CONTENTS INTRODUCTION CELIA AN ANGEL, FRAIL AS A TEA CUP THE GRANDE DAME AN AFTERTHOUGHT HOWARD HELENA SOMETHING ABOUT NAMES BASIC SCULPTURE DORIS NOR RAIN NOR DARK OF NIGHT I ALMOST LEARN A THING NOT A CALF SLIM AND THE CHEVY TREE STORIES SUMMER OF FUN BILLY and KEN-TUCK THE LANGUAGE OF WORK MY THINKING ON RELIGION BURGER STAND BAPTISM The KNOWN ‘N’ UNKNOWN AMOS HELENA HOG HOWARD AND THE BICYCLE PHYLLIS MY AFFAIR WITH A DRUG DEALER’S WIFE CALVIN RASHID SWIMPS GRANDMA AND MOKE A TAILOR OF GREAT SADNESS REGGIE JANE SOMETHING BETTER TO DO WALTER DUNBAR ROUSTED AIRHEAD PERCY SLIM AND THE ROYCES BEV GOODBYE, SLIM GOODBYE, AMY GOODBYE, PERCY MY DEEP UNDERSTANDING OF PRESIDENTIAL CANDIDATES RENTING A GARAGE WITHOUT COOKIES The RAMBLER BOB, NORMAN, PAUL and JANN I DOUBLE BARE ASSED IN KANSAS THOATS DAHLIA JUST US SAVIORS SOME, You Know, DEALING MARGARET LARRY A COUPLE DAYS WITH ALICE D WAR AND CAFÉ An Interlude The GROVE AVENUE REPUBLIC FARET’S MONEY AND DIPLOMAS AND RECKLESS DRIVING SLAW NO MOSS LIFE BEGINS TO WORK ITSELF OUT CONCLUSION |
photo by Paul Belote
What it's about:
It’s about innocence. (Innocence is always nice.) It’s about stalking and bigotry and peculiar events
involving winos and junkies and arrogance and shame and a $6000 bicycle (back then that was a
chunk of change.) There’s a guy in there who built a 19 foot mahogany speedboat in his basement.
There are rednecks in there, naturally, and several black people—but only one who thinks the world
owes him anything—and a Jewish tailor or two. There are car stories concerning a ’57 Chevy and
several Rolls Royces and a Rambler…oh, and one Peugeot and two Mercedes. There are pick-up
trucks that get involved, and a dog who has a way with cards. Of course there’s sex in there; sex both
vulgar and pure. There are stories about work and stories about trees. Because it’s the Sixties there’
s something in there about war and resistance and the philosophy of those both involved and wishing
only to remain un. There are stories about acid and drug dealers and reckless driving and the Rolling
Stones and Norman Mailer, and though some people insist it was Art Garfunkel, it was Paul Simon.
But, Bob Dylan walks through, there’s no doubt about that, and there’s a Persian prince and stories
about coleslaw and excursions to California, and more. Here’s what's weird, it’s all true.
This is not a novel, it’s the memories of some old bastard with his head screwed on backward, gazing
at the past with a cold but compassionate, somewhat weepy, eye. It took four years to live it, 40 years
to think about it and something more than three years to write about it.
Give it a try. If you don’t like it, give it to the public library, where it might fall into the hands of
someone with less money than you, but greater discernment.
It’s about innocence. (Innocence is always nice.) It’s about stalking and bigotry and peculiar events
involving winos and junkies and arrogance and shame and a $6000 bicycle (back then that was a
chunk of change.) There’s a guy in there who built a 19 foot mahogany speedboat in his basement.
There are rednecks in there, naturally, and several black people—but only one who thinks the world
owes him anything—and a Jewish tailor or two. There are car stories concerning a ’57 Chevy and
several Rolls Royces and a Rambler…oh, and one Peugeot and two Mercedes. There are pick-up
trucks that get involved, and a dog who has a way with cards. Of course there’s sex in there; sex both
vulgar and pure. There are stories about work and stories about trees. Because it’s the Sixties there’
s something in there about war and resistance and the philosophy of those both involved and wishing
only to remain un. There are stories about acid and drug dealers and reckless driving and the Rolling
Stones and Norman Mailer, and though some people insist it was Art Garfunkel, it was Paul Simon.
But, Bob Dylan walks through, there’s no doubt about that, and there’s a Persian prince and stories
about coleslaw and excursions to California, and more. Here’s what's weird, it’s all true.
This is not a novel, it’s the memories of some old bastard with his head screwed on backward, gazing
at the past with a cold but compassionate, somewhat weepy, eye. It took four years to live it, 40 years
to think about it and something more than three years to write about it.
Give it a try. If you don’t like it, give it to the public library, where it might fall into the hands of
someone with less money than you, but greater discernment.
| When I Was a Low-Life by Henry Edward Fool |