by Arty Nelson
Tony Unsel, a.k.a. Antonio Unsellino. YES… The italian bloodlines, so slyly hidden behind names like Banks and Unsel, produce things like godfathers. Tony owns a big plumbing business in Cleveland. I drink for another week just waiting to make the call. CHEAP METHOD ACTING. The more dire my situation becomes, the better I’ll be. My sanity on a fine line, my well-being long gone. I’m obsessed with the money. Getting the money, finding the money, money’s the answer. Money’ll get me through this, it’s all about money. Sweat on my palms, greasy hair brushed from outta my face, I sit in bathrooms, looking into mirrors after I piss, rehearsing for the moment, THE BIG CALL. I haven’t talked to Uncle Tony in years. Our only communication is a C-note in my mailbox every Christmas. Enough for me to ONLY say the best things about my Uncle Tony. Hands trembling as I dial, butterflies in the stomach, urine stinging only the shaft of my limp penis. It would be hard to feel like less of a man. The phone rings twice before the secretary answers.
“Hi, yeah… Is Mr. Unsel in? This is Jimi Banks, his godson.” I give her the full family deal because I know it carries a lot of weight around the office. It’s the heavy italian trip with all the guilt and pathos trimmings. When I was little, I thought Tony was the richest guy in the world. Every visit to his house came complete with a no-holds-barred run to Children’s Palace. The answer to all my HOT WHEEL prayers. The secretary asks me if I can hold. I say “yes.”
Waiting is no good, the fog begins to clear and I start to feel stupid. What am I doing? I haven’t spoken to this guy in years. I become aware of my hand holding the phone… The wind in my face, whipping around the corner of the phone booth… My sweaty sore toes wriggling in my wet boots… And the tremble of my torso… The stomach tightening, trying to stop the shaking… Am I cold?… Or am I just scared?… The waiting… It’s too long… I don’t wanna think like this… All last week’s prep lost in this waiting… I’m a wreck… I’m a loser… I don’t even know this fucking guy… Who is he… Who am I… How do we even know each other… Maybe he doesn’t even know me… I’m drowning… I’m dying… I don’t wanna be this aware… He’s going through a bad divorce… I only hope the pain has made him more desperate to be good to OTHER members of the family… Help the old godson out… Right a few wrongs somewhere else in the world… I’ll just ask him for 400, it sounds better than 500… NO… I’ll tell him I need work… Act like I wanna be a man, solve my own problems… Things are slow for him… He won’t wanna hassle with the unions, he’ll offer me cash… I’ll be on my way to anywhere! The phone clicks.
“Hello?”
“Uncle Tony… It’s Jimi Banks, how ya doin’?”
“Good, Jimi… Where are you?”
“Actually, I’m pretty far away, up north, off Cape Cod… We gotta good connection, don’t we?” I blurt, trying to make small talk. It’s tough to put a make on Tony’s mood; between him being at the office and my angst-storm, I’m scrambling.
“So what’s up, Jimi?”
“Well, Unc…” stressing the UNC, emphasizing the family bond. “Things’re actually kinda tough right now… And I was wondering if maybe I couldn’t drop down there and hook into a few quick weeks of work with you?” I’d done a summer with the Uncle when I was 15. “I gotta make some car payments in a hurry and I’m getting evicted from my place. It gets real slow up here after the tourists leave… I was hoping maybe I could come and carry some pipe for you… Make some money to get out to L.A. with.” It seemed to make so much sense when I was drunk at the bar, but now it really sounded weak! I’m losing! None of this makes sense. I’ve lost faith in my lie. They don’t believe it if YOU don’t!
“I wish I could say ‘yes,’ Jimi, but I don’t have enough work to keep my own boys busy. You’re a little too old to sneak by the unions… They’d think you’re a SCAB… It wouldn’t be good, even if I COULD do it.”
Like a prank call I can’t hang up on. Pacing around the booth on a leash with a target on my back.
“Oh yeah… Things are that slow, huh?”
“Things are REAL slow.”
No one’s taking anyone’s lead. It’s a stalemate and I’m drowning in the process. No familiar tones, this is NOT the same guy who used to shower me in G.I. Joes and I’m not that funny little kid… Or maybe, that’s exactly what I am? I go for broke.
“Unc, maybe we could talk about a little loan then? Sort of a belated graduation present, you know I graduated from college, didn’t you? I’m in a real bind up here! I don’t have enough money to get my car off the island! I’m trapped… I wouldn’t be calling you like this, if I didn’t have to!”
A silence ensues, and from where I’m standing, it can’t be TOO GOOD. I’ve done everything but beg. There’s no control, it became something I didn’t want it to become. I’ve lost my form, I have no form, no ground to stand on. This talk, this conversation, became a plea to someone, to anyone, to everyone.
“You know, it’s funny, Jimi, I haven’t heard from you in five or six years. I haven’t SEEN you since high school and you worked for me that one summer… I send you money every year at the holidays without so much as a single thank-you note, not even a phone call… And now, you interrupt me in the middle of my work day, from out of nowhere, and you ask me for money… What did YOU think I was going to say? I mean, Christ, you coulda called me once last month or something, but no, outta nowhere you call….”
“Look, Unc… I know it’s kinda weird,” I say, grasping. “I had some work I thought was coming up and it fell through… I don’t know where else to go. I can’t call my dad. I don’t wanna look like a failure in his eyes… You were the only person I could think of.”
“I’ll tell you what,” he says, finally, “let me make some calls… See if anyone around here has anything. Call me back next week, before Wednesday, because I’m going away.”
“So you’ll see if anyone’s got a little work for me?”
“Yeah… Lemme see what’s out there.”
“Well, if there isn’t any out there, Unc… Then maybe we could talk about a little loan?”
“Yea, we’ll talk then. Look, I gotta go now, Jimi, so call me,” and CLICK.
To say that I feel like the lowest worm right now would be to speak with a certain degree of confidence. The clarity of the moment, THINKING I’m a slick petty con man, and SEEING that I’m really just a BEGGAR. Just a pleading, apologizing, stroking little beggar with no respect or balls.
I never DO make that second phone call to Uncle Tony. There isn’t a glass of whiskey in this world strong enough to give me the guts to make that one. I never even thought about sending the guy a lousy thank-you note? What a mistake. No form, no form at all.
PUIP 58
The days melt into weeks, the weeks into a slow-motion blur. Wake up every morning with the brain pumping ugly thoughts and it never stops. Will it be bourbon? Or will I start off with a draft to lube it up? Maybe some weed? Anything’ll do, nothing’ll matter. Hiding out on a shut-down island, calling in old debts from my bartending days, and trying to make new ones wherever I can. Torn dirty khakis stick to the insides of my legs. A faded blue sweatshirt and a grey felt hat that I stole from Helms. I hang out. Waiting. I don’t make phone calls, I just show up places. Looking to kill a few months with a TV remote in one hand and a bottle in the other, alone. No work left. Looking for that odd twenty-spot, wondering who to ask. The number’s getting harder and harder to come up with. Good luck, I got good luck in a bad way. The sun shines, the rain falls and life passes by, spiralling down like the last piece of shit in a toilet bowl. I think about the past and I think about that next twenty. No point looking beyond that, there’s just another twenty waiting to be found, right behind it. My old bar throws me free drinks until the paying folks show up, then I gotta get lost. I stumble back to the kitchen at that point, and see the head cook, Paul. I used to feed’em good scotch back in the days when I could, and I don’t let’em forget.
“Paulie… Buddy… How’s about a little s
ang-witch to fill my stomach with… I’m fuckin’ hungry!”
“No Jimi… I’m sorry pal… Enough’s enough.”
The warmth of the kitchen starts my body shaking. I didn’t realize how cold it is. My hands’re swollen, the air outside, grey and heavy, pushing in through the window. It’s too small, it’s all too small in here.
“Come on, Paulie… You wouldn’t let Jimi starve, would you?”
“I’m not letting YOU do anything… YOU BUM… Why don’t you get a fuckin’ job!”
“I would get a job, but there aren’t any left out here!”
“Well then… Why don’t you take a fuckin’ hint and leave… Whatta you, retired?”
The window’s pushing in, the cold air, the grey, heaviness, everything feels so heavy, my chest, my hands all swollen, my feet all wet, my head all fucked up, I gotta leave this island, the same song day in and day out… My stomach’s burning… Acid washing around inside… “Get a job asshole,” the cook next to him says, and starts to laugh… I hear it… I see those big teeth laughing… Moving up and down… I hear them clapping together… Come on man, I’m gonna leave this island, just a bite of something… Get a life, hahaha… I’m fuckin’ trying, man… Hands purple and swollen… You’re tryin’, well it isn’t working out, hahaha… What about all those good scotches I gave you… Fuck ‘em, hahaha… Just a little something, I reach with the hands, anything… Here you go, asshole, take this and chew on it… Carrots start to fly at me, bouncing off my face, stinging me. I cover my face and duck down, I begin picking up the carrot ends and chewing them. They’re filthy, sand, mud, rocks, dirt, in my mouth, grinding, my hands aching, nails scratching on the cold tile, wishing, wishing I was anywhere, the air all cold, the feet in front of me, no more aces up my sleeve, laughter, laughing at me again, dirt in my mouth, chewing, acid in my stomach, everyone hates me, nobody likes me anymore. My fingers stretch out for another carrot, dirt in my mouth, crunching, they hate me, a tree in my mind, dirt in my mouth. I wanna be free, I wanna, I wanna be, purple fingers reach, a tree, a noose, what do I do, swallowing, chewing, a body in a tree, everyone laughing at me, throwing food at me, hating me, fuck, fuck, fuck, he’s hanging in a noose, dirt in my mouth, Ray’s hanging in a tree, dirt in my mouth, reaching out to touch, laughter and sneering, me unable to be anywhere else, scratching for food, for carrots, for dirt, clawing, carrots come stinging with laughter, beyond shame, hitting off my head, off my face, unable to hide inside, can’t tell them to stop, it’s not them, it’s me, it’s not them, it’s me, it’s not them, it’s me… I… Am him, he is me, I am… A ray. I am ray. I am Ray, I hang from the tree… EPIPHANY… I look up through my hands and see all the little movies of my life running through the webs of my fingers. Carrots fly through my weak shield. A child. I was once a happy little boy. All I tried to be, escape. Run, run, run, run over the waterfall I tried to run from. Dirty carrot heels stinging my face. Stop time. Hiding deep in my breathing corpse, watching the final scene. Helpless. Can’t leave my chair. Can’t be anywhere but here, in me. Trapped, being him, knowing him. My life, an answer to a riddle, “Whatever happened to…?… Well lemme tell ya, let me show ya, let me BE him!” A ray of light, of hope, of death, of truth. Slow motion, through fingers, carrot ends soar like shovels of dirt on top of me, our small tragedy, my little tail. A shared moment, defenseless, watching in silence while fate pelts my face over and over, stinging and laughing. Can’t stop it, don’t want to. Seeing who I never grew up to be. Down on knees, hands fallen at my sides. No more movies, no more cool songs, just me. Tears carving cold ruts in my face. Dirty carrots raining on me. Unable to fight, to care. No more tricks, just truth. Over and over. Laughter and pity. A radio blares on through the brittle grey air. WINTER. The loneliness of finally knowing, of finally seeing. No whistle loud enough to keep me company. Not wanting to be him, but relieved that I finally am… Seeing. Alone. Being. I am Ray… Shame… Tears… Surrender… Silence….
PUIP 59
I’m standing at the mouth of the Russian River where it opens out into the Pacific and I’m so far away from all that. There are about thirty seals lounging on the beach just beyond the tide. It’s cold. It’s fall. I just quit my job and left L.A. STILL RUNNING. 257 days. Nothing but blood running through my veins. The seals could care less, but I do. Somebody told me about the seals and I got to thinking that I needed to see it with my own eyes. Just laying there, happy. Every once in awhile they stretch and roll around a little bit, just like my cats. I drove 500 miles to see these seals. Really see them, see something other than me. Drove 500 miles to see something beautiful. They look like big wet dogs. I’m about 3 feet away from them. Maybe I’ll move here one day. I start thinking about Doobe and London. I think about Paris. 500 miles to see something. Beauty feeds me. I wonder what Harry did when he found those socks? I hope he laughed. I laugh now, I let out a nice big laugh. Happy to laugh, heals me. I think about Lindsey… And yeah, I think about Ray. We both died. I am alive. Maybe I’ll always think about Ray. Hope I always remember. All those people and all those places and I’m wondering if I should pet these seals. 257 days. Nothing but blood running through my veins. NO POISON. Trying to live, sick of not dying, sick of quitting. I think about Diane and I wonder if seals bite? Whatever happened to so many people? I think about Rosie and I wonder if she ever found love? No one writes… No one ever writes anymore… We all lose touch… Maybe I should call someone? The water comes in and the seals all roll around a little. In and out, in and out, rolling around. I see one yawn. He’s got big white fangs and long black whiskers. Oh yeah, Doobe’s in South America. I’d like to call Lindsey, I think she’s in Chicago now. I’m standing in between all these roly seals and I’m still pretty lost… But I’m alive. I’ll probably go back to L.A…. I never thought I wanted any of it to end… 257 days… Looking for another beginning… Looking for a new place to start….
Los Angeles, CA 1993
Arty Nelson, born Pittsburgh, PA, 1965. Suburbia. Kent School. Colgate University. Work appeared in Caffeine, bikini, Tales of the Heart. Lives in L.A.
“I don’t want to do anything but sit on a barstool or run away. I’m in a rut and I can’t SEE it any other way… I only SEE the End… I’m blind to the beginning…It all just start and I’m alraady looking back on it.”
TECHNICOLOR PULP
With a pocket full of borrowed money and a head full of rain, Jimi sits in a pub in London, where he has traveled for no reason except that London isn’t Boston, or Manhattan, or the college where Jimi wasted four years, or the brick alleyways where he’s puked and made love and crawled and laughed at the night.
Jimi Banks is 23: went to school as a hockey player and now just skates; diseased and innocent, criminal and pure. His summer love that started on a posh island crashed on the dusty mainland. And his best friend is dead.
From London in a cloud of hashish and tobacco, booze and beer… to Paris to stay with the daughter of a banker who wants to be a patron of the arts… back to London, broke again, where a man named Rosie declares his undying love and it’s all right with Jimi if it just comes with a meal…. Jimi Banks is dodging shadows. There’s his friend, Ray, who hung himself in a gorge outside Aspen; his family who won’t return his phone calls anymore; and the vast quantities of booze he has to drink to call them.
Out of money, out of favors, Jimi is just not out of places to run.
With a work that echoes musically of Kerouac’s On the Road and the novels of Henry Miller and Martin Amis, Arty Nelson has written an extraordinary first novel—the first “slacker” novel and a stunning literary portrait of a disaffected generation at the end of a Technicolor century.
Michael Bröemer
ARTY NELSON, born in Pittsburgh, PA, I965. Suburbia. Kent School. Colgate University. Works appeared in Caffeine, bikini, Tales of the Heart. Lives in L.A.
“TECHNICOLOR PULP is hysterical…. Meeting Jimi Banks is like looking into a twisted mirror…. Chaos, rage, anxiety,
and self-destruction wrestle for space on every page of this book.”
—David Navarro, guitarist. Red Hot Chili Peppers
“Clearly TECHNICOLOR PULP explores the spirited characters who have come to define our generation. With a fresh new perspective, the voice of Arty Nelson not only guides us abroad, but leads us on travels that transcend space and end on a journey into our souls.”
—Rob Weiss, filmmaker, Amongst Friends
“Arty Nelson is one of the best minds of the Los Angeles coffeehouse generation, and an emerging bard.”
—Steve Appleford, Spin magazine
“Nelson is destined to rule the literary world.”
—bikini magazine
“A Henry Miller version of today’s world—a scoundrel’s tale—with hilarious details and modern situations which, like a train wreck, you’d rather read about than experience. And here, luckily, you can.”
—Eve Babitz, columnist for Harper’s Bazaar and author of Black Swans and Slow Days, Fast Company