Ralph Steadman, �Gonzo: The Art�
This book contains a rough collection of art and essays throughout the years, most concentrating on America and some of it based on his involvement with Hunter S. Thompson, who wrote the best forward I�ve ever seen in my life. When the hell is that third volume of letters of his going to get published anyway? For the most part, however, this tome is simply a compilation from his other books and since I have quite a few of his works, the art in this wasn�t anything new. The essays, however, were not previously published, which I appreciated.
If you�re not familiar with Steadman�s art, well, you really need to get out more. Or maybe not. Sit through the credits of Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas and you�ll see a few examples. Since this is a compilation of his portfolio, obviously you start to see some common themes. Most prevalent is how he can take a common gathering of people, say, at a dinner party or the racetrack or a business meeting, and he�ll strip it down to show the group as greedy, slovenly, evil sex-crazed beasts and demons.
Which are pretty accurate representations, come to think of it.
Observe any gathering of people in a public place for long enough, and you can see the sickness come through. The herd mentality. The hierarchy. And of course, the crazies. I�ve certainly written about it before. I�ve written about parties, working in a restaurant, the night club, and the used bookstore. But there�s still one story that I haven�t told about that last place. There�s a reason � it�s a looooong story.
But since I�m going back to California in two days and plan on working at the bookstore, both to keep my finances from imploding and to get some books before I run out, I may as well let you know what I�m in for.
When this incident occurred, I had only worked there for about a month or two. It was the first shift where I was alone, working from open until closing time. The owner made two signs that read �No book buying today.� This made more than one person walk up, cradling an armful of books with big sad eyes, asking if it was true that they couldn�t buy the books they found. After explaining several times that the sign meant that while they were free to purchase as many books as they liked from us but we couldn�t purchase any books from them, we thought about changing the wording but decided it worked as a litmus test.
Anyway, I had finished all the pricing and shelving, and spent the next hour reading. Business was slow, and I read Salinger behind the counter while listening to Etta James sing mournfully about booze and heartbreak, which makes me sound all melancholy and emo.
Tangent: How many emo kids does it take to screw in a light bulb?
Just one. But it hurt.
Truth was, I loved it. I visited the store as a customer for probably ten years before I was hired. Now that I was an employee, I got fifty percent off the sticker price, which was usually at least half of the original cover price. I had cleared a section of CDs from the house sound system, removing the Yanni and classical music and replacing them with Muddy Waters, Louis Prima, Tom Waits and James Brown. And here I was, only open for about two hours, and I already finished all there was to do in backstock and pricing, meaning that the rest of the day involved reading, and helping the occasional customer.
I heard the front door open, so I put my book aside and waited to see who was coming in. The store has a no pressure tactic. We�ll acknowledge your presence and if you look lost or confused we�ll ask you if you need help, but as a whole we felt is was better for you to explore.
The store is set up where the front desk was at an angle. The front door was just behind a walk-in closet on the other side of the wall, so there was a one to two-second delay from when the door opened and when the customer appeared in your line of sight. From there, it�s the standard procedure to say the perfunctory greeting. So I waited. And waited some more.
Nobody appeared from behind the wall. Nobody walked up the ramp.
But I could hear this heavy, labored breathing. Loud heavy, labored breathing. I leaned forward over the counter, trying to see into the doorway. The heavy breathing continued and I noticed for the first time that it was two voices breathing heavy, one from a man, the other from a woman. I nearly stood on the stool trying to lean over far enough to see what the hell is going on, and whether I needed to hose them down.
If this were a cheap horror movie instead of a blog, there would have been a loud blast of scary music at this point, because suddenly this massive forearm shot into view and grabbed the railing. The breathing became louder.
Very slowly, two people came into view. There was an older woman, about 60 years old. She was short and squat, with long, thinning scraggly hair that had white streaks shooting through at various places. The man was probably a little less than half her age, and was extremely tall, standing around 6�5.� His hair was also unkempt, spouting off in all directions in a greasy, stringy mass. There were random tufts of hair sticking out of his face making a sporadic beard, which was greasy as well.
Between them, I�d say they must have weighed at least 900 pounds.
They stopped halfway up the ramp and looked at me. The woman had a metal grate over one eye. It didn�t look like a medical job, as it was held on by two pieces of tape. The piece holding the bottom down was flapping off the side of her cheek.
�We�re so happy you�re open!� she huffed between panting breaths.
Very, very slowly they made their way up the ramp, turned the corner and came straight toward me. I noticed the grate over her eye has rust on it. They reached the desk, placing their massive arms over the counter and began to talk.
�He went to the University of Georgia!� She began.
�That�s right!� he said, interrupting her. �You know why? �Cause they have a 4-to-1 ratio of females to males! You can be fat, ugly, have a little dick, and still get laid!�
She cut him off, raising her voice. �But he didn�t like his roommates...�
�No,� he says in, also raising his voice, �They kept stealing my food, so you know what I...�
�He�s a wonderful cook.�
�I like to cook. So you know what I did? I...�
�He got them back. Oh, this is so bad...�
�I made this casserole out of dog food and put it in the refrigerator and put a big sign saying �don�t touch� next to it...�
�And did they pay attention?�
�The next day almost the entire casserole was gone...�
�And he told them what it was made of!�
�That�s right, I did! I said, you�ve been eating dog food!�
�They didn�t like that, did they?�
Each time they interrupted each other, they raised their voice. And every time they raised their voice, they leaned closer to me over the counter. They both talked so fast with no pauses with all the interruptions, which would have given me the chance for me to say something like, �really?� or more important, �can I help you?� Or perhaps, �I�m afraid I�m going to have to ask you to leave the store.� I simply waited, hoping this story either had a point, or at least ended soon.
The front door opened again.
A short, gruff old man, decked out head-to-toe in a greasy denim ensemble walked in briskly, carrying a duffel bag which you could tell was full of books. He looked like your typical old eccentric man; frazzled hair, unkempt white beard, slightly dirty looking. He set his bag down on the desk pulls open the zipper. I figured this was a perfect opportunity to get away from these horrible, horrible fat people, so I tried to excuse myself.
I couldn�t get a word in edgewise, so I simply walked away. The two beached whales kept talking, still interrupting each other, and they still stared straight ahead, as if I was still sitting directly in front of them. I approached the old man.
�I bet you have some books you want to sell, huh,� I said.
He stoped fiddling with his bag, looking up at me, his face scrunching up into a tight ball of fury.
�WHAT?� he yelled.
I blinked. I blinked again. Then did it a few more times for good measure. Stammering, I managed to repeat myself.
�WHAT?�
�I, uh, I have some bad news. We don�t buy books today.�
�I CAN�T HEAR YOU!!!�
So at least now I knew why he�s screaming �what?� at me. I picked up the sign and pointed to the �no trading � no buying� I told him again that we don�t buy books today.
�WHAT?!?�
�WE DON�T BUY BOOKS TODAY!!!�
�YOU MEAN I HAVE TO TAKE THESE BACK? I JUST WANT TWO DOLLARS!!�
I looked back at the front counter, where the two fat people still hadn�t noticed that they were talking to an empty stool. If I turned this guy away, that�s what I had to go back to. My boss had given me permission to buy books if somebody came in and I felt comfortable. That certainly wasn�t the case here, but it beat hearing about the sexual exploits of the gelatinous man.
�Fine,� I said, �let me see what you have.�
�WHAT?�
�LET ME SEE!�
He started removing his books from his bag, and I could tell that it was all garbage. Book of the Month club editions. Readers Digest condensed books. Some of them were so water damaged that even the covers had a wave in them making a lazy �S� curve. He slamed one book on the desk and a bug skittered away.
I started waving my arms. �Sorry, sorry, sorry,� I said, �We�re not interested.�
�WHAT?!?�
�WE�RE NOT INTERESTED!�
�I JUST WANT TWO DOLLARS!�
�THEY�RE NOT WORTH TWO DOLLARS!�
�WHAT?�
The front door opened again.
A woman walked in, wearing a fashionable but muted tan skirt and blouse combo. There was no dirt visible on her. She didn�t look crazy or homeless. I breathed a sigh of relief that there�s one person in the store beside myself who wasn�t crazy as a loon.
Following her were seven other people. They all had big wide open-mouthed smiles and empty stares. They moved slowly up the ramp, stamping their feet and having trouble keeping their balance.
�Oh my God,� I thought. �She�s a �tard wrangler.�
They descended en masse to the counter, walking past the whales � who were still talking � and practically bumped the old man out of their way, who was still demanding loudly that I give him two dollars.
One guy started picking up every book on the counter and holding it up in front of me. �How much is this,� he asks. I look at the price and tell him. He put it down and lifted the book next to it. �How much is this?� I read the price aloud. He picked up the first book again. �How much is this?� I tell him it�s the same price as the first time he asked.
�How much is that?�
The old man decided to cut in, yelling, �A DOLLAR SEVENTY FIVE!�
The retarded guy started to pick up an enormous dictionary, but didn�t expect it to be so heavy. As he tried to lift it, he lost his balance and stumbled slightly to the right. Another manchild saw the opportunity and performed a body blow, sending the first guy flying into the next room. The victor looked at me, eyelids pulled back to uncomfortable proportions, teeth clenched in a permasmile as he stared directly at me. Finally, he spoke in a slow, demented drawl.
�You got any books about Jeeeeeeeeeeesuuuuuuuuuuusssssss,� he asked, his voice rising an octave with every word until he was at a near-squeal by the end of his sentence.
�Sure,� I replied. �Western religion is right over there.�
�Where,� he answered, somehow making a question sound more like a statement. That�s harder to do than it sounds. I point again, and he asked if I can show him. Then he started giggling maniacally.
I looked around. Denim Man was chomping his toothless mouth together, waving a new bug-infested book in my face. The two enormous people still hadn�t noticed that I wasn�t there, and were now interrupting each other about the exchange student that once lived in their house. Leaving the counter, I reasoned, would get me away from all of these people even if this Jesus fan seemed a bit dangerous. I decided to risk it.
I tried to sidestep Denim Man who turned, quick as a ninja, and latched onto my arm.
�A DOLLAR FIFTY, THEN!�
I physically shook off the old man�s grip and walked quickly down the aisle. As we stopped, Jesus Fan slid directly behind me, chin nearly on my shoulder as he looked at the shelves. I channeled Vanna White, my hand spreading over the row of books and told him all of these books were on Western Religion.
�But I want a book about Jeeeeeeeeeeeeessssssssuuuuuuuuus,� he said.
�They�re all about Jesus,� I said.
�What�s a good one?�
�Ummmm... I really couldn�t tell you.�
�Why not? Don�t you like Jeeeeeeeeeesssssssuuuuuuuusssssssss?�
He started laughing again.
From the corner of my eye I saw a woman walking toward the counter with an armload of books. �Uh, here,� I said, grabbing a book at random off the shelf, putting it in his hands. �What a Friend I Have in Jesus. This one�s great.� I slid quickly past Denim Man, but could feel his fingers rake down my back when he tried to catch me as I passed.
�A DOLLAR!�
I ignored him and walked behind the counter but the customer with the armload of books turned left and continued browsing. Now I was in front of the massive couple again, who never noticed I was gone. They had now leaned so far over the counter that they took up my entire line of vision. I put my elbows on the counter and cradled my head in my hands.
After a moment I looked up again and for some reason, the fat couple seperated ever so slightly, making a small tunnel of sight available between their heads. You know how in films they do a sudden quick zoom toward an object? The same kind of effect happened here. Previously, the two people blocked out all of my peripheral vision, and with this sudden parting of the heads, my line of sight focused between them like a bullet.
About five feet behind the couple stood a lone woman, perfectly centered between the two huge masses of flesh. I hadn�t seen her come in with the social worker. I hadn�t seen her come in at all. She looked to be about 45, with graying hair that stood up in all directions. Her clothes hung off her limp, frail body like wet towels. Her eyes were wide open, and looked completely crazed.
She had running open sores on her face.
And she was staring directly at me.
I couldn�t help it. I was too frazzled and I actually recoiled, letting out a surprised yelp.
She continued to stare, her mouth opening slowly but continuously, wider and wider. Her hands balled into tight fists, her arms shaking as she took a deep breath. And then she screamed, �WHEN ARE WE GONNA GO ON THE RIDE?!?�
And that was like a bell, because Denim Man suddenly stuffed his books back into the bag, the two fat people stopped interrupting each other and lumbered away, the social worker quickly gathered everybody up and rushed them out the door, and within 30 seconds the entire store fell silent.
I was left there, alone at the counter, slightly shaking and I glanced over at the clock. This, again, was the first day I worked alone. And I had another five hours before the store closed.
This, also, is the job that I will be going back to in a matter of days.
I couldn�t be more excited.
