Autumn in the Abyss

by John Claude Smith

  Autumn in the Abyss

  By

  John Claude Smith

  Omnium Gatherum

  Los Angeles

  Autumn in the Abyss

  Copyright © 2014 John Claude Smith

  “Broken Teacup” first published

  in Grave Demand Magazine 2012

  ISBN-13: 978-0615972732

  ISBN-10: 061597273X

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the author and publisher.

  http://omniumgatherumedia.com

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  First Edition

  For Alessandra and Gabriel, two whose presence in my life is a source of constant inspiration.

  “After one look at this planet any visitor from outer space would say ‘I want to see the manager.’”

  —William S. Burroughs

  Autumn in the Abyss

  “The Word is a living thing.”

  —Marco Cinque, poet.

  From Rene Zimmerman, author of Listening to the Voices: A Compendium of Explorative Literature’s Forgotten Masters (Unsafe Harbor Press, 2009):

  Visionary poet Henry Coronado’s 1956 beige Ford Fairlane was found abandoned, aslant off the always scorching strip of asphalt designated as California State Route 127, shadowing the southeastern edge of Death Valley, early July, 1960. Nobody knows how long it had been there. Nobody knows what happened to him. His final statement to the world was more concrete than poetic: the driver side door was left open.

  He was gone, never to be heard from again.

  Though there seemed a surfeit of suicides and mysterious deaths and disappearances within the literary community during the ’60s and ’70s, in particular the concentrated realm of poetry and experimental fiction, I cannot attest as to why Henry Coronado’s story so fascinates me. Of all those who passed, his fame seemed flimsy at best, with nothing to substantiate it beyond recollections by those who knew him and his sparse poetry. No complete works remain, only piecemeal stanzas and sentences which vary in construction and confirmation among those who claim to have known his work. He’s as much rumor as fact, a phantom shuffling between question mark and ellipses.

  Poets didn’t get famous unless they were blunt forces of nature like Charles Bukowski, or so truly gifted their work endured the test of time like Pablo Neruda, Dylan Thomas, and Walt Whitman. Coronado was Bukowski without the alcohol and rage, without the unflinching glare on the reality of squalor and grit. His words portended a reality just to the left of ours, more fantastical but conveyed in a way no less blunt, no less honest, than Bukowski’s. Or so those in the know alleged. Coronado saw the world with different eyes, as Beat writer, Jack Kerouac, had noted in one of his last interviews, a drunken ramble that never made it to publication. In my research, I was able to obtain a copy of the disjointed transcript, almost an abstract prose poem in and of itself. Kerouac seemed more disillusioned than usual, more drunk as well, yet a sober knot tightened as he expressed his admiration for Coronado’s work, saying, “it had …more truth, more guts in his taut lines than anything any of us would even admit to having seen, witnessed, experienced. What Coronado wrote dug deep into the psychological landscape of America. He saw the ’50s split in half, a battle forged between nuclear threat and the eroding American dream. A piss-stained white picket fence. He saw the ideals inspired by these ideas as the monsters they truly were. Monsters of the mind, the id, ego and neurosis made real. This was compounded and magnified by his general distaste for the human race, something that rubbed many in the Beat community wrong. Though, of course, he had nothing to do with Beat poetry. It was just bad timing on his part to have lived and made his smudged mark during the genesis of the Beats.”

  What I didn’t understand until listening to a CD burned from the original reel-to-reel recording of the Kerouac interview, and hearing it in his voice, was the monsters of the mind were in no way metaphorical. There was stress in his voice, tension, the pace of his conversation shifting down, conspiratorial. I would say that leant more credence to his interpretation of Coronado’s standing in the poetry world. He believed Coronado was a keen observer of the real world, of reality and didn’t have inhibitions about stating exactly what he saw. My take on what Kerouac seemed afraid to divulge— perhaps having as keen an eye as Coronado, but being less inclined to embrace what he truly saw, despite his own works that embraced a freedom, a lifestyle, outside of the norm— seemed eerily prescient when he muttered toward the end of the tape, something not included on the transcript of the interview, “But he was right, you know? Coronado not only confronted these monsters, his demons, he brought them into play with his words. I thought they weren’t real. Coronado proved I was wrong. I don’t know how much more I can take, how much knowledge any human can take.”

  Kerouac was dead three months after the interview, perhaps as much from his alcoholism as the years of knowing whatever it was he really knew. Perhaps his alcoholism was a direct result of knowing too much.

  You may wonder how I got the transcript, and, more so, the recording, if the interview was never published, and Martin Gayles, the interviewer, died in a one car accident the same week as Kerouac— another mysterious death left unexplained. The accident happened during the late afternoon on the Santa Monica Freeway. No drugs or drink were noted in the autopsy.

  Some mysteries shall remain mysteries even to me, much like my shut in tendencies. When I started my research, claiming it was for a biography about Coronado, I contacted Sherrie Gayles, Martin’s wife, about the rumor of the Kerouac interview. She denied it existed, rather forcefully for a woman of eighty-four years old. According to the nurse at Rolling Hills Senior Living she was “…wallowing deep in the throes of dementia.” The nurse seemed doubtful Mrs. Gayles would be of any good to me, yet mention of that interview seemed to give the old woman focus, clearing the confusion of her thoughts and improving her memory.

  “Best to leave it be, sir. Best to let the demons sleep. Best to let them sleep forever.”

  With her speaking of demons, I felt the nurses might be correct, and she was well beyond reliable: she was outright mad. Yet, when I hung up, I sensed something more awry. Her tone, her inflection, was much in line with Kerouac’s cracking voice during his final statements on the recording.

  It was as if I had reminded her of something she never wanted to think of again in this life or any that may follow.

  ~

  A large envelope with my name and address written in firm block letters was dropped through my mail slot a week later. With no return address.

  I called Rolling Hills Senior Living to talk to Mrs. Gayles, only to find she’d passed away the night after I had called. The slim possibility she’d sent me the burned CD was gone. Unless, of course, she’d made calls to somebody else about my query but… none of this made sense. She had adamantly stated there were no remaining recordings of the interview.

  I left it to the Gods and carried on, my research uncovering even more Molotov cocktails disguised as chewy chocolate bon mots.

  A week after receiving the envelope, another smaller envelope slid through the mail slot, dropping as a secret whispered in a willing ear. I heard its muffled plop as I was responding to an email to Roberta Bline who had worked at USC with Coronado for the two semesters he had lasted in 1954, before he left in a huff because his teachings were deemed
incompetent. Bline had hinted that his methods would be considered progressive nowadays. The hushed sound shook me from my concentration. I made way to the door and the lone letter, picked it up and noted it had no stamp. It had not been delivered by the postman, as if I got anything but junk mail anyway. I opened the door and anxiously scanned the unkempt yard, the decrepit houses that surrounded me. The weary world outside.

  My agoraphobia kicked into high gear. I yelled out a feeble, “Hello,” to no avail. The street was as dead as my freedom. Sweat poured profusely down my face, pooled in the armpits of my threadbare gray polo shirt. I closed the door and let out a weighted sigh, a release that magnified my forlorn condition. My heart was beating so loudly I knew another minute or even handful of seconds might send me to the floor, never to rise again.

  After regaining some element of composure, I looked at the blocky lettering, not unlike what had been on the envelope with the transcript and burned CD, and realized it was not even addressed directly to me. My name was not on it at all, yet the message written across the sealed yet empty envelope read: Do you really want to take this path? My discomfort boiled in my belly or possibly deeper. Butterflies grew thick, leathery wings and fluttered madly there. I desperately wanted to run outside and hail the messenger for questioning, yet the thought of even opening the door again made me woozy.

  My struggle for composure demanded rest. I slumped on the sofa, on the side where the springs had yet to eat through the fabric.

  Upon awakening, I found the day had grown cold and dark as best I could see through the slits at the sides of the always closed curtains. The shadows snuggled into the furniture and unlit hallways. I turned on a lamp that flickered— as if undecided as to its purpose, bring light or surrender to the dark— before steadying itself.

  “Yes, I need to take this path,” I said out loud. “I need to know what happened to Henry Coronado.”

  My voice was weak as my Cowardly Lion’s courage, no matter the determination it articulated. My obsession won out, though acid bubbled enthusiastically at my esophagus. Something large scampered across the roof, paws pounding the slate shingles, crushing them into shards; pummeling them as if attempting to break into my house by sheer force of intent.

  I stared up at the ceiling, at the always present shadows that shielded the stippled landscape just below where the commotion centered, for what seemed like hours. I was detached from myself, detached from living, until the more concentrated rattle and hum of the many clocks that filled the walls, cluttered tables and even my wrist— the metal band seemed melded to my flesh, a symbiotic embrace: a cruel reminder of all the time lived, wasted, leaving a snail trail as it passes— forced me to check the time. My watch read 1:43; a.m. or p.m., I did not know. As if it mattered— I snapped out of my stupor, my concentration regained, and headed to the den, ready for more research.

  While we were into experiencing everything, a tactile wonder, the kiss of stars, the only two poems I read of his [Coronado’s] reeked of pessimism and a hatred of his fellow man. We were into freedom of expression. Drugs and drink and orgies abounded. I was quite pleased Coronado never made it to any of our orgies. [laughing] That’s why it always struck me as odd that he connected so strongly with fantasy artist, Russell Randlebot.

  —Diana Voorhees, poet.

  Many who had taken the time to respond to my correspondence had suggested getting in touch with Russell Randlebot would be the most fruitful venture for gathering anything of substance for my biography, though none of them had a legitimate phone number, email or snail mail address. Most claimed Randlebot had an aversion to phones, making the possibility of him even having a computer less viable.

  Late ’50s minor experimental fiction phenom, Dora Sallee’s response even aligned itself to the strange envelope message/warning I’d received a month earlier, stating in her brief email: “Are you sure you want to do this, Mr. Smith? Some things should remain mysteries. You dig too deep, you may find something you really don’t want to know.” Her curt response was not unfamiliar as most of my feedback had been brief at best, but her coda made the butterflies wings thicken again, reminding me that Coronado was not a popular subject and that, really, it might be best to leave it be. Yet, after all these years, I needed to know the truth, having boxed myself in this house and letting curiosity fester as a wound, a scab forever picked at, never healing. This was a mystery worthy of facing head on.

  Of course, contacting Randlebot might be the detour that led me away from finding anything of substance when it came to Coronado’s disappearance because his self-imposed exile since 1960 has made him almost impossible to find.

  Almost.

  As my diligent research turned from hours and days into weeks, it revealed the shocking fact that Russell Randlebot not only lived in this same desolate town, but only a few blocks down the street!

  This discovery sent me to my bedroom for days, blankets pulled to my neck and often over my head when the sounds on the roof grew in intensity. The terrible din suggested the horrors of animals being disemboweled. The ever concentrated pounding, as if the force of desire would create a door in which whatever animal was up there— it seemed much larger than a cat— would barge in and carry on with its vicious ways upon my flabby belly, feeding, feasting, gorging… The startling, improbable truth of Randlebot’s whereabouts bolstered my agoraphobia into a full on panic attack, inspiring fevers that baked my cranial cauldron. My brain, stirred and fueled by a sense of dread so palpable I could feel its bitter joy burn in the back of my throat, could intuit the beast’s malignant companionship as it wrapped me in its glacial embrace.

  Because the only way I could get any information from Randlebot would be to step outside my house, this self-imposed prison constructed by my wayward brain, wardens Paranoia and Trepidation mangling my every thought, and walk the few blocks down my street to his house.

  And knock on the door.

  My groceries were delivered once a week from the local Safeway. I would slide the charge card through the mail slot and nervously wait for the charge slip to sign and for the delivery person’s footsteps to fade away. I would wait longer than necessary before forging the strength to open the door and scramble in and out, hoisting the paper bags into the entranceway, because opening the door, taking in the stale, often frigid air from outside, filled me with a panic I did not want to face. Ever.

  Besides these few occasions to open the door, my life was lived in this tiny, crestfallen house, disrepair its dominant quality. The foundation was encrusted with rust that coated pipes, nuts and bolts. I scrubbed the black mold out of the tub whenever motivation gripped me to take a shower. Furniture unworthy of junk yards cluttered the tiny rooms. The refrigerator groaned and wheedled all night. Dishes bred in the sink. Filthy palm prints stained the urine yellow walls— signs of balance attained in my weakest moments. The musky stink of old sweat, layer upon layer of the stench, flooded my nostrils. Shadows never left the ceiling. All hidden corners harbored empty memories.

  It had been this way for as long as I could remember.

  Soon after I’d discovered Randlebot amazingly lived a mere few blocks down the street from me— it might as well have been another city, another country, perhaps Mars— I received another sealed-envelope: Quietly fade away, “Mr. Smith,” and let it be. Nothing is worth the knowledge you seek.

  All I wanted was to know what had happened to Henry Coronado. Why was this veiled in secrecy? Who was wary of my trespass?

  Quotation marks around my name also suggested the message writer knew of my charade. I had chosen Mr. Smith as a generic pseudonym for my research, not wanting anyone to pry too deeply into my history, to intrude on my already physically and mentally crowded space. One must do what one must do to dig for answers. After years of uncertainty, I needed answers.

  I wondered if Russell Randlebot had heard of my inquiries through the literary grapevine. Perhaps an old friend still in contact with him, one I had gotten in touch with, had r
elayed the information.

  Perhaps he was sending me these messages, yet it all seemed incomprehensible. Agoraphobia breeds paranoia, one’s mind always enveloped in one’s thoughts without distraction. The only way to know would be via action. Stepping out the front door, walking along that desolate street, and saying hello to Randlebot in the flesh.

  We had gone beyond a point of no return, and we were ready for it. None of us wanted to go back to the gray, chill, militaristic silence, to the intellective void— to the land without poetry— to the land of spiritual drabness. We wanted to make it new and we wanted to invent it and the process of it as we went into it. We wanted voice and we wanted vision.

  —Michael McClure, poet, at the Six Poets at Six Gallery event, after Allen Ginsberg had read “Howl” for the first time.

  “Russell Randlebot and Henry Coronado met in San Francisco at the famous Six Poets at Sixth Gallery reading, October 7, 1955. This was a landmark event for the ferocity with which one poet, Allen Ginsberg, launched his salvo, “Howl,” onto the unsuspecting packed room. The crowd included a drunk Jack Kerouac who stamped his empty wine jug shouting “Go!” punctuating each line with enthusiasm and fervor. An Event had taken place. Amidst the wild camaraderie and the drunken revelry, Randlebot recognized a sullen Coronado with a smirk on his face. He was the only member of the audience not embracing the universal euphoria. Introducing himself, he helped shake Coronado from his odd malaise, drinking too much vodka in the process. Randlebot and Coronado woke the following morning in the narrow alley next to soon to be famous Beat bar, Vesuvio. They carried on much of the following day engaged in conversation, dreams, and drink.”