Norman Mailer, �Oswald�s Tale: An American Mystery�
I�m sorry to newer readers of this site. I�ve said it before, but it bears repeating. I�m importing all the reviews from a now-defunct Web site, and it�s taking a while. So you�re getting older AND newer reviews here, hence why I seem so bipolar. I�m not, really. It�s just the mix of time frames. Be sure to check the date posted slot. Eventually, everything will be current and when that happens, I�ll still have to go through all these entries to take out all these disclaimers.
So.
Um.
Anyway.
Tonight was definitely a weird one for me. After the bookstore had closed, I noticed a discrepancy with my timecard, and had to call my boss. I picked up the phone and punched in the numbers, still working on paperwork as the phone was ringing.
The Ex-Girlfriend answered. I had dialed her phone number out of habit.
What I wanted to do was hang up. I had declared to her that she should call me when she wanted to, and that I wasn�t going to call her. That was a little over a week ago, and she hadn�t called. But I knew she had caller ID on the phone. I knew that she knew it was me calling.
So we talked for a bit. She didn�t invite me over or anything, but we talked. It was good to hear her voice.
Afterward, I was driving home. I still have a �real� book review do for Maximum RockNRoll that�s due tomorrow. But all I have at home right now for liquid inspiration is whiskey, and last night I tried to write and ended up with a 400 word rant about how I hate hippies.
What the hell, I thought. I�ll get a beer or two at The Caravan.
The Caravan has been my dive bar of choice for a long time now. But lately I�ve felt it slipping away from me. Fewer of my friends go out on Thursdays anymore, and I often find myself sitting in the corner reading by myself. Which is fine by me.
I got there a little past 10 o�clock, and the place was nearly empty, which is not common, as Thursdays usually consist of a shitty punk bank playing in the corner while everybody crowds the bar, vying for the bartender�s attention for crappy cheap beers. It was easy, this time, to get mine.
But within 20 minutes, the place got packed with people, and I didn�t know a single one of them. I continued drinking my beer, slowly making my way through the mammoth tome I�m currently reading. Meanwhile, a band was setting up their equipment in the corner.
Thursday as usual at The Caravan.
But then the band, apparently sick of the Billy Idol song on the jukebox, brought in their own radio and started trying to blast their own music over the jukebox. The bartenders cut the power on the jukebox.
Reggae music filled the room.
I looked up from my book and surveyed the room. White boys in dreadlocks. Lots of jocks in baseball caps. Frat boys. And they all started doing the white boy reggae dance.
Oh, you bastards. I lose my girlfriend, and now I lose my bar? I finished my drink quickly.
On the way back to the car, I run into my old roommate Jerrod. He�s headed for The Caravan, and I warn him about the horrors that are currently unfolding. A girl walks by as we�re talking, wearing high boots and a skirt. Jerrod mutters snarkily to me that, �at least the whores are out tonight.�
I look at whom he�s referring to. Then I call out to her.
�Jennifer?�
Remember Jennifer?
To make a long story short(er), we talk for nearly twenty minutes out on the street. She essentially asks me out. I accepted.
Future plans for accepting really fucking bad suggestions include drinking a gallon of milk in an hour, burning down the city, and ramming a two-inch glass shard into my fucking eye.
Oh, and then there�s the guy who, after receiving a sarcastic response to his sarcastic comment about my purple hair, suggested that I go fuck myself. Perhaps I�ll try that too.
But if anybody suggests I read another enormous long-winded, rambling case study on Lee Harvey Oswald like this one, They�ll be the recipient of the fuck yourself suggestion.
I�m not that stupid.
