The Show That Smells
Page 1
MORE CRITICAL PRAISE FOR DEREK MCCORMACK
for The Show that Smells
“It’s immediately apparent that McCormack has created something innovative, entertaining, and quite possibly (dare we say it) groundbreaking. With its biting beats of refined prose and inventive story line, it would certainly be easy to label this release as one of the best books of the year … It’s a pleasurable mash-up of high experimental literature and low Hollywood pulp, packed with the kind of crooked humor, wit, and style that invites readers in rather than confusing and excluding them. Beyond that, the book is a hell of a lot of fun. The Show that Smells is a showcase for an innovative writer who has perfected his technique, and there is no denying that McCormack is an extraordinary talent.”
—Torontoist
“What would you get if you put high fashion, old Hollywood, Tod Browning’s bearded lady, a few drops of Chanel N°5, Lon Chaney, Guy Maddin—type melodrama, and the Carter Family into a blender and pressed pulse? Th is freakygorgeous concoction. McCormack’s deft wordplay sometimes reads more like poetry than prose. Sublime.”
—CBC/Radio-Canada
“Th is charged novel is given pace by McCormack’s tightly honed style … there’s humor, too, in his clipped delivery … McCormack knows how to mine his obsessions to create truly unusual—and memorable—works of art.”
—Quill & Quire (Canada)
“A staccato epic with punch and verve.”
—January Magazine
for Grab Bag and The Haunted Hillbilly
“Weird, inventive, magical, the omnibus Grab Bag features a lonely closeted teenager named Derek McCormack and a grotesque fascination with carnivals, drifters, and disease … With a morbid comic vision and a delightfully twisted imagination, McCormack delivers a one-two knockout punch that establishes him as one of the best new voices of the year.”
—Village Voice
“McCormack’s Depression-era characters are broke, sick, and in love with the wrong people; to get by they scheme and dream, using their imaginations and their hands to craft escape routes, skirting shame and disaster along the way … It makes for a kaleidoscopic look at a world of cheap furbelows and carnival flash, a place where childlike wonder goes hand in hand with cruel cynicism, and where even the promise of heaven appears as tawdry as an eye-shadow case.”
—Chicago Reader
“Grab Bag is a devious delight … McCormack’s sparse prose is darkly comedic and unsettling, like circus clowns are to little children. And yet it is so oddly fascinating that you can’t bear to turn away.”
—Tablet Magazine
“Th at McCormack works his magic in such a singular fashion is admirable. He’s not banking on courting a large audience, but rather, off ering a small, beautifully wrapped gift to those who know where to look.”
—Frontiers News Magazine
“Every once in a while, however, I’ll find a novel—a ‘modern’ novel, if you will—which serves as a reminder that there is relevance and substance out there. Derek McCormack’s Grab Bag is one of these rare gems … McCormack knows how it’s done.”
—Punk Planet
“McCormack is an incredible stylist who uses minimalist prose and non-sequiturs to great eff ect, kind of like what A.M. Homes might write if she were a gay man … McCormack is clearly trying to break the mold here, and he should be commended for that.”
—PopMatters
“Grab Bag grabs you in its steely grip almost without you noticing, and the hard, plain language delivers the stories straight to the core of your being.”
—Gay Times (UK)
“McCormack’s prose eff ectively transports you to distant autumn nights where shivers, beer breath, and the smoke of burning leaves linger on forever … Grab Bag manages at once to intrigue, horrify, and entice without being offff-putting or annoying.”
—Portland Mercury
“McCormack’s anarchic and macabre imagination carries this book. There are passages that hit the senses (and the subconscious) like weird waking dreams. Visually, Grab Bag is cinematic—it’s like Hitchcock meets John Waters.”
—Xtra (Canada)
Also from Dennis Cooper’s
Little House on the Bowery Series
Grab Bag
by Derek McCormack
High Life
by Matthew Stokoe
Userlands: New Fiction Writers from the Blogging Underground
edited by Dennis Cooper
Artificial Light
by James Greer
Wide Eyed
by Trinie Dalton
Godlike
by Richard Hell
Th e Fall of Heartless Horse
by Martha Kinney
Headless
by Benjamin Weissman
Victims
by Travis Jeppesen
This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to real events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Published by Akashic Books
©2009 Derek McCormack
eISBN-13: 978-1-617750-93-9
ISBN-13: 978-1-933354-71-2
Library of Congress Control Number: 2008930974
All rights reserved
First printing
Little House on the Bowery
c/o Akashic Books
PO Box 1456
New York, NY 10009
info@akashicbooks.com
www.akashicbooks.com
Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
1
2
3
This book is a work of fiction. It is a parody. It is a phantasmagoria. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Elsa Schiaparelli was never a vampire. Shocking! by Schiaparelli never contained blood. Chanel and Chanel N°5 are trademarks of Chanel, and their use here is in no way authorized by, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owner.
The author thanks Howard Akler, Nathalie Atkinson, Tony Burgess, Joey Comeau, Kevin Connolly, Dennis Cooper, Trinie Dalton, Jack David, Hadley Dyer, Vincent Fecteau, Grant Heaps, Michael Holmes, Johanna Ingalls, Meaghan Kent, Susan Kernohan, Kevin Killian, David Livingstone, Guy Maddin, Jason McBride, Cynthia McCormack, Melissa McCormack, Murray McCormack, Casey McKinney, Hilary McMahon, Richard Eoin Nash, Christopher Paulin, Ian Phillips, Nen Reyes, Andrea Rosen, Daniel Sinker, Ken Sparling, Adam Sternbergh, Johnny Temple, Conan Tobias, Christopher Waters, Greg Wells, Joel Westendorf, Alana Wilcox, and all at ECW Press and Akashic Books.
Special thanks to David Altmejd.
The Show that Smells
Cast of Characters
Jimmie Rodgers … Himself
Carrie Rodgers … Joan Crawford
The Reporter … Derek McCormack
The Carter Family … Themselves
Coco Chanel … Herself
Renfield … Lon Chaney
The Vogue Vampire … ?
Story by
Derek McCormack
Directed by
Tod Browning
1
Jimmie Rodgers.
Jimmie Rodgers. Jimmie Rodgers.
Jimmie Rodgers. Jimmie Rodgers. Jimmie Rodgers.
Jimmie Rodgers. Jimmie Rodgers. Jimmie Rodgers.
Jimmie Rodgers. Jimmie Rodgers. Jimmie Rodgers. Jimmie Rodgers.
Jimmie Rodgers in a Mirror Maze.
Jimmie poses like he’s shooting publicity. Blazer buttoned, blazer unbuttoned—he tries it both ways. Plumps his pocket puff. Picks lint from lapels.
“You’re fine,” he says.
“You look fine,” he says.
&n
bsp; “Everything’s going to—” He coughs. “Everything’s going to be—” Coughs up crap. Splat. On spats.
Jimmie Rodgers.
Carrie Rodgers. Jimmie Rodgers.
Carrie Rodgers. Jimmie Rodgers. Carrie Rodgers.
Jimmie Rodgers. Carrie Rodgers. Jimmie Rodgers. Carrie Rodgers. Jimmie Rodgers. Carrie Rodgers. Jimmie Rodgers.
Jimmie Rodgers and Carrie Rodgers in a Mirror Maze.
Carrie Rodgers winds her way through the Maze.
Jimmie’s at a dead end. Doubled up.
“Darling, no.” She sinks down beside him. His sleeve’s sopping. Sputum. It will dry stiff er than starch. “The carnival is killing you,” she says. “You have to leave.” Sputum smells like socks. From her purse she pulls out a bottle.
He sticks the neck up his nose. Chanel N°5.
“Never,” he says.
“Look at yourself,” Carrie says.
“I’m fine.” Jimmie sniff s Chanel N°5. He spits. Sputum. Smells like Saks.
“You’re thin. You’re pale.” So’s she. She’s supposed to be.
Her suit is Chanel. Spring show. “You should go back to the Sanitarium.”
“So they can what—slice me up? Stick me with needles? Shut me in a room to rot?” He pours perfume on his sleeve. “I’m Jimmie Rodgers! The carnival singer! Who would I be if I stopped singing?” He hacks. “Nobody. Nothing.”
“A carnival is not a cure!” she says. “Chanel N°5 is not a cure!”
Jimmie Rodgers.
Carrie Rodgers. Jimmie Rodgers.
Carrie Rodgers. Jimmie Rodgers. Carrie Rodgers.
Jimmie Rodgers. Carrie Rodgers. Jimmie Rodgers. Carrie Rodgers. Jimmie Rodgers. Carrie Rodgers. Jimmie Rodgers.
Jimmie Rodgers and Carrie Rodgers and me in a Mirror Maze.
“Jumping Jehoshophat!” Jimmie jumps.
“Where did you come from?” Carrie says.
“Paris,” I say.
“The mirrors!” Carrie says.
“You’re not there!” Jimmie says.
“I’m a vampire,” I say. “I write for Vampire Vogue, the style bible of the fashionable fiend.”
“There’s Vogue for vampires?” she says.
“We wear clothes,” I say. “We’re not werewolves.”
“Stay away, devil,” Jimmie says, “or I swear I’ll—” Cough.
“I haven’t come to kill you,” I say. “I’ve come to write about you.” In mirrors, I look like nothing. I look like lamé. “A carnival, a singing star, his lady—why would Elsa Schiaparelli summon me to such a place?”
“The Elsa Schiaparelli?” Carrie says.
“The Vogue Vampire,” I say. “The Dracula of Dressmaking.”
“She makes clothes for movie stars!” she says. “She’s famous!”
“Famously fiendish!” I say. “Fashion is her feint. A demon who dresses well-heeled women around the world. She makes them look beautiful. She makes them smell beautiful. Then she eats them.”
Jimmie Rodgers.
Carrie Rodgers. Jimmie Rodgers.
Carrie Rodgers. Jimmie Rodgers. Carrie Rodgers.
Jimmie Rodgers. Carrie Rodgers. Jimmie Rodgers. Carrie Rodgers. Jimmie Rodgers. Carrie Rodgers. Jimmie Rodgers. Carrie Rodgers.
Jimmie Rodgers and Carrie Rodgers and Elsa Schiaparelli and me in a Mirror Maze. Elsa Lanchester plays Elsa Schiaparelli. There’s a resemblance.
“Am I late?” Schiaparelli asks.
“Fashionably.” I kiss her hand. “You smell divine.”
“I am divine.” She fans herself. “The latest fragrance from Maison de Schiaparelli. I call it Shocking!—as in freak shows—shocking and amazing!”
Jimmie and Carrie act scared.
“How do I look?” Schiaparelli’s dress is orange, yellow, and pink. Mostly pink. Sleeves sparkle. Sequins are celluloid. “I cut it from sideshow banners. ‘Valentines,’ freaks call them. Isn’t that quaint?
“I learned this from my new assistant—Mr. Renfield. He’s a geek. He beheads rats. He bites them!” Scuttling along the corridor behind her: Lon Chaney. White skin, white eyes. Hair? Detergent would be jealous. Blood crusted on his chin. Rat fur stuck to his teeth. Looks like decay.
“He has a way with accessories.” Schiaparelli points to his suit. It’s white. Was white. Bib of blood. Black flies embellish it. Fruit flies flit. Living lint.
“And it’s not only him. The Fortune Teller’s turban! The Witch Doctor’s skull stick! The Ubangi’s lip plate! The Snake Lady—her anaconda is a boa! The Alligator Man—what a purse he would make!
“Freak fashion. Geek chic. It inspired my new haute couture collection for humans—the Carnival Collection! Soon Schiaparelli clients will dress like the Half-Man, Half-Woman and the Mule-Faced Lady. Ostrich girls in ostrich plumes. Lobster ladies in lobster gowns.
“It’s like I always say: Clothes make the inhuman.”
“Women won’t wear freak clothes,” Carrie says.
“Women wear what I tell them to wear,” Schiaparelli says.
“When all the world’s well-dressed women are dressed and perfumed like freaks,” Schiaparelli says, “I will make them freaks—in a carnival, a vampire carnival—a carnival of fashion and death!” She changes. Fangs flower. Pupils as pink paillettes. “And freaks are only part of the fun!
“Men will be rides.
“Women will be games.
“Children will be snacks.”
Schiaparelli’s face is a special effect.
“What would a carnival be without a tent show?” Schiaparelli says. “Jimmie Rodgers, the Midway Minstrel, America’s Carnival Crooner—I want you to sing at the carnival to end all carnivals.”
“Why would I?” Jimmie asks.
“You’re ill, Mr. Rodgers,” Schiaparelli says, “ill with tuberculosis. I know this, I have heard your record—‘TB Blues.’ Catchy. But I am stronger than TB. I will drain you of blood. Without blood, the disease will die. I will feed you my blood. And you will live forever—singing!”
“Go to hell,” Jimmie says.
“Mr. Rodgers,” Schiaparelli says, “you will sing for me whether you want to or not. You will sing for your supper—and you’ll be supper!
“Renfield! See that he’s comfortably imprisoned.” She points a pink fingernail. A pink dinner ring. Dazzles. Pink, pink, pink! “And bring Mrs. Rodgers as well. She’s comely, yes? She will star in my sideshow.”
“I’d rather die!” Carrie says.
“You don’t say,” Schiaparelli says. “Then I shall put you on the midway. Slit you open. Twist your intestines into animal shapes. When you rot, you’ll give off gas, your insides will inflate. Abracadabra—animal balloons!
“I shall drag the midway with you. Do you know what that means? I will stick a meat hook in you, then lug your bleeding, barely breathing body through the sawdust to the wild animal show. The animals will go wild when they smell you coming. The audience will go wild when they smell you, too.
“I shall put you in the animal show. Do you like animals? Lions, tigers, hyenas—and you! They will snap your neck, then eat your meat, your bones, your brain. Carrie carrion. You’ll be dinner, then droppings. Do you know what carnies call an animal show? The Show that Smells!”
“A sensational name,” I say.
Jimmie Rodgers.
Carrie Rodgers. Jimmie Rodgers.
Carrie Rodgers. Jimmie Rodgers. Cornered.
Lon Chaney closes in. Nosferatu nails.
“Stay away, you fiend,” Jimmie says, “or I swear I’ll—” A cough cuts him off. “I’ll—” He takes a fit. Falls to the floor.
“Leave him alone!” Carrie’s pink with panic. Perfume floats from her throat, wrists, soft spots in her elbows. Where blood abounds. It rises from Jimmie. A screen of scent. Screen or scream?
“Aaarrrgghhhhh!” Chaney says. “Chanel N°5!” Worse than wolfsbane. Gruesomer than garlic. Chaney clutches his throat like he’s strangling himself. All vampires act like silent stars.
Cowering, cringing, crying—Chaney acts like an actress.
“You’re afraid of perfume?” Carrie lords the bottle over him. She drips a drop onto him. It burns like battery acid. Blended with bleach. Skin smokes. Seared hair. Seared skin. Seared seersucker. Stinks. Chaney N°5.
“It’s been blessed!” I say. Anointed perfume. Holy eau de toilette.
“Chanel sanctifies her scents!” Schiaparelli says. “She thinks she can protect her clients from me! She can’t! No one can!”
“We’ll see about that!” Carrie splashes Chaney. An ounce costs. He screeches in close-up. He’s a master at makeup. His forehead flames. His forehead was frog skin. His nose—mortician’s wax. It drips down his lips. His jaw drops. Off. The things he does with gutta-percha! He hurls himself at a mirror. Smashes through. Splinters stick. He bleeds. Borrowed blood. It’s brown syrup. Brown looks red in blackand-white.
“Chanel can’t keep you alive forever!” Schiaparelli floats up off the floorboards. André Perugia designed her shoes.
“Your perfume will fade!” she says, suspended like a chandelier. A chandelier in a Mirror Maze? It’s overkill!
“Your perfume will die! Your perfume will sell out or be discontinued!” Sequins! She shines chandelierically. The Maze shot through with thirteen shades of white light. “Mark my words, Madame, the moment you find yourself without Chanel N°5—”