Dispatches from the Road: Flashing Back and Full Circle

December 5, 2005 @ 1:49 pm

Orange County, California, former whereabouts of yours truly and currently those of Manhattan White. I was at the Men of Mystery Conference at the Irvine Marriott.

With close to sixty authors, the 90-second introduction with miscellaneous shuffling, applause and other buffers, the opening session clocked in at roughly an hour and a half. The margins in the program allowed for tics and flags on the authors you wanted to meet, but the hand shaking and baby kissing time was for the attendees, so the writers foraged for stolen networking moments at bathroom sinks and coffee urns. I flagged one such chap in my brochure during his 1.5 minutes of M.O.M. fame that morning. Rob Roberge seemed like my kind of people: the same rhythm to his introductory banter- pimping his Long Beach-based neo-noir fiction- and clad as was I in a black shirt, jeans and a leather coat. Lou Reed Office Casual. Yeah, narcissism loves company. We brushed shoulders at the close of the day, in a confluence of glad-handing, exchanged pleasantries (dark, mysterious pleasantries beneath sharp lighting and sharper jazz), but my head was already far away from the hotel. In typical Craig fashion, I’d exceeded my per diem and screwed up my schedule, thus checking out of the hotel to head for Los Angeles, but with nowhere to sleep until the following night, and next to no cash.

I stood outside the lobby, mad dialing to find a friendly couch in L.A. and figure out how to get to the train station via the bus (not as easy as it sounds… getting by on public transportation in Orange County is akin to buying a television in Soviet Russia). Rob Roberge passed me once again on the way to his car.

“Need a ride somewhere?”

“Only if you’re going to L.A.”

I did, he was, so we went. A major act of faith on both parts, given we had to ask each others’ names again as we hit the freeway. Idle banter ensued, of the SoCal variety, i.e., us calculating driving time not based on distance, but traffic and the time of day (my personal equation for calculating drive time: assume 60 mph for the distance of the drive to get your base commuting time, then multiply that by the amount of freeway interchanges you encounter; multiply the result by 1.3 when driving between 10:00 a.m. and 2:00 p.m.,; double when driving between 7:00 a.m. and 10:00 a.m., or 2:00 p.m. and 7:00 p.m…. it’s pretty accurate).

Rob threw out his estimate and I said, “Yeah, I figured as much. I grew up around here.”

“Yeah, where?”

I told him.

“My wife, Gayle, grew up there, too,” he said.

“What’s her last name?”

He told me.

Shit.

Holy shrinking planet, Batman.

17 years ago. Rum and Coke. Someone’s back yard party in the summer. A band tearing through their set in order to finish before 10:00 p.m., when OC’s finest drop their doughnuts and start swinging. My hair was halfway down the back of my leather jacket, as I’d given the finger to the barber’s chair upon my release from Catholic school four years prior; my cowboy boots- black with blue stitching and custom made from some big-ass breed of Texas lizard- had me walking like I owned the place (cut me some slack… I was young, and it took me years to learn that it wasn’t what was on my feet, but in my head, that switched my slouch to a swagger). A beautiful lass named Gayle, with Betty Page bangs and a wit as sharp as her eyes, was looking to reload her Rum and Coke, and I just happened to be blocking the ice chest. I said something right, because we were making out before her refill stopped fizzing (it was the boots). We moved to the couch and continued not talking to each other while breathing through our noses. I must have made an impression, because she went out with me soon after, which meant her climbing onto the back of my motorcycle, and she hated motorcycles (man, what did I ever do with those boots?).

Rob gave the slantindicular eye during my silence.

“You…?” he started to ask.

“No.”

“Come on.”

“No, dude, I didn’t. I went out with her once, maybe twice. It was a long time ago, but I definitely did not sleep with her.”

I spoke the truth. Seventeen years had passed. Rob might or might not believe me, and he might or might not care. Regardless, my bags were in his trunk, we’d just met, he was doing just over 65 with me in his passenger seat and nobody else knew where I was. Yes, he believed me and no, after 17 years, it didn’t matter, anyway. Our conversation ricocheted for the rest of the drive from our respective publishing war stories, to throwing out strings of names from our old days, shotgunning for another common connection. After we pulled into his driveway, we’d rung scores of faint, rusty bells and hit a couple of bull’s-eyes, though we’d never been in the same room until that day.

I met Gayle again. Still fetching, still sharp-eyed and sharp-witted, and she remembered the same few patchy details of our ice-chest romance. By then, I was more than halfway to Hollywood, where a couch awaited, and I’d altogether bypassed Orange County’s cold-war bus system in favor of a home cooked dinner, a cold pint, a new friend and a reconnection with a happy memory.

A couple of hours later, I stepped out of the Metro station at Hollywood and Vine. I’d been sandbagged with my belongings but, I’ve mastered the craft of traveling light. Not to mention I was in the pulsing center of John Vincent’s old stomping grounds, which I know like the back of his left hand. After another phone tag volley, I drop my bags in front of the Frolic Room and scan the LA Weekly for “Baer & Clevenger” in the listings. It’s a matter of time before a van, sans back windows, pulls up to the disheveled guy at the street corner with his bags at his feet and fresh off the train and voice from behind the tinted glass says, “Wanna be in a movie?”

Before the inevitable arrives, though, I hear a horn, then my name, and among the traffic I see a familiar rear windshield Rat Fink sticker. Then I’m home, sort of, at Susan Sinner’s (how cool is that name?), my veteran road trip sister and jazz vocalist extraordinaire. Her Saturday wasn’t over, so she had to take off again but I needed to rest. She left me to my own designs on her couch with a strong drink and the original “Kiss Me Deadly” on dvd, and I couldn’t stop smiling.

Of all the high points of the last several weeks, that night was among the highest. I also met David Corbett at the M.O.M. conference, got writer’s cramp signing books at Book Soup and City Lights, reconnected with the faithful folks at the Mystery Bookstore in Westwood, drank too much cheap vodka and watched William Shatner sing “Rocket Man” on some ancient video at a house of Silverlake, slept on a lot of floors and in a lot of hotels, and shook hands with more Velvet loyalists than I ever thought I’d meet. Life is more or less returning to normal. Except for the Austin Writer’s Conference in March, I don’t plan on being anywhere until the Dermaphoria paperback is released in the fall. I resume bar work tonight, as well as hammering out book number three (my last one… again).

Stay warm and bound,

Craig

P.S. Since you asked… currently reading Rob Roberge’s More Than They Could Chew, David Corbett’s The Devil’s Readhead, James Sallis’s The Long-Legged Fly, and Neil Gaiman’s Anansi Boys.

Dispatches from the Road: the CBGB’s of Books

December 2, 2005 @ 1:57 pm

City Lights was off the hook, as in packed to the stairwells. Thanks to all who showed up, and apologies to those who were stuck outside or turned away. I’m heading to L.A. this afternoon, signing at the Mystery Bookstore in Westwood tomorrow at 4:00. When I return, I’ll write a much overdue post and wrap up the tour. In the meantime, there’s a new interview over at Suicide Girls, just in case you didn’t feel like working today.

Stay warm and bound.

-Craig