Ford Knows What’s What
Friend of recently mentioned an important initiative called One Small Step by StoryCorps putting together people with different political views to just talk and get to know each other. You can sign up for one yourself. “Studies show that simply seeing others having civil conversations with others across the political spectrum makes us feel more connected and hopeful.” Yes, please. Now more than ever.
And for a real world example of just what an impact such a conversation can have, read about the ferocious love good
has for his trans daughter, and the old friend who became a new ally in Canary in a Coal Mine.Currently Reading: Multiple Joyce by David Collard
We’re going to Dublin for a week in August, so even though the only Joyce I’ve ever managed to get through is A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, we are definitely going on a Joyce walking tour.
I’m reading this book of essays in anticipation of our trip, and my hackles are already up.
“[R]eaders who favour only novels that reflect their own experiences, or that endorse their personal tastes and values, or feature ‘relatable’ characters, hardly qualify as readers at all.”
Really. Anything else, Your Worship?
“[A]nd I do realise that ‘greatness’ and the very idea of a canon is old hat, and patrician, and elitest, and barely worth considering ... But still.”
But still. And so, here we are:
“[T.S.] Eliot doesn’t strike me as optional and surely a graduate in any subject who hasn’t read The Waste Land is by any objective measure culturally impoverished.”
Wish me luck—I’m only on page 17.
Start at the beginning:
We Regret to Inform You | Lamb ♣ 01
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***Trigger warning: Graphic description of drug abuse health consequences.***
Sunday Morning
♣ ♣ ♣ 18 ♣ ♣ ♣
1989 *Sunday morning on the phone*
Me (italics): Hello?
Lamb (bold): Hey it’s me.
M: Hey me.
L: I can’t believe you’re awake.
M: I’m not.
L: Sorry. You go out last night?
M: No, but I was up until two watching a movie.
L: What movie?
M: The Shining.
L: No.
M: Yes.
L: It’s so scary!
M: Aww, you and your scary movies—well it’s not your typical scary, except for maybe the one actual ax murder. And a little blood…
L: No thanks.
M: You liked Rosemary’s Baby…
L: That was eerie, not scary. Eerie is fine.
M: Rosemary’s other baby. Anyway, what’s so important at the crack of crack you gotta call me before I’ve even had my first cigarette—in fact, hold on… Right then—spill it.
L: I fucked up.
M: Tell me.
L: So… My roommate found my stash of porn and kinda freaked out on me.
M: Ernie? OK—where was it?
L: In my bottom drawer, but I accidentally left it open and he saw the mags, and…
M: And what?
L: And I had a pair of his underwear in there too.
M: Oh. What were you doing with it—were you…?
L: No I wasn’t sniffing it, I ran out of clean underwear and I borrowed a pair.
M: Fuck sake, why didn’t you just go commando?
L: Well…
M: What now?
L: It’s just I didn’t have time to shower, and well…
M: Well what?! Fuck sake, spit it out man!
L: It’s just that I’m really hairy and it’s hard to keep my butt clean after I poop, I wipe and wipe and it just never gets totally clean, so all my underwear was … you know … and I didn’t want to get my pants dirty.
M: Jesus. Thanks for the visual. So you’ve got a skid mark problem, and you decided better his underwear than your pants. Can’t say I blame him for getting mad.
L: Well he doesn’t know any of that—I already washed them, but when I folded my laundry I accidentally put them in my drawer with all of mine instead of putting them back in his and so he probably does think I was sniffing them or something. Anyway, it was more than just mad—he got really mean, said I was sick and I’m pretty sure he told Tessa and Mark because now no one will sit with me in the dining hall, and they all just ignore me.
M: Oh, well that’s not cool. But you know what, he’s no prince—he gives a really toothy blow job.
L: What?
M: I didn’t tell you because he was such a freak about it but yeah we fooled around that Saturday morning you had to work last time I came up.
L: Oh my god, he’s gay? What do you mean toothy?
M: Like teeth marks on my dick for two days toothy! And then he said he’d kill me if I told anyone, which was a crock of shit obviously, but I was so like, ugh gross, I can’t believe I fooled around with this jerk, and then I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want things to get weird between you, but you took care of that, so. Now what?
L: I asked him if he was going to move out, he’s hardly ever here anyway—he goes home most weekends to see his girlfriend…
M: Ha! Lucky girl.
L: Anyway, he said “No, why should I?” but he was really pissed and he won’t speak to me and I read in his journal he called me a “thing” and now no one else is talking to me either.
M: You read his journal too?! What the fuck, is nothing safe with you?
L: He left it open on his desk, like he wanted me to see it.
M: Oh, OK, well maybe he did. I don’t know what to tell you. Have you learned your lesson at least? Are you going to borrow his underwear or read his journal anymore?
L: No.
M: Alright, well I say fuck ‘em—fuck all of the them—school’s out in two months and you never have to see any of those dicks again.
L: I guess so.
1993 *Sunday morning at 16th Street & Mission*
L: Oh my god it’s Ernie! Stop, he’ll see me. Hide!
M: What? Where?
L: Walking across the street—right there.
M: Oh my god, wow, he looks rough. REALLY rough. What’s that under his arm?
L: It’s a rolled up sleeping bag.
M: Huh. Heading toward BART. He looks like a drug addict.
L: He came out of that SRO.
M: SRO?
L: One of those flop houses, you know, last stop before sleeping on the sidewalk.
M: He’s gone—can we keep walking please? This alley smells like piss.
L: He did look rough. I wonder if he’s using heroin.
M: Good bet. Why else would anyone come down to 16th Street with nothing but a sleeping bag to spend the night in a crack house?
L: Well I didn’t say crack house.
M: Whatever. Was he doing heroin in the dorms?
L: No, but he was curious about it, and he was always hanging around Telegraph talking to the street kids. One time he brought a homeless dude upstairs to our room like ‘haha look what I found’ and the guy was asking for money to get to San Francisco so Ernie gave him a jar of pennies. I said, “Ernie, you have a car,” and he looked at me like he was going to kill me.
M: Serves him right. Dumbass.
L: Anyway, he said to me, “Fine, but you’re coming with us,” so we all piled in his old Beetle, and then when we got to the Bay Bridge, Ernie says to the guy, “You got toll money?” because neither one of us did, and the dude starts counting out pennies from the jar we gave him!
M: No! Ha! I love it!
L: It took us ten minutes! People were pissed!
1995 *Sunday morning on BART*
L: Don’t turn around.
M: What? Why? Who’s there?
L: It’s Ernie. OK actually I guess you can turn around, he’s super out of it.
M: What’s wrong with him? Why’s his head back like that?
L: He must be high.
M: Whoa. It’s bad. He looks bad. Oh my god, look at his arm!
L: What the fuck is that?
M: It’s an abscess. Addicts get them from dirty needles.
L: Oh my god. Oh my god! It’s huge, oh my god it looks like he was sliced open with a knife. Why isn’t it bleeding? A needle didn’t do that.
M: It does if your tracks get infected and you don’t have it treated—it’s an open wound, but it’s old—festered and dried up. He must have had it for awhile.
L: I think I see bone!
M: Stop! Don’t look. Ignore him. Ugh. Poor guy. He’s going to die. Wow.
L: He’s getting up.
M: What?
L: He’s getting up—he’s getting off the train. He’s puking on the platform!
M: Jesus. Jesus!
I love the format of this chapter! The dialogue paints vivid images, some of them quite intimate. 🤪 Powerful stuff! If you are still traveling, have a wonderful trip, dear! 😘
Aren't we all culturally impoverished in our own way...? This reads like a screenplay. I like it. I was tinking... this whole thing would really lend itself easily to screenplay format, all the dialogue is killer and throw in some scene headings and you have your movie!
Now, if Substack would let us use basic text formatting, we could even center character names and such.