeichler or pimp. "Porkpie Parker thinks you're ducking him."
"Me?"
"Did I ever tell you I play tennis with Fosselman?"
"Who's that?"
"Your boss, as you well know. How do you think he'd react if I told him?"
Lerner grabbed his desk phone, which he offered to Turner. "Let's try him and see."
Turner pondered for a moment, then smiled unctuously. "Why won't you talk to Porkpie?"
"I can be kind and tell you I'm up to my ears, which happens to be true."
"Or?"
"That I'm sick and tired of having him suck my blood."
"Adam, you're hardly Zen-like."
"No shit."
"Call him when you get a chance. For peace on earth, okay? And goodwill toward men."
"Give me a break."
"Then do it for me. Please."
His natural contrariness compounded by a pressing desire to keep the imperiled store afloat, Lerner was groaning his way through a pile of bills later that afternoon when he heard footsteps approaching. A moment later came an all too recognizable voice.
"Howdy pardner," said Porkpie Parker, whose smile, Lerner noticed with no glee at all, extended from ear to ear. "How's my favorite source for sounds?"
"Peachy," replied Lerner as sarcastically as possible.
"Then my timing's perfect. I got asked to work on a film that's kind of an odyssey through the South in the 1930's."
"And?"
"I could use some help from Mr. Musical Encyclopedia."
"What if Mr. Encyclopedia is tired, grumpy, and has nine million things to do?"
"Aren't we bros?"
"Really want an answer?"
"You know I always invite you to screenings."
"Oh boy."
"C'mon. What if I say pretty please with jimmies on it?"
Lerner studied Porkpie, who was wearing a beaded jacket that in some neighborhoods could get a guy beat up on general principles, then frowned. "How many different singers or groups?" he muttered.
In classic Porkpie fashion, when he stopped by the next day to pick up the dozen vintage County albums Lerner had selected, instead of expressing gratitude, his first impulse was to ask for a discount.
"It's the production that's paying, isn't it?" asked Lerner.
"What difference does that make?"
"We need the money more than they do."
"Still –"
"Still nothing," Lerner said emphatically. "For doing the work, I ought to charge you double."
"That's why I love you, Adam baby!" Porkpie gushed. "That's why I love you!"
Lerner's hopes that he had achieved a respite from his Texas nemesis were dashed the next morning when in strode Porkpie Parker in a long black coat that seemed totally inappropriate not just in hot Southern California, but especially in a store where the standard attire was a music-related t-shirt and a ripped pair of jeans.
"I know I've imposed, and I won't be surprised if you tell me to get lost," Porkpie stated as he approached Lerner, who was selecting CDs by Willy DeVille, Southside Johnny, and the Chambers Brothers for another music supervisor. "But what would you say if I begged for another favor?"
"Get lost."
Instead of taking that as a rebuff, Porkpie smiled. "Always the comedian. Look, if you help me, I think I can get you a credit."
"Think? Or will?"
"And maybe some bucks."
"Is that like The check is in your mouth?"
"Look, we both know the store's in trouble," Porkpie said softly. "Being part of a film can help you make a transition if and when the end comes."
"And I suppose you're prepared to give me a contract."
"My word's not good enough?"
"Really want me to answer that?"
"Is that your definition of irony?"
"My definition of irony is that it's the opposite of wrinkly."
"Adam, baby –"
"What exactly do you need?"
"Those CDs you selected?"
"What about 'em?"
"Pick me a cut from each so as to represent the whole gamut from that period. You know, the perfect cut so that we can start putting together a soundtrack album."
"Promise you'll make good?"
"Have I ever not been good to my word?"
"Truthfully?"
"That's my Adam," said Porkpie. "Trust me, okay? You got my sacred pledge."
With no great glee, Lerner did what was requested of him late that afternoon, then emailed the titles to Porkpie.
Though it would have been well within his nature to wonder about the progress of the film and its soundtrack, plus the credit and money that had been promised to him, his attention was elsewhere due to what's known in labor law as a Force Majeure.
Dynamite Discs, like the other once-great record stores in the LA area, had finally been given its death notice.
Ever the loyal employee, Lerner threw himself wholeheartedly, almost obsessively, into the extended going-out-of-business sale that followed. Then, together with the owner, he presided over a farewell party that signified not just the end of a store, but for many, including himself, the end of an era.
A period of incredible gloom ensued. First came days, then weeks, then ultimately months in which Lerner never left his ratty apartment other than to host his radio show or to make an occasional run for provisions.
Calls were not answered, nor emails or texts returned.
Inevitably, Lerner's status as a recluse was accepted, begrudgingly or otherwise, even by most of those who cared about him.
But such was not the case with Kevin, the ex-clerk whose funk band was, after several years of free gigs and pounding on doors, finally taking off thanks to the help, as luck would have it, of downloads.
Every week or so, Kevin would stop by Lerner's apartment and ring the bell, then leave a Care Package of food, music, and DVDs at the doorstep.
And it was he, one Saturday afternoon, who not only rang the bell, but also pounded on the door until Lerner finally opened it a crack.
"I'm not here," Lerner announced as he faced Kevin.
"And this didn't appear in print," Kevin replied, displaying an article in Rolling Stone.
"Not interested."
"Then like it or not, I'll read it to you. It's an article about your buddy Porkpie –"
"Never heard of him –"
"Who they're saying's gonna to win an Oscar and a Grammy."
"Big deal –"
"For titles that were handpicked by you."
Despite his claims of disinterest, Lerner opened the door further, then grabbed the Rolling Stone and started to scan it, his facing growing redder and redder as he continued reading.
"I hope you'll call and remind him of his promises," said Kevin.
"Yeah."
"And when he doesn't take your calls, I hope you'll sue his ass."
Though he gave it considerable thought, Lerner never quite got around to calling. Nor did he contact an attorney. Instead he swallowed his pride and enrolled in a couple of night courses. Then, thanks to a colleague at the college radio station, he took a consulting job at iTunes.
It was there that he got his first look at the soundtrack album ostensibly produced by Porkpie Parker, even though not one of the selections was in truth chosen by the Texan.
As for the credit that Lerner was promised, it proved to be nonexistent. Nor did Lerner's name appear under the rubric Special Thanks To. But lower in the liner notes, in much smaller print, was a category listed simply as Thanks To. There, amidst a sea of other names, was one that looked familiar. But instead of saying Adam Lerner, it had his name misspelled as Adam Leonard.
Though the album ultimately sold so well that it hit what's known as Double Platinum, Lerner at last actually became a learner. He stifled any and all promotion on iTunes. Nor was a single track ever played on the weekly radio show he hosted.
Even more satisfying was the request he received from none other than Porkpie Parker when he was asked to host a charity event featuring Solomon Burke, Ike Turner, and Billy Preston.
"I'd love to come out and have you introduce me to those three heroes of mine," read the note sent to him by the ever shameless Texan.
"You wouldn't fit in," was Lerner's one-line response.