Spike Walker in Chicago

I had the good fortune of spending time with my old friend Spike Walker in Chicago this week. He is the inspiration, of course, for the character Spike Waller in The Mental Defective League. Spike is not quite the same young chap that is depicted on the cover of the book, but he still untamed and charming. We had a blast.

Paperback of The Mental Defective League coming soon

Sound the trumpets! Gather the dancing girls! Pass around the champagne glasses! Why? Because the trade paperback version of The Mental Defective League is coming soon. The manuscript is receiving the final edits and will go to the printer within the next week or so. The formatting and layout looks terrific. A big THANKS to Scott Paton of Paton Professional (http://www.patonprofessional.com/) for helping me get the book ready for publication. When the paperback hits Amazon, I will remove the Kindle version of the novel, as it needs some tweaking. The e-book will return, though. Can't wait to see this baby in print. Stay tuned! --PZC

Catcher in the Rye vs. Mental Defective League, Round 2

The boys of the Mental Defective League really love women. Whether they respect them or not is another matter altogether, but there’s no doubting their deep appreciation for feminine charms. Petey Cordovan, the book’s protagonist, tells us in Chapter 1, “A grin began creeping across my face. I tried to suppress it, but I started hearing a voice in my head that said, ‘You’re going to get laid.’” Yes, that is indeed the essence of Petey and his friends’ appreciation for the fairer sex: the chance of having sex. A raw perspective, yes, but unwaveringly honest. These are young men who know exactly what they want and pursue it with laser-like focus.

Holden Caulfield, the immortal protagonist of J. D. Salinger’s The Catcher in the Rye, is less focused about women. He certainly admires women and thinks about them often. Holden admits in Chapter 9, “Women kill me. They really do. I don't mean I'm oversexed or anything like that—although I am quite sexy. I just like them, I mean. They're always leaving their goddam bags out in the middle of the aisle." Holden’s real-life relationship with women is somewhat at arm’s length and cerebral, though. He thinks about women, but he doesn’t necessarily do much about it. “In my mind, I’m probably the biggest sex maniac you ever saw,” Holden tells us. We begin to realize that there is a large gulf between the mind and the body as far as Holden Caulfield is concerned.

This isn’t to say that Holden Caulfield doesn’t get his big chances to score. While staying alone at a hotel in New York, he hires a prostitute, but suddenly changes his mind when she actually shows up in his room. The prostitute is approximately the same age as he is, and Holden finds this unnerving. When she pulls off her green dress, Holden confides, “I know you're supposed to feel pretty sexy when someone gets up and pulls their dress over their head, but I didn't. Sexy was about the last thing I was feeling. I felt much more depressed than sexy.” Later in the novel, we learn that Holden Caulfield’s dream job is being the “Catcher in the Rye”—catching children before the run off the edge of a cliff—and having sex with a very young prostitute would certainly not qualify as catching anybody before they go off a cliff. In this manner Holden demonstrates deep emotional maturity and empathy.

The members of the Mental Defective league could not be accused of having the same emotional maturity and empathy. Detmer Steeplejack speaks for the entire League when he says, “I hear a voice,” Det said. “It says, ‘Mental Defective League, stop talking about fags and go where the pussy is. Go to the Clermont and start fucking-up immediately.’” The members of the Mental Defective League rarely close the deal with women, but they badly want to. Opportunities for “going where the pussy is” are always pursued with gusto.

All of this makes Holden Caulfield a far more gentlemanly and sensitive character. He is more mature in many ways, despite the fact that he is 16 years old at the time of Catcher in the Rye, compared to 18 years old for the members of the Mental Defective League. Being gentlemanly and sensitive, however, prevents Holden Caulfield from taking chances. He refuses to pull the trigger with women when he has the chance (rightly or wrongly) and the growth that could possible come from such a decision never materializes. Peter Cordovan in The Mental Defective League seizes the chance of having sex with the older Elizabeth, a decision that clearly turns out to have been misguided. Elizabeth becomes pregnant, Peter un-chivalrously avoids her, and Elizabeth’s son consequently beats Petey to a pulp in a pizza joint. Later in the novel, Petey’s bad decision provides an opportunity for his character to grow. He evolves into a more mature and complex creature by facing the bad decision he made. Holden Caulfield takes the ball to the ten yard line, but then pauses for a cigarette and some rumination. The reader is left wondering how Holden might have changed had he punched the ball across the goal line and actually scored.

Catcher in the Rye vs. Mental Defective League, Round 1

Who doesn’t love teenage angst? Well, it’s possible that teenagers don’t love it, but for adults it brings back memories of youth and hopefulness. Because no matter how angst-ridden a teenager is, there is the promise of a better time and place. J. D. Salinger’s classic, Catcher in the Rye, was the first wide exposure of teenage angst in a literary format. The tone and voice of Catcher in the Rye, while clearly reflecting sensibilities of the mid-twentieth century, are timeless and ring true today. When Holden Caulfield speaks, we understand, and his problems become ours.

Peter Z. Cordovan’s novel, The Mental Defective League, is often compared to Catcher in the Rye. This comparison would probably make Holden Caulfield and J. D. Salinger “have about two hemorrhages apiece,” but it is quite valid. Both novels are ripe with teen angst and frustration, buffeted by flashes of euphoria. The big difference is the context within which these emotions are expressed. Holden Caulfied fights his battles largely within his own psyche. He walks alone in his journey through life. When Holden says in Chapter 5, “People never believe you,” it’s clear that he is a solo act. People don’t believe or fully understand him, no matter how hard he tries to express himself. The world is just not equipped to decode his messages.

Petey Cordovan’s angst expressed within The Mental Defective League is just as vivid as Holden Caulfield’s, but it is played out within the environment of a tight group of friends. Petey, Leo, Detmer, and Robbie refer to themselves as the ‘League’ far more than they identify themselves as individuals. Detmer instructs Petey in Chapter 2, “Call all the puds in the League and tell them we’re going out tonight.” Individually, the young men are nothing more than ‘puds,’ but together they become a League. The members of the Mental Defective League understand each other intuitively, and they could care less if the rest of the world doesn’t understand or agree with their agenda. The members of the Mental Defective League are rarely left to fight their battles as individuals, but as players in a larger drama.

The narrative tone of both novels differs because of the group orientation of the protagonists. Holden Caulfield has nobody else to speak to except you, the reader. The voice is very intimate and direct. Without the direct connection to the reader, there would be no communication at all. This is contrasted with Petey Cordovan in the Mental Defective League. Petey also speaks in first person, but his tone is much more neutral with the reader. The intimacy is saved for the dialogue between other members of the League. The reader is left as little more than a voyeur, observing this strange and wild group of young men in their native element. Holden Caulfied tells you the story, whereas Petey Cordovan simply allows you to eavesdrop and observe. The effect in both cases is intimacy, but we arrive at it in vastly different ways.

The reader can only imagine the possibility of Holden Caulfield being a member of the Mental Defective League. Would that provide a larger and richer audience for the expression of his angst? Yes of course, but it would also make a vastly different story. And the members of the League would probably just end up getting him drunk, chaining him to a telephone pole, and hosing him down--and nobody would want to see that happen to dear Holden.  

--PZC

Chapter 2 - excerpt from The Mental Defective League

My parent’s living room, like most suburban Atlanta living rooms, was not intended for actual living. It was completely furnished and decorated, but precautions were taken to ensure it was seldom used or even entered by humans. The room was a museum exhibit of what a living room was supposed to look like. Since it was off-limits, I used it as much as possible. The sofa was perfect for snoozing in the afternoon when nobody else was home.

I fell onto the sofa and went into a sleep that featured dreams of Elizabeth, the woman at the Big Ed’s drive-through window. At the exact point in the dream when I was about to eat a sausage biscuit from between her bare breasts, I was jolted awake by the doorbell.

DING, DONG! DING, DONG!

I sat up on the sofa and saw my buddy Detmer Steeplejack grinning at me from the window on the porch. He raked his fingers through his hair and mouthed an obscenity at me through the glass. Det was a founding member of the Mental Defective League. If the League had bestowed titles, he would have been Minister of Fucking Up. I got up and opened the front door.

“Wake up, Petey,” Det said, “you slack ass.” He stood looking at me with his insane grin, stretched across his face like the mask of a witchdoctor.

“How did you know I was here?” I asked.

“Saw the car out front,” he said. “You get rained out this morning?”

“Yep.”

“I like your busted lip. You must’ve gotten your ass kicked,” Det asked.

“The other guy was actually dead for a little while.”

“I bet. Let’s go for a ride.”

“Eh,” I said noncommittally. I was looking forward to getting back to my dream about Elizabeth and the sausage biscuit.

“Come on, pud,” Detmer laughed. “You can beat your meat later.”

We left my folk’s house. The rain had stopped outside but it was still overcast; the humidity was stifling. Detmer and I got in his green Bentley roadster, which didn’t have air conditioning. The car was what they called a kit car, a replica of a classic car you could get by mail order. Det and I put the top down and off we went. The Bentley sounded like a lawn mower. We drove down the street with the car radio fighting the chop-chop-chop sound of the engine the whole way.

“We going anyplace particular?” I asked.

Det didn’t answer. He was quiet for a few moments, then he started tittering like a madman.

“Remember that kid with the jailhouse tattoo you told me about?” he asked. “The kid you roof with?”

“Sure,” I said. Det was talking about Harold. Both Harold and his brother Garfield had tattoos, home-made designs created from sewing needles and Indian ink. Harold had the hands-down winner, though: a dark blue monstrosity that said Born To Loose. Apparently he had meant Born To Lose, but hadn’t bothered to check his spelling. Det had laughed and laughed when I told him about Harold.

“What does Harold have to do with where we’re going?” I asked.

“You’ll see.”

We left East Cobb with all of its manicured lawns and perfect homes and headed south toward Atlanta, into the run-down part of town that had been the suburbs about fifty years ago. This is where we loved to go. If a place was dirty, decaying, or debauched, we were usually headed in its direction. Nonconformity and filth worked on us like magnets.

Det took us to Buford Highway, full of pawn shops and businesses that had signs in odd Korean and Vietnamese lettering. He pulled into a parking lot that fronted a squat brick building. The building housed a sprawling and greasy motorcycle repair shop, but at the end was a place that had a blue neon TATTOO sign in the window. A sign above the door said THE ELECTRIC SNAKE TATTOO STUDIO. Det drove to the end of the building and parked.

“Well, here we are,” Det said. “Let’s check out the ink.”

We went in the Electric Snake, which was cool and dark as a cave inside.

“WHAT DO YOU FUCKS WANT?” someone bellowed. I focused on a fat man sitting on a folding chair against the wall. The fat man had a beard and biker boots. He glared at us with disdain.

“Just checking out the tattoos, man,” Det said.

“All work guaranteed,” the fat man roared. “Ten percent discount for Vietnam vets. Twenty percent premium for tree huggers and Democrats.”

The studio was covered floor to ceiling with placards showing examples of the tattoo artwork. The placards displayed the usual array of skulls, devils, dragons, snakes, motorcycle insignias, and bloody daggers. Photographs of people who had elaborate tattoos covering their entire bodies were also displayed. A big wooden sign on the back wall said, NO PUSSIES! THE ELECTRIC SNAKE RESERVES THE RIGHT TO REFUSE SERVICE TO ANYONE. Signed, The Snake and the Snake's Woman. I guessed the fat man on the folding chair was The Snake. He stared straight forward and periodically spat tobacco juice into a plastic cup.

A door opened at the back of the room and a slim woman walked out wearing black leather pants and a black t-shirt that said Let me inscribe you. She had long black hair and large, dark eyes. Of course she was absolutely beautiful. The lady looked like a Cherokee princess who had been corrupted by the local motorcycle gang.

I wanted to say something smooth to her, something that let her know how cool I was, but instead I asked, “You the Snake’s Woman?”

The beautiful tattoo lady made a face like she smelled something rotten.

“The Snake’s Woman looks exactly like the Snake, only with bigger boobs,” she hissed. “Don’t even think about calling me the Snake’s Woman.”

“Sorry.”

“Are you here to makes jokes or are you here to get a tattoo?” she asked.

“A tattoo,” I said.

“What kind of tattoo you looking for?"

“Something a little different. You know, not the typical stuff.”

She looked me over, then waved her hand for me to follow. By this time, Det had caught on that something was cooking. He followed her across the room, too.

Det laughed. “Hey, pud, are you really getting a tattoo?”

I ignored him, thinking it better not to acknowledge anyone addressing me as ‘pud’ in the presence of the beautiful tattoo lady.

“Choose something from these,” she said. “They’re the coolest tattoos in the whole place.” The lady nodded at four or five tattoo cards that were covered with cartoon characters. Tweety bird, Wile E. Coyote, Donald Duck, Yosemite Sam, the works. I hated to admit it, but these were the coolest designs they had. Far better than the skulls and bleeding daggers that adorned the rest of the wallspace.

“Yeah, that’s right up his alley,” Det laughed. “Cartoon boy.”

“You laugh, but I wasn’t kidding when I said these were the coolest we have,” the beautiful tattoo lady said. “I’ve got one of them on my thigh. The Tasmanian devil.”

I gave Det a nod as if to say, ‘touché!’ and I began looking for the character I liked best. The the one that really rang my bell was Mickey Mouse. It appealed to my sense of irony. I mean, what could be more ironic than a Mickey Mouse tattoo? It was the antithesis of all the macho bullshit I hated so passionately. Mickey would fit perfectly on one of my shoulders, directly above the bicep. I felt giddy all of a sudden. There was a certain amount of one-upmanship among the members of the Mental Defective League, and nobody else had gotten a tattoo yet. I would also gain some stock with the rednecks on the roofing crew, since almost all of them had tattoos of their own. In that way, it would be a savvy career move.

I signaled to the beautiful tattoo lady.

“How much for the Mickey Mouse?” I asked.

The beautiful tattoo lady came across the room and I pointed it out.

“Thirty bucks,” she said.

“How long will it take?” I asked her.

“Not long,” she said. “You pay cash up front.”

I pulled out my wallet and looked inside. I had twenty dollars. “Can I borrow ten until tonight?” I asked Det.

“Sure,” he said. He dug some money out of his pocket. We had thirty dollars together. If I hesitated, I knew I’d talk myself out of it somehow.

“Let’s do it,” I said.

“Come on back,” the woman said. She turned and went through the door at the back of the studio. Det and I followed her through the door into a small, brightly-lit room. It wasn’t much bigger than a closet. There was a padded bench and a couple of old chairs crammed in there, and a battery of glaring fluorescent bulbs overhead. The tattoo lady sat down and swished the long black hair away from her face.             

“Listen,” she said to me, “your buddy can watch, but if there’s any bullshit I kick you both out and the Snake beats your ass. Got it?”

Det and I nodded. She was one no-nonsense lady.

“Thirty bucks even,” she said.

I paid the money and rolled up my shirt sleeve to show where I wanted Mickey. She went to work. The tattoo lady prepped my shoulder by rubbing it with alcohol and shaving the area with a razor. Then she took out a tool that looked like a miniature electric drill. She dipped the tip of the tool into a tiny ink well and the tool started making a buzzing sound. She steadied my shoulder with her free hand and leaned toward me. My head was light and tingly. I felt like I was watching myself in a dream.

“Don’t move around or you’ll have a mess on your hands,” she said.

The needle went in and I gritted my teeth. The sensation was something like a bee sting, but not nearly as painful as I expected. The tattoo lady drew a small line, then used a gauze pad to wipe away the droplets of blood that had sprung up in the wake of the needle. My head filled up with the buzzing of the tattoo tool. Det asked some questions about how it all worked. According to the lady’s explanation, the outline of the tattoo was done with a long, single needle that went pretty deep into the skin. When the tool made the buzzing sound, the needle went in and out like a sewing machine. The thicker portions were done with a different tool, she explained. It was the same sort of thing, except that it had three needles. The three needles didn’t go as far into the skin as the single needle.

As I was getting inscribed, I couldn’t help but compare the tattoo lady to Elizabeth from the drive-through window. I had a bad habit in those days of comparing women as if I were evaluating different cuts of steak. The tattoo lady had the edge in terms of looks. Those big eyes and long dark hair simply could not be topped. In terms of coolness, the tattoo lady was miles ahead. The score – Two against zip. But for some reason, I found myself deciding that Elizabeth was the better pick. I think this stemmed from the fact she was obviously more available. This is the reason young men fantasize about the girl next door more than movie starlets: the girl next door is more available—there’s a chance you could really cut off a slice.

The beautiful tattoo lady finished the outline and switched to the new tool. By this time, I had stopped feeling any pain at all. I was a regular tattoo veteran. She worked on Mickey with the three-needled device, filling in the dark parts on his ears and nose. She paused every few seconds to wipe away the droplets of blood with her gauze pad. The entire process, including both tools, lasted less than ten minutes. The buzzing sound stopped and the woman took one last look at her work.

“What do you think?” she asked.

The tattoo was just like the design on the placard, except now it was permanently etched into my skin.

“Looks great,” I said, surprised I had actually gotten it.

The tattoo lady put a bandage over the wound and rattled off a list of warnings and recommendations.

“Leave the bandage on for twenty-four hours,” she said. “Don’t be surprised when it scabs up, and don’t try to pull the scab off. It’ll come off itself,” and there were other instructions I forgot.

Det and I got up.

“Thanks,” I said to the tattoo lady. “Hey, any chance we could take a look at Taz, just for comparison purposes?”

“No, but nice try.”

“See you later,” we said.

Det and I passed through the main room of the studio and the Snake stared forward with his perpetual look of disdain. The midafternoon heat blasted us in the face as we walked outside.

Man, you’re a tattooed stud,” Det said. “Did it hurt?”

“Not really.”

“Let’s check it out.” Det pulled off the bandage, violating the tattoo lady’s first recommendation. Who could leave a bandage on for twenty-four hours after getting a tattoo? Not me, anyway.

“That’s incredible.” Det bent close to examine the design. “You’ve been tattooed, now you need to get screwed.”

“Your mother could probably help me out in that category.”

“Bugger off,” Det said, laughing. He punched me on the arm, then rolled up his own sleeve to examine the tattoo potential. I could tell he was already thinking about getting one.

We got in the Bentley and cranked it up. Det reached into the back and grabbed two lukewarm beers which had been rolling around on the floor. We popped the beers open and started slugging them down. The warm beer was nauseating.

Det raised his bottle for a toast. “To your new tattoo and the Mental Defective League.”

I clicked the neck of my beer bottle against his. “Damn straight,” I said.

He looked at his watch.

“I’ve got to go to my writing workshop this afternoon,” he said, “but let’s fuck-up after that.”

“Sure,” I said.

“Call all the puds in the League and tell them we’re going out tonight.”

“Any particular plans?”

“You can’t plan a fuck-up, you just have to let it happen!” he said.

Of course.

Det pulled the Bentley onto Buford Highway and we raced back to the sanitary suburbs of East Cobb.