I should mention, because she will vilify me if I don’t, that the aspect and character of Amorise is derived partly from Villon’s poem, “The Testament,” and partly from a friend of mine, Elle Mauruzak, who played in the Goth-punk band, The Hiss, and worked by day in what is fondly referred to by some Seattle-ites as the Ban Roll-on Building, due to its similarity in appearance to that product.
Limbo
I knew a guy in Detroit named Alkazoff who was a member of the Armenian Mafia, who were reputed to be behind most of the organized crime in the area. I first met him in this vast, dingy poolroom on Woodward Avenue, a major artery of Detroit, and, as we shared a common background in music and were equally matched as pool players, we wound up spending time together. We both were devotees of boxing and, since Alkazoff was connected, he could get great seats and would occasionally take me along. Sometimes we went to the fights in the company of his associates and on those occasions I felt like a chicken among foxes. I never really felt in danger among them, but Alkazoff had told me stories, carefully edited, about his life and I suspected that some of these men had figured in those stories and that there was blood on their hands. When I became a writer, I started a piece based on the stories that Alkazoff had told me, but I lost interest in the factual material and turned it into a story about a criminal hiding from other criminals, using Alkazoff as the protagonist.
The setting of the story, the town of Champion, the lake and the cabin, reflects a place in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan where my ex-wife and I spent a pleasant vacation one autumn. My most salient memory of the time (a memory I tried unsuccessfully to fit into “Limbo”) is that one morning I dropped acid, took my National Steel guitar (a lovely old thing with a painting of a girl waterskiing on the back), and went into the woods to write songs. I found a sunny spot between two fallen trees that lay about thirty feet apart, and sat with my back against one and plunked away. It was incredibly peaceful there, with birds chittering, lots of little sounds, the sun warming my bones, and that peace infected me. I felt in absolute harmony with my environment, and perhaps I was, for soon birds and squirrels began hopping about me, coming close enough to touch. It was like a damn Disney movie. I smiled beatifically at them and made incidental music for the film. I’d been in this state for perhaps an hour when suddenly an animal popped up from behind the fallen tree opposite me, bracing with its forepaws on the trunk. I stared at it inquisitively, wondering what delightful forest creature had now been sent my way. It was, I’d estimate, about 40 pounds in weight, with a bear-like body and a head like a cross between those of a raccoon and a dog. It stared back at me for five or six seconds, and emitted a fierce, high-pitched growl, rather like the outcry of a tiny jaguar; then it disappeared behind the trunk and, apparently, went to tend other business. When I returned to the cabin that afternoon, I told the wife, a native of Michigan, about my day and described the animal to her and asked if she knew what it was.
“You’re lucky it didn’t tear you apart,” she said, busy doing something at the sink. “That was a wolverine.”
“No shit?”
She proceeded to tell me in brief about the ferocity of wolverines, relating an anecdote or two by way of illustration, and repeated, “You were lucky.”
“Huh,” I said.
Liar’s House
“Liar’s House” is one of several stories I’ve written about the dragon Griaule, (the first being “The Man Who Painted The Dragon Griaule”) and there will be at least two more. The idea of Griaule occurred to me when I was stuck for something to write while attending the Clarion Workshop—I went out onto the campus of Michigan State University and sat under a tree and smoked a joint to jog my brain. I then wrote down in my notebook the words “big fucking dragon.” I felt exceptionally clever. Big stuff, I thought, is cool.
The notion of an immense paralyzed dragon, more than a mile in length and seven hundred feet high, which dominates the world around him by means of its mental energies, seemed appropriate to the Reagan Administration; but even a paralyzed dragon must grow and change, and for this story I decided, during the course of writing it, that Griaule would want children—how then would he go about it? Well, who cares, really? I understand that Griaule is representative of Christ or Oprah or some other mythic figure, but we’re talking about a bloody dragon here. However, in case you do care, such was—stated in question form—my idiot thesis.
I don’t know what it is that brings me back to Griaule. I hate elves, wizards, halflings, and dragons with equal intensity. Maybe it’s because I saw a list once of fictional dragons ordered by size and mine was the biggest. And the stories are fairly popular. It makes me think that I might make a career of this, writing stories about the biggest whatever. The biggest gopher, an aphid the size of a small planet, a gargantuan dust bunny. Anyway, the next story in the Griaule cycle or whatever it is will be “Beautiful Blood,” which will be published by Night Shade Books in ’08 and details certain unusual properties of the dragon’s blood. And the last story, a short novel of approximately 60,000 words, will be entitled The Grand Tour, and will be included with the other stories, collected in a single volume.
Unlike the majority of my stuff, there’s little autobiographical material in “Liar’s House”, the exception being that the sketch of the hotel’s owner is based on one of my old landlords, a man who surely will have his own special boutique hell. God bless you, Mr. Weimer, wherever you are. When it comes time for you to pass, I’ll be there with itching powder and a ball gag to make certain your last moments are a joy.
Dead Money
For a long time now, I’ve intended to revisit the materials of my first novel, Green Eyes, and the female protagonist of that novel, Jocundra Verret.
“Dead Money” is the result. I had wanted to put a poker game into the novel, but Terry Carr thought it would break the continuity of the narrative and I see now that, as was his habit, Terry was right.
Occasionally I play poker at a local card room. I never win much, never lose much, but I like the game and the environment, and I could easily lose a whole lot more if I let myself go. There’s a guy who comes into the card room who sometimes uses a cane, sometimes not. I have no idea if he’s a good player or bad, but he’s the model for Josey Pellerin in the story. I’ve never exchanged a word with him, so I have no idea what he’s about, but he looks cool in his black cowboy hat and shades, and I’ve imagined various sinister reasons for his condition.
Some relationships are like self-inflicted wounds. Jack’s relationship with Jocundra is like that—he knows it’s going to be bad for him, but he goes ahead in spite of that and, though he reads innumerable signs along the way directing him to desist, he continues pursuing it to the bitter end. Obviously, many people have this same propensity. For my part, show me a woman who’s a psychological wreck and, better, doesn’t know she’s a wreck and, better yet, has a prescription for anti-depressants, a trouble-plagued, ongoing relationship, and bursts into tears every few minutes…hey, I’m there! I assume that this signals some sort of mental problem, but why fix it if it ain’t broke? I’m considering having T-shirts printed that bear the legend, “You’re Beautiful—Just Shoot Me Now”, and business cards that say…Well, never mind.