This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the authors’ feeble imaginations, or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental. They were trying to write a story about a wandering barbarian in the middle ages, but it didn’t work out.
Published by New Mouth from the Dirty South
Copyright Abram Shalom Himelstein and Jamie Schweser 1998, 2000. All rights reserved.
Cover photo by Carl Schweser
This is the third edition. Too bad you weren’t cool enough to get a copy of the first or second. They’re gonna be worth a dollar or two in a thousand years or so. Don’t worry though, everything in this edition is the same. (Except for the previous sentence, and this one, too.)
Copies of this book are $10 postpaid in the United States. More elsewhere.
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This book is dedicated to good parents, especially ours.
“Every fury on earth has been absorbed in time, as art, or as religion, or as authority in one form or another. The deadliest blow the enemy of the human soul can strike is to do fury honor. Swift, Blake, Beethoven, Christ, Joyce, Kafka, name me a one who has not been thus castrated. Official acceptance is the one unmistakable symptom that salvation is beaten again, and is the one surest sign of fatal misunderstanding, and is the kiss of Judas.”
James Agee in Let Us Now Praise Famous Men
Editor’s Note
I came into possession of these documents as Elliot’s half of the Hannah Rosenberg Doesn’t Run Away in 1995 Treaty. When I decided to make a book out of this, Elliot was reluctant, but eventually went for the I-need-some-kind-of-project-to-keepmy-sanity-intact excuse.
I promised Elliot that he wouldn’t have to deal with the sorting through, editing, or publishing of this, and he has made me honor my word. Repeated requests for a bit of extra information to round out the story have only elicited muttered responses such as: “Jonah… Nineveh…” and, “You are your own whale.”
I’d like to thank Maureen for letting me use letters by her and to her, and for her time and help.
I’ve kept editing down to a minimum. I’ve fought off the urge to underline sections and add some study questions. Documents are placed in my closest reconstruction of chronological history. The only major changes are that the journals and letters, which were originally hand-written, have been typed and titled.
The story might be tidier with a suicide, or a drug overdose, or a graffiti-covered tombstone in Paris. What actually happened isn’t nearly as profitable for the record company, but more pleasant for his family. I know there are things in here that make Elliot cringe, but the whale has carried me to this shore, and I have only these pages to offer.
My first editorial effort. Dig in. It tastes better than it looks.
Sincerely,
Hannah Elise Rosenberg, literary executor
June 9, 1991
Dear Maureen,
So not only did you leave me alone in this hellhole, it’s actually gotten more hellish, if that’s possible. More ugly, more pathetic and twisted. But I’m sure the bird has sung long distance by now. Her worst expectations confirmed. But to tell the truth, I’d really like to write about something else first. Not that I have any good news, I’m just sick of dealing with the worst news, so I’ll start with the mediocre.
A party at Andy Davis’s house, just like the hundreds of others parties of that nature, so I guess I should spare you the details, but then this letter would be less than a page long, and since I’m expecting more from you, here goes:
The usual. Beer. Meatheads. Airheads. I’m talking to Teeters in a field at the edge of the noise of Deathhorse’s hard rock covers. He’s telling me about his year in Knoxville and wonders if I’m going. And I’m still not. More time with the Teeterses of the world? Um, fuck you, but no.
Then the inevitable. Ooh, a fight. Like iron shavings toward a magnet, like Ma ringing the dinner bell; all the children come running. (I’m pretty sure that if you walked into a city council meeting and yelled “Fight!” you could clear the room as everyone would leave to watch.) I made it to the keg just in time to see Jason going at it with The Steroid King. Seems they’d had a disagreement over the existential meanderings of Camus versus Sartre, and how it related to who was next in the keg line. S.K. convinced J of Sartre’s superior intellect and Colin and I got to carry Jay to the station wagon.
We drove out to Wal-Mart to wait for Jay to sober up so we wouldn’t have to carry him into his house. We were a little representational painting of America right there: teenage boys in a Ford, 1/3 drunk and recently involved in a brawl. Where’s Norman Cockwell when you need him?
That’s when the cops arrived to put us in our place/ save the Wal-Mart parking lot from us ruffians. Officer Richard Plummer remains his usual genius self.
On the way to Jay’s house, we were at the red light on Highway 47 when this Rolls Royce pulled up next to us. (Rich guy dialogue: “Hey let’s go do some lines of coke in Wilson.” ????) Jay sits up looking Raging Bull. He started rolling down the window. (I’m thinking about staying up an extra two hours, washing the car so his vomit doesn’t ruin the paint job, airing it out, making sure that my parents don’t smell Jay and ask questions. Thinking about what geniuses my friends are, and what a genius I must be for being their friend.)
Jay started screaming out the window, in an ultra-country voice, “Hey, is that a Rolls Royce?!?” He got no response, so he opened the door and stumbled out into the street, and, much to the rich fucker’s horror, started tapping on the window. “Hey, I seen one just like that on Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous! Hey, are y’all famous? Hey look at that boys, it’s a real live Rolls Royce.” Since my choices for friends seem to be drunken idiots or drunken idiots, I’m glad that I picked the funny drunken idiot.
Then, on Thursday, as if this town isn’t already enough of a pile of shit, I managed to add my name to the anus of its history. When the shit hits the fan, it really splatters, and in this case it was a lot of shit, and I’m sure it’s splattered pretty far. I thought maybe I could write a letter fast enough for you to get it and use it as some sort of turd umbrella or something, but I didn’t send it in time. Anyway, I’m sure you’ve already heard about my adventures in glass work, seeing as how news travels faster than it happens. (Not that I would ever say that certain people around here gossip too much, no I would never say that.) Letter enclosed, nuff said.
Sorry this is so short. I’ll write another letter that’s more flowery and nice when I’m feeling less suicidal.
-Elliot
June 26, 1991
Dear Mr. Easterling,
This is a hard letter to begin, but I’ll start with what I want to be the theme for this letter: I am sorry and embarrassed for what I did to your store. There are no excuses for what I did, but I’m going to try to explain why I did it.
What I did was wrong. It made things worse. I hope that this letter does the opposite. I hope you’ll read this.
On Thursday I stopped by your store to pick up a sprinkler for my dad. I walked in and waved to Paul Nicholson and found the sprinkler. As I approached the counter, you were talking on the phone, and I heard you say, “Bout the only thing that you can trust a nigger to do is to steal.” You looked up and saw me there, sprinkler in hand. I a
lmost swiveled my head to exchange glances with Paul, to let him know that I didn’t share your racist opinion. But he already knows how you feel, and I didn’t want to drag him into any disagreement with his employer.
I think you knew that I didn’t share your feelings, but you lowered the phone and smiled, “Well, it’s the truth ain’t it?” I should have walked out. But you told me a price, and I handed you some money, and then you gave me my change like nothing had happened.
At home I sat in my room and replayed again and again what you said. And how I didn’t look at Paul. And wondered if Paul thought that I was a racist for not saying anything back to you. I worried that Paul might think that me being a racist was the reason that we weren’t friends after sixth grade. Paul and I had been friends all through grammar school. But then we got to middle school, and we haven’t spoken much since. And I worried that Paul thinks that it’s because I don’t like black people, or I think that black people “can’t be trusted.”
I started to get angry, thinking about how crappy the whole thing was, remembering all the foul, rotten parts of Wilson. Things I usually try not to remember. Like how mad I was when my mom wouldn’t let me have a study date with Nileen Morehead because, “People might get the wrong idea and burn the house down.” Or the time my father and I drove to Covington to get new tags for the car and were “greeted” by a gang of KKK in full robe. When one of them forced literature through my open, passenger-side window, that was the first time that I had seen fear on my father’s face.
That night, at dinner, I told my parents about what happened, and they said that we wouldn’t shop at your store anymore, but somehow that just didn’t seem like any consolation. It didn’t square things up.
I was lying in bed, and I couldn’t sleep. I kept hearing what you said, and getting madder and madder at you and more and more embarrassed. Finally I just couldn’t take it anymore, grabbed my baseball bat, went to your store and broke the windows. I mean all of this not to excuse what I did, but to begin to explain.
There’s this part of Judaism that goes like this: God created the world imperfect, with flaws, and then created humans to straighten out the problems. It’s called Tikkun Olam, which means “Fixing the World.” There are a lot of things about my religion that have been difficult to understand and follow, but the idea that this world is messed up seems pretty true, and I accept that it’s all of our of jobs to make the world better. Which I didn’t do when I broke your windows with a baseball bat. Which I am trying to do now with this letter.
In closing, I’d like to tell you what I wish that I had done. When you said that stuff about black people, I should have said, “I don’t agree,” put down my purchase on the counter and walked out. I wouldn’t have had to look at Paul to show him that I was on his side.
At the dinner table (before I broke your windows) my mother said that I should write you a letter explaining how I felt, and I thought that it wasn’t enough. And here I am, with the beginnings of a criminal record, four hundred dollars for the poorer, writing the letter I should have written that night.
I hope this letter, in some way, starts to make things better.
Sincerely,
Elliot Rosenberg
July 8, 1991
Maureen-
A jail break has been planned. I wanted to wait for your conjugal visit, but a month and a half feels like a forever right now. It couldn’t stay this shitty-well maybe it can stay this shitty - but I’m leaving.
DC bound. Not Knoxville. Not college. Not Wilson til I die. Deeee Seeee, you see.
This is the story: me and Colin went to see Marchenko play in Memphis. Since I went with Colin, we left late, and when we got there this band, Three On The Tree, were already playing. It was the antithesis of a big rock show. It was at this warehouse by the river. No stage, no extra lights, no backstage, the bands were hanging out and talking to people in the audience. Plus no one was drunk. Plus it only cost five bucks, and it wasn’t in a bar or anything, these guys just rented the warehouse and had the show there. Two other bands played before Marchenko, and then when Marchenko played, it was totally packed and people were going ape-shit, and there was this big circle of people slamming in front. The band stopped the show and asked people to settle down so everyone could have fun and not get hurt. They also talked about a lot of their songs before they played them. One was about this big police brutality thing in DC. Every song built up into swirling madness until it seemed like all the equipment was broken, and then the next song would start on a dime and do it all over again. They were totally out of control, and played completely tight at the same time. Fucking incredible. Best show ever.
After the show I wanted to ask them questions about DC. They were all drenched in sweat, I was all drenched in sweat. I felt like a geeky groupie or something, but they were really friendly. Ed, the bassist, gave me the number of this house in Arlington (a suburb of DC) called the Positive Change House, which is where he lives with a bunch of other punk people. He said it’s a good place to check for rooms in the DC area, since a lot of people move in and out.
So that was it. I was like, “Fuck Wilson, I’m moving to DC.” By the time I got home, I could see the Washington Monument on the horizon. I was pretty stoked, but you know, whatever, anywhere would be better than Wilson.
So I called today and talked to a guy there, and it turns out they’ve got a room opening for two months, starting August 1. The house rules seem cool: no meat, no alcohol, no drugs. It doesn’t seem like they have a “You’re Going To Hell If You Touch The Stuff” attitude or anything, though.
Tonight I tell my folks. It’s been tense around the house since The Incident. They’re still less than thrilled about the no-college-right-away decision. But even if college is “really different from high school,” I’m in no mood. So things will be easier on everyone if I at least leave town. Even if it’s not for Harvard. At least Hannah has been at camp and hasn’t had to deal with all of this shit.
Late
Big blow-out with the folks. Done some screaming, some crying. No college = failing at life. Failing 101, enrollment deadline is next week. Here’s my deposit, sign me the fuck up. I’m gonna ace this one. Think maybe I’ll go out and break some windows. Oh wait, I guess I already passed that class.
4:20 am
Fuck. I can’t believe I’m making plans that mean that we won’t see each other for a long time. Salivating for a few weeks with you. It’s been a long month with no definite plan for escape. And now I have one. I wish that we were running away together, but you’ve got your escape pod ready, and there’s no room, and now I’ve got one too. I know that you know…
Strange that I know that I’m leaving and you don’t know. Strange to make this decision without hearing anything about what you think about any of this. The only good thing here is thinking about how you used to be here. So I should go where there’s something better, right? A phone date? I’d really like to hear your voice, and not have a six day lag in communication.
Love,
Elliot
July 20, 1991
Dear Maureen,
Just counting down the days. Going to work. Playing guitar. Now that I’m leaving, I have this urge to find every person in town and tell them exactly what annoys me about them. Today I wrote a song for Missy Johnson.
Big red chewing gum breath, carmex covered lips, I want you.
I love the way your hair stands up, up against gravity, in open defiance of all that this world stands for.
Please teach me the right color blush for the natural look.
Please teach me that look, that look that fools so many - the dumb, the pseudo-deep, that look that makes idiots believe that you don’t understand the darkness/evilness of all that surrounds you.
What inner-strength you show with that fluorescent green skiing jacket.
Higher you reach, your hair says it all.
Glad to hear that camp is cool. Sounds like you had a good time on your wee
kend off. It’s cool that you’ve made friends with that German guy. What did he think of the amusement park? Do y’all speak German or English when you’re not around the kids?
No word yet from Easterling. It was pretty bizarre, writing that letter as “Elliot the Jew.” I forget that lots of people in town think about my family as the Jew Family. Until I’m reminded. Not that I’m not psyched about being a Heeb, but there are some crappy parts, too. Example: there’s a prayer that men are supposed to say every day that goes like this, “Thank you, O lord, my god, who did not make me a woman.” It ain’t all apples and honey, this Jewish Heritage.
In addition to my daily prayers, I’ve been mixing a new tape for you. And as a special bonus, Rabbi Rosenberg has written some commentary about what the musicians are trying to tell us.
“Dressed to Kill,” is on Marchenko’s new album. I was lying on my bed a couple nights ago, listening to this, and it hit me that a lot of these songs are about the Gulf War, “Drop one down the chimney/that’s so erotic/ A free vacation/ somewhere exotic” and I was back in the minute when we drove down to Austin so you could check out the school and so I could take a trip with you (and so that we could burn a lot of gas and give America a reason to fight a war for oil). I remembered the “Support the Troops” parade organized by the fraternities, and standing alongside the main street, watching rich frat boys on floats showing their support. Alternately being overwhelmed by how frustrated and small and crushed we were by the whole big war machine, and then rallying again to make sarcastic comments about the parade. My near insane, off key screamed version of “Proud to be an American.” And that woman, wearing the “woman: man = fish: bicycle” t-shirt screaming at the parade over and over, “You fucking idiots. You fucking idiots.”
And sleeping with you that night: super fragile creatures clinging and clutching for warmth and comfort in the face of something big and scary and undefeatable.
Tales of a Punk Rock Nothing Page 1
