by Tod A
In my writing I’d always striven for Truth. But in my time on Madu I realized I’d been kidding myself. Truth was bullshit. More often than not, reality was a joke with no punchline. In life, things merely happened. You just improvised and rolled with the punches, dodging disasters as best you could. Heroes were few and far between. And there was rarely a moral at the end of the story to sweeten the pill.
Sometimes—every now and then—things worked out alright. But don’t hold your breath. Something Buster used to say came floating back to me: when God hands you a pile of shit, plant flowers.
They never told me Buster been diagnosed with cancer until long after he was dead. All my father said at the time was that my uncle had ‘passed’ and that we were to attend his memorial services. My mother drove me to the Caldor in Holyoke to buy a dark suit. Buster’s biker pals showed up for the big send-off. There were two distinct groups of mourners: Buster’s family, and Buster’s friends.
Nobody ever told me that it was suicide, either. I found that out years later from his friend, Sammy, when I ran into him at a bar, my first summer back from Brown.
Three days after his cancer was diagnosed as terminal, Buster left his house before dawn and rode the old Indian down Route 28 to the middle of the Bourne Bridge, parked the bike, and jumped. His body was recovered near Buzzards Bay, washed up in the mud on the south bank of the Cape Cod Canal. They never found the leg.
The Titanic II chugged along through an oceanic desert of gray-white pumice. The sediment undulated on the surface of the sea, turning the swells into time-lapse dunes.
“Beer, Cowboy?” Cooney shouted from below. “Still got a couple of crates stashed down here from our Longa trip.”
“No thanks,” I said. “Not right now.”
I wanted to remember this moment. There were so many others I’d already forgotten—wiped from my memory like chalk-marks from a blackboard.
“Suit yourself,” he said, popping one open as he came up the stairs. “Happy Boxing Day.”
I turned to take a last look at Madu as it receded toward the horizon. My eye followed the dark gash of our wake back to the mountain and up the tower of smoke that rose into the bleak infinity of the sky. The sun was a pale green disk beside the black volcano.
Behind me, Tripod stood on the prow, her nostrils flaring.
“Looks like we’ll be clear of this rubbish soon enough,” Cooney said, putting down the binoculars. “Wind’s blowing eastward. I’d say we’ll reach Java before tomorrow noon.”
I left Madu that morning with no identity, no future, no plan. Cooney assured me I could buy a counterfeit passport when we made port at Surabaya. I wondered what my new name would be. But it didn’t really matter.
I liked the thought of being a non-entity for a while—no past to weigh me down. Even if Java wasn’t my final destination, it was good enough for now. I already knew I would never go back to New York.
I took out the rough draft of my book and leafed through its paltry pages. I closed my eyes for a moment. Then I tossed the manuscript overboard and watched it drift away on the blanket of pumice, until at last it slipped between the floating stones and sank into the dark water below. I knew I needed to start over.
And I’d made the right decision about Wulan. I was certain of that. She didn’t need a liability like me in her life. One sound decision couldn’t make up for a lifetime of bad ones, but at least it was a start. Perhaps I could even learn to love again. But first I would need to learn how to stop hating myself.
I needed to start over.
Back in Brooklyn the clouds would be mourning the passing of autumn into winter. Whatever my future held, I was certain it wouldn’t be borne on the bitter wind that blew along Broadway in Bushwick. It was waiting in a place where lime-green leaves burst forth from soil the color of night, where flowers bloomed under skies on fire, where pariah dogs fucked in the streets and wild monkeys called in the twilight—a place where women smiled and the moon smiled with them.
In these latitudes there were no seasons—not as I knew them. Here, the sun rose and fell, and death came eventually to all. Yet the remains were swiftly swept away, consumed, or overgrown by the life that would always emerge again, exultant and victorious.
Acknowledgements
So there you have it: The Flawed First Novel. I am greatly indebted to everyone who helped out on the long journey it took to complete it.
Alessandra Rafferty has been an unflagging supporter and a true friend. David Ouimet tried his damnedest to steer me in the right direction. Michele Whitehead opened my eyes to many new ideas. Glenn Rockowitz has given me more than I can ever repay. And I trust that Steve Anker will always be there for me.
I thank my family, who continue to be on my side, no matter how far I stray from the path of reason. Most of all, I thank my wife, Selin, and my daughter, Mina, who light up my life every day.
Tod A
Istanbul
March 21, 2019
Muhammad Fadli
About the Author
Tod A is best known as the leader of the ‘world-punk’ music group Firewater. He left New York City in 2003 to travel in Southeast Asia and the Indian subcontinent. Banging the Monkey, Tod’s first novel, was inspired by events he witnessed and stories he collected along the way. He currently lives in Istanbul with his wife and daughter.