by Billie Letts
“That he is.”
Vena let her head fall forward as she rubbed the back of her neck.
“You want some coffee?” Caney asked.
“No. I’m too tired to lift a cup.”
“Tired?” He studied her face. “Or is it something else?”
She looked puzzled. “Like what?”
“Vena, you haven’t changed your mind about anything, have you?”
“Changed my mind?”
“About being back here. Being with me.”
“Caney, I have a family here. You and Pax. Bui, MollyO…”
“I just don’t want you to feel like you’re stuck. Don’t ever want you to think this is the end of the road.”
“I’ve seen the end of the road, Caney, and believe me, this isn’t it.”
“I’m just scared, I guess.”
“Scared of what?”
“That it can’t last. That you’ll need to go again.”
“I’m not going anywhere, Caney. Seems like this is the place I’ve been heading all my life. I took a thousand wrong turns before I got here, but… boat go where boat go.”
“Vena, I love you,” he said as he reached across the table and took her hand. “It’s just hard for me to trust happiness.” He swallowed hard, trying to ease the tightness that thickened his voice. “But if you love me, I can do anything.”
“Yeah,” she said, hinting at a dare, “like what?”
“Oh, play the saxophone. Write poetry. Eat anchovies. Build you a house on that rise back in the meadow.”
“Where that stand of oaks shades the creek?”
“They’ll be right in your front yard.”
“Well, I don’t know.” She shook her head. “If that’s all you can offer, then…”
“Wait! I’m not finished.”
“I’m listening.”
“I’ll wear a tie at our wedding, paint your portrait.”
“You better be careful.”
“Vena, I can do anything as long as you love me.”
“Even dance?”
“Like Fred Astaire.”
“Now you’ve gone too far.”
“You think so?”
He rolled to the jukebox, dropped in a quarter and punched B7, turned and held out his hand.
Vena pulled off the towel and let it slide to the floor, shaking her wet hair free while she moved toward him.
Gathering her in his arms, pressing her warmth against him, he felt the stir of her breath on his throat when she whispered his name.
Then they danced, circling a floor of cracked linoleum, unaware of the smell of stale grease and onions, unmindful of the blowing rain striking the windows.
They danced, sweeping across a ballroom floor, polished, gleaming, smooth. They danced, filled with the sweet aroma of pine needles and pumpkin and baby powder. They danced, entranced by a crisp, clear sky lit by twinkling stars and a bright, full moon.
They danced, this man and this woman, whirling and spinning together on one magical Christmas night in the Honk and Holler Opening Soon.
Reading Group Guide
A Q&A with Billie Letts
Q. The Honk and Holler Opening Soon is such an intriguing title. How did you come up with it?
A. When I was sixteen, I worked as a carhop in Tulsa, at a drive-in where most customers would park on the lot and honk for service. But if they were kids, they’d usually yell or, as we say in Oklahoma, holler. So “The Honk and Holler” seemed an appropriate title. I tacked on “Opening Soon” when I came up with the idea of Caney being drunk when he ordered the neon sign.
Q. The characters in your books are sometimes described as quirky. Do you agree?
A. I don’t take offense when people call my characters “quirky,” but I suspect the use of the word is simply a shortcut for reviewers. Most people act and react in highly individual ways. We’re all a little “quirky.”
Q. As you were writing The Honk and Holler Opening Soon, did you have a particular favorite among your characters?
A. My favorite? That’s a tough one because I get so involved with my characters that they become real to me—so real that naming a favorite seems like a slight to the others. But I will admit that Bui Khanh was great fun to write. I’ve always liked the “fish-out-of-water” characters, the ones who are set down in an environment that is alien to them. And for Bui, most everything in Sequoyah was a mystery. For instance, in his first few days at the Honk, he thought certain customers ate in their cars because they were not allowed to come inside for service. And I loved teaching him English. I taught Vietnamese students for several years and it was one of the most fulfilling jobs I ever had. With Bui, I had the opportunity to teach again.
Q. Why did you decide to make Caney Paxton, your central character, a paraplegic? What problems did you create for yourself in making that decision?
A. I don’t remember deciding to make Caney a paraplegic. He “came” to me in a wheelchair. That’s the way I saw him from the beginning. As I writer, I encountered the problem of dealing with his movement. Able-bodied characters can walk, stroll, saunter… amble, run, trot, dash, scurry. So I had to work to find ways of describing Caney’s movements without being too repetitive.
Q. What kind of research went into writing this novel?
A. I tend to think of “real” research as a formal study of textual material. My research was of a different kind. I had to get into the mind and body of a man living in a wheelchair. To do that, I turned to a friend, a quadriplegic, who gave me insights into his life. For the character of Bui Khanh, I relied on Vietnamese students and friends. And to establish the setting and the minor characters, I hung out in a few small town cafes and drive-ins. Not very formal research, but what I learned came from real people who live lives similar to those of my characters.
Q. Several of your characters deal with pregnancy in this story. Brenda chooses to end hers with an abortion; Helen gives birth to a stillborn baby; Nguyet is expecting a child, though it’s not Bui’s; and Vena, having had one abortion when she was seventeen, leaves the Honk intending to have another. And in Where the Heart Is, one of the first things we learn about Novalee Nation is that she is seven months pregnant. Why is pregnancy/abortion/birth such an important issue in your books?
A. I believe the greatest decision a woman has to make in her life is whether to have children. And like it or not, that decision has become one of the great issues of the twentieth century. Everyone has an opinion, so the issue takes on political, social and religious significance. I prefer to keep my opinion out of my work, but I do put my characters in situations where they must make their own choices about bringing another life into the world.
Q. Both of your books revolve around dispossessed, poorly educated people who live from payday to payday. Why do you write about characters who lead such marginal lives?
A. I haven’t spent much of my life around wealthy, powerful people, so I don’t attempt to tell stories about them. Most of what I know of such people is what I see in movies or read in books. My characters don’t make important decisions in corporate boardrooms; they don’t call their stock brokers on their cell phones; and they don’t shop at Neiman Marcus or drive Rolls Royces. Instead, they have to try to manage to stretch minimum wages to pay rent, buy shoes for their kids, keep their old Chevys and Fords running, and get medical treatment when they have no insurance and no more than a few bills in their pockets. But despite their financial conditions, the working-class characters in my stories try to live worthwhile lives, lives with dignity.
Q. In your first novel, the central character, a seventeen-year-old pregnant girl, lived secretly in a Wal-Mart. In this new book, one character lives in a church, one finds shelter in an abandoned bus, and another lives in a drive-in. Why do you have your characters take up residence in such strange places?
A. I went to school with a woman who, when she was a child, lived with her mother and sister in a chicken coop, their only shelter for several months. I know abou
t a Vietnam vet who lives in a cave in eastern Oklahoma and I read about a man who lived in a crawl space over a shopping mall in California. A man here in Durant was found living in a mini-storage unit one summer when the temperature was 104. My family—father, uncles, aunts—moved from oil field to oil field during the depression, living in tents and on the flatbed truck in which they traveled. Read the papers. Watch TV Survivors survive—not just in Albania, or Nicaragua, or Indonesia, but also in the towns and cities we all know.
Q. You frequently write about people who lack a family in the traditional sense, yet form unconventional ties that provide them with a sense of belonging. What draws you to this theme?
A. So many families are nontraditional. Many more are made up of “your kids, my kids, our kids” than ever before. More and more children are being raised by grandparents, foster families, single parents, or in institutions. We all need to belong—to love and be loved. So those without a “real” family reach out, and if they’re fortunate enough to find the good people—and there are many out there—bonds are formed, families are forged.
Q. Your novels are filled with characters who have suffered great tragedies and experienced deep loneliness. Yet, in the end, the stories you tell are joyous and life-affirming. How do you explain this?
A. Almost everyone I know has suffered some tragedy. Most people have obviously experienced the prolonged sorrow of loneliness. But people have a way of going on, building new lives after divorce, the loss of children, spouses, siblings, parents. They live with loss and sadness, yet find comfort in opening themselves to others. Ah, humanity!
Q. How was writing this book different from writing Where the Heart Is? Did you feel that you had to live up to any expectations? Which one was harder to write?
A. I was amazed and thrilled at the response I got from readers of Where the Heart Is, so when I started my second book, the fear of disappointing readers almost overwhelmed me. A nasty little voice started whispering in my ear each time I tried to work, a voice insisting that I wasn’t going to be able to live up to my readers’ expectations. I really struggled to overcome self-doubt.
Q. You’ve just written the screenplay for The Honk and Holler Opening Soon. How does the writing of a screenplay differ from that of a novel? Which do you prefer?
A. I had written several screenplays before I wrote my first book, so I was familiar with the structure—the arc of the story. But those scripts came from my own imagination. Writing the screenplay for The Honk and Holler Opening Soon was my first attempt to adapt a book for the screen… and in this case, I was adapting my own work. I found it quite difficult, mainly because I had to let go of some of the characters and events in the book. That was painful, but then I remembered a maxim: “A book is not a movie and a movie is not a book.” The cliche we so often hear, “The book was better than the movie,” is like saying “The airplane is better than the sparrow.”
Q. What writers have influenced your writing the most?
A. I suppose that in some mysterious way everything I’ve read has helped me find the voice that speaks in my work, but there are some that are vivid in my memory.
The Sound and the Fury by William Faulkner and Toni Morrison’s The Bluest Eye taught me to listen to the rhythm of language. In Maya Angelou’s I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings, I learned about the gift of hope that can come from writing honestly about pain. Flannery O’Connor’s short stories made me believe I could write in the language of my Oklahoma culture and tell stories about the people I come from. In To Kill a Mockingbird, Harper Lee showed me that storytelling can change people’s lives. And in her collection Woman Hollering Creek, Sandra Cisneros gave me “Salvador Late or Early,” so powerful in its simplicity that I am humbled each time I read it.
Q. What are you doing now? What’s next for you?
A. I have a couple of stories banging around in my head right now. Just when I decide to start one of them, the other shouts “Write me! Write me first,” so I’m still unsure what my next book is. Maybe I won’t know until I sit down at the typewriter a few days from now. But that’s the part of writing I love—the surprises.
Discussion Questions
The Honk and Holler Opening Soon is set in Sequoyah, a very small town in Oklahoma. Is it realistic to believe that a Vietnam vet, a Native American woman, an African American woman and a Vietnamese man might come together under the strange circumstances in the book? Do you find it believable that outsiders such as Bui or Vena could be fully accepted into this insular community?
Which of the characters do you feel you have most in common with? Why?
Bui Khan, a recently arrived immigrant, understands little of the language and culture of the United States, yet he is in search of the American Dream. What are his chances of achieving that dream?
Caney Paxton stayed inside the Honk from 1973 until 1985. What major changes in this culture took place during his period of isolation? How will those changes affect his life outside the Honk?
Is the relationship that develops between Caney and Vena believable? Why or why not?
What do you believe is the theme of this book? Do you think the author fully developed that theme?
It seems that several story lines are not concluded by the end of the novel. Bui Khan’s wife has not arrived; Brenda is “lost” out there in the bigger world; MollyO and Life are going out together, but there’s no indication how their relationship will end; and though Vena and Caney are together, they still have problems to work through. Why do you suppose the author left so many issues unresolved? Do you find this frustrating?
Vena Takes Horse isn’t “good at staying still” at the beginning of the book, but at the end, she returns to the Honk. Do you think she’s changed enough that she’ll stay? Do you think Brenda will return to her mother?
Are the problems between MollyO and Brenda common between mothers and daughters?
How do the regulars at the Honk contribute to the story?
Although all of the major characters in The Honk and Holler Opening Soon are adults, the role that children play in this novel is enormous. In fact, many of the novel’s pivotal moments revolve around children. Yet Caney, MollyO, Brenda, Vena, Helen and Bui react so differently to the idea of parenthood. Why is that? Is it easier for Caney and Bui to accept the fact that they are going to be fathers than it is for MollyO, Brenda, Vena and Helen to accept the fact they are going to be mothers? Is the connection between mother and child always stronger than the bond between father and child?
Billie Letts on Writing
I was about eight chapters into this book when I ran away from home. With thirty chapters yet to complete, I left husband, home and dogs behind and headed north.
I was going to hide out to finish my book because, as I had explained to my puzzled mate, there were just too many distractions at home. I had forty years worth of photos to organize and mount in albums; dozens (maybe hundreds) of knives to sharpen; a basket of ironing accumulated since 1994-the year I sold my iron in a yard sale; and new washers to install on every faucet in the house, all of which had been threatening to drip for months (maybe years).
Just too many distractions!
I landed in Tulsa, rented a small apartment furnished with a bed, chair, table and lamp. No television, no radio. No old photos or knives, no iron and only two faucets, both outfitted with new washers, so said the building manager.
Nothing to distract me here.
I set to work, writing three sessions a day, seven days a week. And I was churning out pages-ten or twelve a day. Why, I thought, I’d be back home within weeks.
Twelve days later the agonies moved in. Not next door or across the hall or in the apartment above me. They moved into my nest, slept in my bed, sprawled in my chair. And they offered not one word of encouragement. Instead, they snickered at the work I was doing, laughed contemptuously each time I made a false start, and roared when I’d snatch paper from my typewriter, wad it up and throw it across the room.
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By the end of the week, I was paralyzed with fear and loathing. I feared that the agonies were right—my work was dreadful—and I loathed myself for listening to them.
I needed help!
I raced to bookstores and carted home tomes on writer’s block. I pressed crystals to my forehead; took herbs advertized to enhance brain function; gave up coffee, salt and carbonated beverages; and, following advice from a writer friend, tried writing naked, assured that free of constraints, I would loosen up, the creative urge would awaken and the writing would flow.
Wrong!
Then, several weeks later, I was awakened in the middle of the night when one of the agonies made a terrible mistake by whispering an obscenity in my ear. I got up, went to the living room, settled into my chair and read all the pages I had completed.
And there it was. On here of my draft, I had suddenly lost my voice. Not the voice I speak in, nothing wrong with my throat or vocal chords. I had lost my writer’s voice, the voice that tells the story.
After publishing only one book, and less than halfway through the second, I had started trying to sound like a writer, using a voice so stilted and preachy that I cringed at seeing my own words.
Even my characters’ voices had changed. They spoke as if they’d studied linguistics. The morning coffee drinkers had started using standard English and Life Halstead sounded like a Harvard man. Molly O spoke more like a New Yorker than an Okie and Bui Khanh, who had been struggling with the basics of a new language, was able to make subjects and verbs agree, and avoid dangling modifiers.
The agonies, knowing I was onto something, huddled in the corner trying to come up with a new game plan. But it was too late. I had discovered my own undoing.
I went to the typewriter and started to work, joyous to hear an old familiar voice telling me the story of The Honk and Holler Opening Soon.
I pretended not to notice when the agonies slipped out the door, determined not to make some snide comment, but I couldn’t help but smile as I heard the door close behind them.
