Stirring:
The Andersons
Anderson was tall, thin, with a cleft chin like the Grand Canyon. He was in insurance. Drank gin martinis. Smoke Chesterfields. A man of few words.
His wife was named Buffy. Housewife. A blonde hair helmet that didn't move. Desperately unhappy face. Blabbermouth.
They lived in Connecticut. Anderson took the 6:05 from Stamford to Grand Central Station everyday and walked to his office on 6th avenue and 46th Street.
Buffy would rise at 8:30, take a handful of pills and mill about the house.
They had no children. They never spoke of children. She spent most of her days shopping from mail-order catalogs; he spent most of his weekends discarding of the boxes.
They had worked together in the early days. Their first contact came when Anderson was promoted to regional sales manager. Buffy worked as a secretary in the home office. She was most efficient at keeping his schedule and tracking his sales. He was efficient at making the sales. The combination of those traits drew them closer together. He earned and she managed. And so it went.
One got the feeling one of them would bust - want to break out of the monotony. But it never happened. They died - he first, and she several years later - just the way they had lived.
The End.
Tuesday, October 18, 2005
Monday, October 17, 2005
Journal Series - AH
Dumont didn't keep a journal in the typical sense. Most of his journal stuff was just a mismash of different thoughts, different ideas. But from time to time he would date stuff like a journal only the sequense of events never lasted that long. Sometimes just for several days, sometimes a week, or in this case, for an entire month. This is one of Wesley's longer running journal sequences.
Without giving much away, this stretch was a period of excitement and charm for Wesley. It takes place in the Spring of 1961. He was working for an artist who's name he never mentioned, but based on the descriptions of the work and the activities around the studio he worked in, the artist was a contemporary of Andy Warhol, Robert Raushenberg, and the other New York artists that were hitting their stride in the early 60s. For all I know, "AH" could have been code for one of these very artists. I don't know. Dumont did mention that he had known quite a few of most prolific artists New York had ever known, but I didn't actually take him all that serious at the time. Everyone has a prolific list of fish stories to tell in dive bars on Tuesday afternoons.
Journal Entry #1. April 9, 1961
I met AH at a bar in the Village last week and despite the fact he was as drunk as a sailor when he offered me the job I showed up at his studio on Wednesday morning just has he'd suggested. I even showered.
The door downstairs was cracked a bit so I let myself in and up the stairs to the main studio. It was large and uncluttered. Most of the activity was taking place in one corner by the windows with the most light while the rest of the space was lost in shadow. It was cool and breezy; wind passed through the lazy white curtains in a joyful way. I announced myself with a loud hello that echoed around in his giant chamber.
AH was startled. He came to me and it took a few minutes for him to remember who I was. I got the distinct feeling he was going to throw me out due to shame until I became curious as to what he was working on and made my way over to the canvas in the corner.
It was a shocking mess of greens and blues, pinks and purples. Vague figures moving in unspeakable ways, draped on one another as if Caligula and his horde had invaded a Matisse picnic. I was horrified. He called it "Daffodil" which confused me. But I feigned interest and asked to see more which flattered him just enough to give me the work he'd promised.
I stretched canvases all day. It took me awhile to get used to it but I did, stretching them against wooden frames as taut as drums.
AH and I lunched on peanut butter sandwiches and soda. He was curious about my life and I was candid in my answers. We agreed I'd come back Friday. I left with $10 in my pocket which I quickly turned into beer.
Without giving much away, this stretch was a period of excitement and charm for Wesley. It takes place in the Spring of 1961. He was working for an artist who's name he never mentioned, but based on the descriptions of the work and the activities around the studio he worked in, the artist was a contemporary of Andy Warhol, Robert Raushenberg, and the other New York artists that were hitting their stride in the early 60s. For all I know, "AH" could have been code for one of these very artists. I don't know. Dumont did mention that he had known quite a few of most prolific artists New York had ever known, but I didn't actually take him all that serious at the time. Everyone has a prolific list of fish stories to tell in dive bars on Tuesday afternoons.
Journal Entry #1. April 9, 1961
I met AH at a bar in the Village last week and despite the fact he was as drunk as a sailor when he offered me the job I showed up at his studio on Wednesday morning just has he'd suggested. I even showered.
The door downstairs was cracked a bit so I let myself in and up the stairs to the main studio. It was large and uncluttered. Most of the activity was taking place in one corner by the windows with the most light while the rest of the space was lost in shadow. It was cool and breezy; wind passed through the lazy white curtains in a joyful way. I announced myself with a loud hello that echoed around in his giant chamber.
AH was startled. He came to me and it took a few minutes for him to remember who I was. I got the distinct feeling he was going to throw me out due to shame until I became curious as to what he was working on and made my way over to the canvas in the corner.
It was a shocking mess of greens and blues, pinks and purples. Vague figures moving in unspeakable ways, draped on one another as if Caligula and his horde had invaded a Matisse picnic. I was horrified. He called it "Daffodil" which confused me. But I feigned interest and asked to see more which flattered him just enough to give me the work he'd promised.
I stretched canvases all day. It took me awhile to get used to it but I did, stretching them against wooden frames as taut as drums.
AH and I lunched on peanut butter sandwiches and soda. He was curious about my life and I was candid in my answers. We agreed I'd come back Friday. I left with $10 in my pocket which I quickly turned into beer.
Sunday, October 09, 2005
Playing in the Park
December 17, 1992
Stanley Frankle had never been a bright fellow and certainly wasn’t anything to look at standing only about five feet two inches which was deceptive given his bad posture that made him more diminutive than that. Stanley spent most of his days wandering around Washington Square Park, feeding the pigeons and ignoring the college kids and hippies that gathered around. In fact, the only thing Stanley seemed to pay attention to were the pigeons and the chess players at the northwest end.
Stanley had been operating like this for quite a number of years. He lived with his mother in publicly-funded housing out near Coney but would venture into the city everyday to mill around with the pigeons and watch the chess players. No one paid him much mind. Occasionally the colored players would joke with him in a friendly way.
“What should I do next, Stanley? Queen to the rook side? Take his pawn?”
They would laugh and Stanley would laugh right along with them never sure if they were laughing with him or at him.
And so it goes.
It was on an ordinary Wednesday that Stanley’s position in the park changed. It was slow that day and no one seemed interested in playing chess. Harold, a large black man and a regular at the tables was sitting alone with his racing papers waiting for action. Stanley sat on the stone wall near the table waiting for a game to watch. They both sat minding their own business. Finally, to break the monotony, Harold spoke.
“Hey Stanley, let’s play." Stanley just smiled back, not sure how to answer.
“Come on, dude don’t play me like you don’t know, hanging out for years watching. Come on. I’ll go easy on you.”
Stanley looked around as if looking for permission, but there wasn’t anyone there to approve or not. Stanley had always thought of playing but was too terrified to do so. Not to mention that no one had ever asked him to play. In a fit of bravery, Stanley stepped forward with a shy grin and took a seat.
“Now don’t you worry about a thing, Stanley. We’ll go real slow,” Harold offered. “You go first.”
“No, you go first,” Stanley said.
Harold looked a bit surprised. “Okay, big man I’ll go first.”
Harold moved his King pawn two steps ahead, and with a second of hesitation, hit the timer box. Stanley smiled and took a quick glance at Harold, excited about his first move. He mirrored Harold's move with his Queen pawn.
"Monkey see, Monkey do."
Harold countered by moving his King-side bishop out one space and waited. Stanley then moved his King pawn up one. Harold looked puzzled but let Stanley do his thing.
The game began to pick up pace.
A horse was moved into a defensive position. A bishop was poised to pounce. A horse was lost... a rook was lost... as blood began to pour from both sides.
Before they new it a whole crowd had gathered around the table watching the action. And just like that there was a pause. It was Harold's move. Only a scattering of pieces remained. Stanley's smiling face was fixed on the board. Harold was frantic.
"Ain't you gonna say anything! You gotta say something!" Harold shouted.
Stanley looked up about to explode with excitiment and quietly muttered "checkmate."
From that day forward, Stanley wasn't afraid to play. And on most days, rain or shine, you'll find Stanley Frankle on the northwest corner of Washington Square Park, looking for action.
Stanley Frankle had never been a bright fellow and certainly wasn’t anything to look at standing only about five feet two inches which was deceptive given his bad posture that made him more diminutive than that. Stanley spent most of his days wandering around Washington Square Park, feeding the pigeons and ignoring the college kids and hippies that gathered around. In fact, the only thing Stanley seemed to pay attention to were the pigeons and the chess players at the northwest end.
Stanley had been operating like this for quite a number of years. He lived with his mother in publicly-funded housing out near Coney but would venture into the city everyday to mill around with the pigeons and watch the chess players. No one paid him much mind. Occasionally the colored players would joke with him in a friendly way.
“What should I do next, Stanley? Queen to the rook side? Take his pawn?”
They would laugh and Stanley would laugh right along with them never sure if they were laughing with him or at him.
And so it goes.
It was on an ordinary Wednesday that Stanley’s position in the park changed. It was slow that day and no one seemed interested in playing chess. Harold, a large black man and a regular at the tables was sitting alone with his racing papers waiting for action. Stanley sat on the stone wall near the table waiting for a game to watch. They both sat minding their own business. Finally, to break the monotony, Harold spoke.
“Hey Stanley, let’s play." Stanley just smiled back, not sure how to answer.
“Come on, dude don’t play me like you don’t know, hanging out for years watching. Come on. I’ll go easy on you.”
Stanley looked around as if looking for permission, but there wasn’t anyone there to approve or not. Stanley had always thought of playing but was too terrified to do so. Not to mention that no one had ever asked him to play. In a fit of bravery, Stanley stepped forward with a shy grin and took a seat.
“Now don’t you worry about a thing, Stanley. We’ll go real slow,” Harold offered. “You go first.”
“No, you go first,” Stanley said.
Harold looked a bit surprised. “Okay, big man I’ll go first.”
Harold moved his King pawn two steps ahead, and with a second of hesitation, hit the timer box. Stanley smiled and took a quick glance at Harold, excited about his first move. He mirrored Harold's move with his Queen pawn.
"Monkey see, Monkey do."
Harold countered by moving his King-side bishop out one space and waited. Stanley then moved his King pawn up one. Harold looked puzzled but let Stanley do his thing.
The game began to pick up pace.
A horse was moved into a defensive position. A bishop was poised to pounce. A horse was lost... a rook was lost... as blood began to pour from both sides.
Before they new it a whole crowd had gathered around the table watching the action. And just like that there was a pause. It was Harold's move. Only a scattering of pieces remained. Stanley's smiling face was fixed on the board. Harold was frantic.
"Ain't you gonna say anything! You gotta say something!" Harold shouted.
Stanley looked up about to explode with excitiment and quietly muttered "checkmate."
From that day forward, Stanley wasn't afraid to play. And on most days, rain or shine, you'll find Stanley Frankle on the northwest corner of Washington Square Park, looking for action.
Thursday, October 06, 2005
Dumont to do list
TO DO
--Shower at shelter
--Eat at shelter
--Panhandle
--Stare at beautiful women
--Contemplate what went wrong
--Drink
--Nap
--Play the ponies
--Holland Bar
--Talk about what went wrong
--Fantasize that things will be okay
--Sleep
--Wake up
--Repeat
--Shower at shelter
--Eat at shelter
--Panhandle
--Stare at beautiful women
--Contemplate what went wrong
--Drink
--Nap
--Play the ponies
--Holland Bar
--Talk about what went wrong
--Fantasize that things will be okay
--Sleep
--Wake up
--Repeat
Wednesday, March 23, 2005
Fable: Homeless man and the Stock Broker
Dumont wrote quite a few pieces that read much like the fables I remember from childhood. Simple morality tales with unexpected twists, like this one:
The Homeless Man and the Stock Broker
A homeless man was sleeping in the doorway of a church down in the financial district dreaming of better times. He was jarred from his slumber when a man slung twenty-five cents at him hitting him in the head. "Time to wake up, old man, and get to your panhandling," said the man with a laugh as he headed towards the stock exchange in his smart-looking suit.
The next morning the same thing happened. The homeless man was asleep, dreaming of better times when he was hit in the head with a quarter by the sharply-dressed man.
And this went on day after day.
But the business world is very cyclical and many of the workers he recognized had fallen on hard times. He could see it in their faces. Finally one morning the sharply-dressed stock broker didn't walk by and sling a quarter at his head. This time he asked a favor: "Hey old man," he said. "Can you spare any of those quarters I've given you over the years?"
The homeless man looked up from his slumber and gazed into the sharply dressed man's eyes, and in a single motion hit him over the head with a twenty-five pound bag full of quarters, killing him instantly. Blood poured from his head, down the steps of the church and into a nearby drain. All applauded.
Moral: Just put the money is a cup, you schmuck.
The Homeless Man and the Stock Broker
A homeless man was sleeping in the doorway of a church down in the financial district dreaming of better times. He was jarred from his slumber when a man slung twenty-five cents at him hitting him in the head. "Time to wake up, old man, and get to your panhandling," said the man with a laugh as he headed towards the stock exchange in his smart-looking suit.
The next morning the same thing happened. The homeless man was asleep, dreaming of better times when he was hit in the head with a quarter by the sharply-dressed man.
And this went on day after day.
But the business world is very cyclical and many of the workers he recognized had fallen on hard times. He could see it in their faces. Finally one morning the sharply-dressed stock broker didn't walk by and sling a quarter at his head. This time he asked a favor: "Hey old man," he said. "Can you spare any of those quarters I've given you over the years?"
The homeless man looked up from his slumber and gazed into the sharply dressed man's eyes, and in a single motion hit him over the head with a twenty-five pound bag full of quarters, killing him instantly. Blood poured from his head, down the steps of the church and into a nearby drain. All applauded.
Moral: Just put the money is a cup, you schmuck.
Thursday, March 17, 2005
Wednesday, March 09, 2005
Smitty and Lydia, 8/10/77
Another of Dumont's short stories, this one about some characters named Smitty and Lydia.
August 10, 1977
Smitty was having a birthday so Lydia made some hobo cookies from soggy day-old bread and sugar packets left to bake on a flat rock in the hot summer sun. These were better than the last batch because they contained bits of Hersey Bar liberated from a bodega on 67th Street. Lots of sugar too. And they had beer.
"Homeless junky" is one tough gig but Smitty had gotten used to the long hours and low wages. Having a partner like Lydia helped even though deep down they knew that it wouldn't last. They had met in late spring of that year at the Social Club, a title Smitty had given to the soup kitchen they frequented in Hell's Kitchen near 42nd Street. All homeless junky couples seemed to meet there. Stop in for some soup, a place to sit down and wham, someone to hang out with on the street for a couple of weeks.
They say that misery loves company but for the truly miserable, the comfort of company only lasts so long. Eventually the look of misery on your partners face becomes too much, a reflection of yourself that is too painful to bear. And then it's bye bye.
But this was a salad day sitting in Central Park on a summer day with a handful of sweet cookies and a thankful breeze. Smitty felt himself smile earnestly for the first time in months. He was giddy inside. He and Lydia sat out all afternoon making fun of people, laughing and joking, and drinking their beers until the sun went down.
But it wouldn't last. Several weeks later the hard rains of late summer hit. Smitty and Lydia found themselves fighting over a ten dollar bill while soaking wet on Fifth Avenue across from the park. She tried to stab him with a fork... he punched her... and that was that. Smitty spent the next two days in jail and Lydia was gone. Next time he saw her at the soup kitchen she was with Otis. She passed him by without a glance.
August 10, 1977
Smitty was having a birthday so Lydia made some hobo cookies from soggy day-old bread and sugar packets left to bake on a flat rock in the hot summer sun. These were better than the last batch because they contained bits of Hersey Bar liberated from a bodega on 67th Street. Lots of sugar too. And they had beer.
"Homeless junky" is one tough gig but Smitty had gotten used to the long hours and low wages. Having a partner like Lydia helped even though deep down they knew that it wouldn't last. They had met in late spring of that year at the Social Club, a title Smitty had given to the soup kitchen they frequented in Hell's Kitchen near 42nd Street. All homeless junky couples seemed to meet there. Stop in for some soup, a place to sit down and wham, someone to hang out with on the street for a couple of weeks.
They say that misery loves company but for the truly miserable, the comfort of company only lasts so long. Eventually the look of misery on your partners face becomes too much, a reflection of yourself that is too painful to bear. And then it's bye bye.
But this was a salad day sitting in Central Park on a summer day with a handful of sweet cookies and a thankful breeze. Smitty felt himself smile earnestly for the first time in months. He was giddy inside. He and Lydia sat out all afternoon making fun of people, laughing and joking, and drinking their beers until the sun went down.
But it wouldn't last. Several weeks later the hard rains of late summer hit. Smitty and Lydia found themselves fighting over a ten dollar bill while soaking wet on Fifth Avenue across from the park. She tried to stab him with a fork... he punched her... and that was that. Smitty spent the next two days in jail and Lydia was gone. Next time he saw her at the soup kitchen she was with Otis. She passed him by without a glance.
Wednesday, March 02, 2005
Charlie Dean's Great Fall, October 6, 1981
Wesley claimed to have done every drug under the sun at least once but never talked about any addiction or problems with drugs. However, given the amount of talk about drugs in his stories, I can only assume they played a role in his plight. Certainly alcohol played a prominent role, but that's pretty much par for the course with anyone growing up in the Western world.
In this next piece, Wesley tells the story of a man named Charlie Dean, a drug addict that lived on the Bowery. As with many of Dumont's characters, Charlie Dean comes up from time to time. Whether Charlie Dean was a real person or just a figment of Dumont's imagination remains a mystery.
October 6, 1981
Charlie Dean was a fruit with a taste for the white stuff. I first met him on the Bowery in the summer of '77 at an illegal nightclub in a warehouse on Bowery and Prince or somewheres like that. I had been looking to score for me and my girlfriend, a runaway named Donna from Pittsburgh, PA that I met at the shelter the night before. She was a cute little thing with a desperate loathing of the real world. She wanted to score even worse than I did and waited impatiently outside as a I ventured in looking for Charlie Dean, a man I was certain not to miss.
On this particular night Charlie looked like sausage meat stuffed into a bright pink casing, flitting around with a power-white mustache and a wild-eyed grin. The awful catchy beat of disco music filled every crevice of the room. I had a headache the size of St. Petersburg and was restless to score and be done with the pain and all feelings of angst. The long summer had been hard on my good nature and I needed to feel good if only for a night.
I tapped Charlie on the shoulder and motioned him away from the hideous action taking place on the dance floor. I told him that Manny Gun from the Bowery House had sent me and that he'd have something for me. He looked me up and down with a queer grin and motioned me to a room at the other end of the dance floor. He unlocked the room and we entered what was a seedy little office space with a dirty mattress in the corner.
"Champagne?" he says to me.
"Champagne?" I replied. I was a little confused. I wasn't used to such hospitality when trying to score illegal narcotics. He motioned for me to sit in one of the two folding chairs which I did while accepting his champaign offer.
The queer look got even queerer. "What's on your mind, big boy?" says Charlie.
I told him again that Manny had sent me, told me I could score some white at a reasonable price and that my girlfriend was downstairs and I really couldn't stay long because she was an impatient little minx and difficult to please. I was nervous. I'd been straight for too long and the desperate sweats were creeping up on me. But Charlie took his time.
"How much money you got? By the looks a you, prolly na much, no?"
"I got plenty. Enough for tonight at least."
"How about we make a deal you and me, no?" With his eyes he motioned in a knowing way towards the mattress in the corner.
Almost immediately I had Charlie Dean by the back of his hair and a belt loop. I took him into the club, across the dance floor and down the stairs he went. I followed him to the bottom and fished out a good-sized bag of the good stuff and stuffed some bills in his pocket.
Donna and I had a strange evening that night, another story entirely. But I felt bad about what I had done to Charlie Dean and would apologize later. Thankfully he wasn't hurt that bad, no more than normal. He and I remained friends until he died in early 1991.
In this next piece, Wesley tells the story of a man named Charlie Dean, a drug addict that lived on the Bowery. As with many of Dumont's characters, Charlie Dean comes up from time to time. Whether Charlie Dean was a real person or just a figment of Dumont's imagination remains a mystery.
October 6, 1981
Charlie Dean was a fruit with a taste for the white stuff. I first met him on the Bowery in the summer of '77 at an illegal nightclub in a warehouse on Bowery and Prince or somewheres like that. I had been looking to score for me and my girlfriend, a runaway named Donna from Pittsburgh, PA that I met at the shelter the night before. She was a cute little thing with a desperate loathing of the real world. She wanted to score even worse than I did and waited impatiently outside as a I ventured in looking for Charlie Dean, a man I was certain not to miss.
On this particular night Charlie looked like sausage meat stuffed into a bright pink casing, flitting around with a power-white mustache and a wild-eyed grin. The awful catchy beat of disco music filled every crevice of the room. I had a headache the size of St. Petersburg and was restless to score and be done with the pain and all feelings of angst. The long summer had been hard on my good nature and I needed to feel good if only for a night.
I tapped Charlie on the shoulder and motioned him away from the hideous action taking place on the dance floor. I told him that Manny Gun from the Bowery House had sent me and that he'd have something for me. He looked me up and down with a queer grin and motioned me to a room at the other end of the dance floor. He unlocked the room and we entered what was a seedy little office space with a dirty mattress in the corner.
"Champagne?" he says to me.
"Champagne?" I replied. I was a little confused. I wasn't used to such hospitality when trying to score illegal narcotics. He motioned for me to sit in one of the two folding chairs which I did while accepting his champaign offer.
The queer look got even queerer. "What's on your mind, big boy?" says Charlie.
I told him again that Manny had sent me, told me I could score some white at a reasonable price and that my girlfriend was downstairs and I really couldn't stay long because she was an impatient little minx and difficult to please. I was nervous. I'd been straight for too long and the desperate sweats were creeping up on me. But Charlie took his time.
"How much money you got? By the looks a you, prolly na much, no?"
"I got plenty. Enough for tonight at least."
"How about we make a deal you and me, no?" With his eyes he motioned in a knowing way towards the mattress in the corner.
Almost immediately I had Charlie Dean by the back of his hair and a belt loop. I took him into the club, across the dance floor and down the stairs he went. I followed him to the bottom and fished out a good-sized bag of the good stuff and stuffed some bills in his pocket.
Donna and I had a strange evening that night, another story entirely. But I felt bad about what I had done to Charlie Dean and would apologize later. Thankfully he wasn't hurt that bad, no more than normal. He and I remained friends until he died in early 1991.
Tuesday, March 01, 2005
December 5, 1989-Urban Haikus
In general, I’ve found most of Dumont's work to be high energy and positive in nature. Definitely surreal at times and a perhaps little “out there”, but there are some passages that suggest a reasonable amount of melancholy, and emotion you can't blame him for considering his personal and financial struggles. I believe the following two Haikus touch on that melancholic feeling nicely.
December 5, 1989
Need shelter
Just above freezing--
Hope has gone into hiding.
I can smell the rain
Pretty Girl
Pretty girl with dog
Walking down Fifth Avenue
Was that smile for me?
December 5, 1989
Need shelter
Just above freezing--
Hope has gone into hiding.
I can smell the rain
Pretty Girl
Pretty girl with dog
Walking down Fifth Avenue
Was that smile for me?
Friday, February 25, 2005
Johnny California
June 2, 1972. These are some of Dumont's notes on a crime-fighting renegade named Johnny California he wanted to develop for TV or the movies. Various episode ideas pop up from time to time in his musings. This appears to be just about all the background I can find on crime fighter Johnny California.
Johnny California. Crime fighter. As handsome as the rising son. Hair long and tangled. Unshaved. Masculine with no tolerance for hard criminals or mouthy women. Lives his life from the trunk of his candy-apple red 1969 Charger Convertible. As a master of karate and other Eastern forms of combat, Johnny California has no need for modern day weaponry. Devastating good looks, and insatiable charm, and the instincts of a mother of naughty children is all Johnny needs to get the job done.
Episode 1:
We open on a blush Beverly Hills residence. Johnny California is enjoying the comforts of three beautiful, barely clothed women when suddenly a masked man adorned in all black crashes through the pool-side sliding glass doors. In only his skivvies, Johnny springs into immediate action in the center of the sunken living room. Terrific man-on-man karate action ensues. Martini glasses fly, women scream, Johnny fights for his very life and those of his lady friends. Finally, a terrific blow to the nose sends the masked assassin through the very same window he came in through and into the nearby kidney-shaped pool. Johnny fishes the dead man out and pulls up the sleeve of the man’s shirt to reveal a scorpion tattoo. Johnny California is on the case.
Johnny California. Crime fighter. As handsome as the rising son. Hair long and tangled. Unshaved. Masculine with no tolerance for hard criminals or mouthy women. Lives his life from the trunk of his candy-apple red 1969 Charger Convertible. As a master of karate and other Eastern forms of combat, Johnny California has no need for modern day weaponry. Devastating good looks, and insatiable charm, and the instincts of a mother of naughty children is all Johnny needs to get the job done.
Episode 1:
We open on a blush Beverly Hills residence. Johnny California is enjoying the comforts of three beautiful, barely clothed women when suddenly a masked man adorned in all black crashes through the pool-side sliding glass doors. In only his skivvies, Johnny springs into immediate action in the center of the sunken living room. Terrific man-on-man karate action ensues. Martini glasses fly, women scream, Johnny fights for his very life and those of his lady friends. Finally, a terrific blow to the nose sends the masked assassin through the very same window he came in through and into the nearby kidney-shaped pool. Johnny fishes the dead man out and pulls up the sleeve of the man’s shirt to reveal a scorpion tattoo. Johnny California is on the case.
Thursday, February 24, 2005
My 17-Minute Love Affair with Allen Ginsberg
This is another example of Dumont writing missives on important dates. This one is dated April 6, 1997, the day that Allen Ginsberg died. This is a short piece about meeting Mr. Ginsberg (the assumption that it's true is mine).
April 6, 1997
The year was 1958 and I was living with Pete and Francine in a brownstone on Grove Street, a large one bedroom with most kitchen amenities and a hot plate. Pete and Francine paid most of the rent and claimed the bedroom while I paid what I could and slept on a mattress in the living room.
Greenwich Village was a pretty wild place in those days and people were always coming in and out spouting off poetry and rambling none such that somehow meant something in my clouded brain but in reality probably didn't. But when you're constantly high and nursing from the teat of lady grape, reality plays a very minor role in your everyday life.
Anyway, I think it was a weekend night because the activity on the street was a little more frantic than normal. It was an electric spring evening with temperatures in the high 60s and no clouds. Pete and Francine and me along with some others were lounging around smoking grass, listening to records when a group of folks popped in looking to score. We didn't have enough to sell but we invited them in to partake in what we had. We were very cordial to one another in those days. I had been smoking a lot of grass that day and by the time they arrived I was nearly beat. I was having difficulty keeping up with the conversation, and being a bit older than the others I didn't much care for what they were saying anyway. The apartment was cloudy with smoke and I used the screen as an opportunity to slide into Pete and Francine's room to rest my weary eyes.
Their room was always beautiful. I loved being in there, especially with Francine. They had a great big window that afforded a decent view of the west side and a fortunate breeze sent the cotton curtains billowing into the room like great sails of an English galley. I laid down. Francine's bed was soft and smelled of the sweet smelling oil that she adorned herself with in the mornings. The breeze, the patchouli, and the sound of laughter from the other room made for a heavenly experience. If I concentrate hard enough I can remember it vividly even today.
I must have drifted off because when I awoke I could feel another's presence in the room. I was still under the spell of the weed but based on where I was I only assumed it was Francine. I dared not move or open my eyes. I felt the weight of the person sit down beside me; she began playing with my hair. I didn't want to give away the fact that I was awake so I limited the evidence of my pleasure to a sly smile. Our game went on for what seemed like an eternity. The breeze was so comfortable. In my mind's eye, Francine and I were running through the open glens of Scotland as if from some fruity musical. But the moment couldn't last. Finally she came close and kissed my forehead. But she didn't smell like the patchouli that I had come to expect from Francine. And then he spoke. "Sleep now brother and smell the sweet air of freedom and always always fly your dreams."
Obviously not Francine. I would later learn that it was none other than Allen Ginsberg saying those sweet words. Although I've never had even the slightest homosexual urge in all my years, I did feel love during those 17 minutes. You too fly your dreams, brother.
April 6, 1997
The year was 1958 and I was living with Pete and Francine in a brownstone on Grove Street, a large one bedroom with most kitchen amenities and a hot plate. Pete and Francine paid most of the rent and claimed the bedroom while I paid what I could and slept on a mattress in the living room.
Greenwich Village was a pretty wild place in those days and people were always coming in and out spouting off poetry and rambling none such that somehow meant something in my clouded brain but in reality probably didn't. But when you're constantly high and nursing from the teat of lady grape, reality plays a very minor role in your everyday life.
Anyway, I think it was a weekend night because the activity on the street was a little more frantic than normal. It was an electric spring evening with temperatures in the high 60s and no clouds. Pete and Francine and me along with some others were lounging around smoking grass, listening to records when a group of folks popped in looking to score. We didn't have enough to sell but we invited them in to partake in what we had. We were very cordial to one another in those days. I had been smoking a lot of grass that day and by the time they arrived I was nearly beat. I was having difficulty keeping up with the conversation, and being a bit older than the others I didn't much care for what they were saying anyway. The apartment was cloudy with smoke and I used the screen as an opportunity to slide into Pete and Francine's room to rest my weary eyes.
Their room was always beautiful. I loved being in there, especially with Francine. They had a great big window that afforded a decent view of the west side and a fortunate breeze sent the cotton curtains billowing into the room like great sails of an English galley. I laid down. Francine's bed was soft and smelled of the sweet smelling oil that she adorned herself with in the mornings. The breeze, the patchouli, and the sound of laughter from the other room made for a heavenly experience. If I concentrate hard enough I can remember it vividly even today.
I must have drifted off because when I awoke I could feel another's presence in the room. I was still under the spell of the weed but based on where I was I only assumed it was Francine. I dared not move or open my eyes. I felt the weight of the person sit down beside me; she began playing with my hair. I didn't want to give away the fact that I was awake so I limited the evidence of my pleasure to a sly smile. Our game went on for what seemed like an eternity. The breeze was so comfortable. In my mind's eye, Francine and I were running through the open glens of Scotland as if from some fruity musical. But the moment couldn't last. Finally she came close and kissed my forehead. But she didn't smell like the patchouli that I had come to expect from Francine. And then he spoke. "Sleep now brother and smell the sweet air of freedom and always always fly your dreams."
Obviously not Francine. I would later learn that it was none other than Allen Ginsberg saying those sweet words. Although I've never had even the slightest homosexual urge in all my years, I did feel love during those 17 minutes. You too fly your dreams, brother.
Haiku, January 13, 1994
Wesley tried to get a bit of writing done each day, although the organization of these everyday musings are scattered at best and don't show any sort of pattern. On some days, "a bit of writing" was just that -- just a phrase or two, or in this case, an "Urban Haiku". There are many of these in his writings. This is one of my favorites:
This is 14th street
Stand clear of the closing doors
Next stop is West 4th
This is 14th street
Stand clear of the closing doors
Next stop is West 4th
Wednesday, February 23, 2005
November 23, 1997 (Billy the Kid’s birthday – 1859)
Dumont gathered inspiration from important dates in history. He probably read a "this day in history" column regularly because many of the topics he would choose would relate to a historical fact associated with a particular day. In the story below, Wesley wrote about Billy the Kid on his birthday:
Billy the Kid entered my dream unceremoniously and immediately ordered a drink from the bar. I had the distinct feeling he was disappointed yet amused by the ridiculous cast of characters that had gathered in the saloon during my slumber. My mother was sitting at a table near the back of the saloon, dressed in slutty underclothes with a man I didn’t recognize. My dog, Christmas, who my parents gave away when I was four years old was running around willy nilly. At another table was a group of snakes playing blackjack. I was standing on the stage naked about to give a book report on Huckleberry Finn. Billy ordered another whiskey, drank it quickly and whiped his mouth with his shirt sleeve. He then removed his gun and let one fly into the ceiling. My father, who was tending bar, didn’t flinch. I held on tightly to my privates but was unable to move. Billy announced it was his birthday and that drinks were on him. Everyone cheered and approached the bar. I remained on stage and told the story of Huck and Jim in a quivering, unsure voice.
Billy the Kid entered my dream unceremoniously and immediately ordered a drink from the bar. I had the distinct feeling he was disappointed yet amused by the ridiculous cast of characters that had gathered in the saloon during my slumber. My mother was sitting at a table near the back of the saloon, dressed in slutty underclothes with a man I didn’t recognize. My dog, Christmas, who my parents gave away when I was four years old was running around willy nilly. At another table was a group of snakes playing blackjack. I was standing on the stage naked about to give a book report on Huckleberry Finn. Billy ordered another whiskey, drank it quickly and whiped his mouth with his shirt sleeve. He then removed his gun and let one fly into the ceiling. My father, who was tending bar, didn’t flinch. I held on tightly to my privates but was unable to move. Billy announced it was his birthday and that drinks were on him. Everyone cheered and approached the bar. I remained on stage and told the story of Huck and Jim in a quivering, unsure voice.
Dumont, Collections, White as...
Wesley also collected on-going lists of creative thoughts that he would refer back to in his writing. In this particular list, Wesley was collecting similes for "white". This is a culmination of several "white" lists, and there are many others like it. Here's a sample:
As white as a virgin’s front teeth
As white as Siberian snow
As white as the stars on a brand new American flag
As white as a sailor’s cap
As white as the blank page that stares at me now
As white as my ex-wife when I found her getting nailed by the handyman
As white as Ben Franklin’s hair
As white as a freshly pressed hospital gown
As white as pure cocaine extracted from the hand of a dead Colombian
As white as the walls at Bellevue, recently painted
As white as that actor's teeth
As white as unfettered taffy
As white as a virgin’s front teeth
As white as Siberian snow
As white as the stars on a brand new American flag
As white as a sailor’s cap
As white as the blank page that stares at me now
As white as my ex-wife when I found her getting nailed by the handyman
As white as Ben Franklin’s hair
As white as a freshly pressed hospital gown
As white as pure cocaine extracted from the hand of a dead Colombian
As white as the walls at Bellevue, recently painted
As white as that actor's teeth
As white as unfettered taffy
Dumont, Oct. 8, 1988
This is a classic example of a Wesley Dumont short story. Not necessarily his best, but a classic example. There are hundreds of these, each interesting and insightful in its on way.
Frank woke early at the shelter grabbed his various bags and headed out. It was a bright fall morning, the sun just beginning its accent over the east side of Manhattan, the pale glow casting just enough light to bring a smile to Frank's cracked face. Sitting on a bench near the hospital, the sun all around, he rummaged through his bag and found a section of the New York Times he hadn't read from the day before. In the lifestyle section was a review of a book, a memior of a woman that had suffered from terrible depression her whole life. The book discussed her fear and remorse, emotions that were so bad she often found it difficult to get out of bed.
Frank wished he could have been there to help. Obviously the woman needed company. And throughout his life, Frank has needed a bed. At the end of the day, isn't that what love is all about?
Frank woke early at the shelter grabbed his various bags and headed out. It was a bright fall morning, the sun just beginning its accent over the east side of Manhattan, the pale glow casting just enough light to bring a smile to Frank's cracked face. Sitting on a bench near the hospital, the sun all around, he rummaged through his bag and found a section of the New York Times he hadn't read from the day before. In the lifestyle section was a review of a book, a memior of a woman that had suffered from terrible depression her whole life. The book discussed her fear and remorse, emotions that were so bad she often found it difficult to get out of bed.
Frank wished he could have been there to help. Obviously the woman needed company. And throughout his life, Frank has needed a bed. At the end of the day, isn't that what love is all about?
Wesley Dumont - His History
Welcome. In the coming months or years, I will be sharing some of the found writings of Wesley Dumont, a nearly homeless man that lived in the basement of my building in New York for a number of years.
Wesley Dumont died on November 2, 2002. He was 85 years old. Born on October 15, 1917 in Paris, France, Wesley was the son of a Frenchman and an American Red Cross worker. On the day he was born, Mata Hari, the archetype of the seductive female spy, was executed for espionage by a French firing squad at Vincennes outside of Paris. Wesley would boast that this the omen for his luck with women.
I first came to know Wesley Dumont in the summer of 1994 in New York City. He was a regular at a bar in Hell's Kitchen that I would frequent as well. Although I was many years younger than Wesley, we struck up a casual drinking relationship almost immediately and he filled many an afternoon with the sort of stories that went perfect with my thirst for beer. As a young writer new to New York City, I loved listening to his stories. They were so rich in imagery I could almost taste them. Stories that spanned generations. Stories about the whole world. About love and loss. About war. About drink. About the power and the shortcomings of the American spirit. About women. And certainly a lot about writing and story telling in general.
I don't want to suggest that Wesley and I were the best of friends. We certainly spent a good many hours together, especially in those first several years. But the sixty years of age difference certainly kept us from hanging out on any sort of regular basis. I mostly saw him at the bars in Hell's Kitchen, or in the neighborhood. In fact, there were several years in the latter part of the 90s that I rarely saw Wesley at all, and when I did, he barely recognized me. By that time I had put the dreams of becoming a writer off to the side in exchange for a career in advertising. With that I set aside the nightmarish image of the lonely writer sitting in the dark in front of a blank page. I moved in with a girl and that was that. Marriage was on the horizon. But as fate would have it, all that changed and I hit a wall and decided it was fine time to tackle the midlife crisis before it set in. At only 30 years of age I found myself without a job, without the girl, and ultimately back in the bars of Hell's Kitchen rekindling my friendship with Wesley. I had also taken an apartment in the neighborhood that proved to be a pretty good dear rent-wise, and it came with a storage unit in the basement that some people would have paid up to $500 to live in. Wesley had fallen on some particularly hard times financially so I allowed him to sleep in the basement provided that he minded his own business and didn't let on to the landlord that he was sleeping down there. It didn't always go smoothly, but all in all, Wesley kept up his end of the bargain and came and went as he pleased. I was happy to have him around, and he was incredibly magnanimous, never over staying his welcome and always a gentleman. In his self deprecating way, he knew there was nothing sexy about having an elderly man in your single, New York lifestyle.
After nearly a year of living in my basement, Wesley left. He knocked on my door early on Saturday morning and announced that he had to go back to France to deal with some personal matters and that he might not be back. I remember I was incredibly hungover that day and wished I had had more of my mental capacities to inquire more about his trip and the reasons why he could not return. But just that quickly, he was gone. And true to his word, he didn't come back.
Several months had passed, and I went down into the basement to look into some things in had stored down there. It was the first time I had been down there since Wesley left. I was surprised to see that he had left a small suitcase of his belongings next to the small cot, neatly made, where he had slept for almost a year. I found what I was looking for (I forget what it was) and noticed that there was a small leak. Concerned about the well being of Wesley's suitcase and other personal effects, I took them upstairs for safe keeping, just in case Wesley did come back. I put them in a closet without another thought, and soon after, I forgot they were even there.
Thankfully things began to turn a corner for me personally and I was able to move on with my life. The hiccup of getting out of advertising and losing the girl was behind me and I took a job at a publishing house in Brooklyn. And I met a terrific girl, a beautiful librarian named Lilly and soon after we made plans to move in together in Park Slope. It was when I was moving out that I came across Wesley's things again. I suddenly found myself in a dilemma. What to do with Wesley's stuff? I was concerned that if he came back, he wouldn't know where to find me. I explained the situation to Lilly, and we agreed that the best plan of action would be to take his stuff with us and leave our forwarding address with the bartender at Wesley's favorite bar. Certainly Wesley would head back there immediately upon his return to New York City. So that's just what we did. Once we had finished packing the U-Haul truck full of my belongings, we stopped in to the bar for a pint, and I explained to Mike the Bartender my dilemma. I handed him my new address and phone number. Mike immediately tacked it to the wall behind him and off we went. Almost a year later I received a call from Mike. Wesley had passed away. That was all the information he had.
I had never opened any of Wesley's things. There were just some clothes in a trash bag, a cardboard box with some person effects, and a suitcase. But I decided to have a look. And what I found were thousands of pages of Wesley's stories, mostly short stories that have a beginning, but have no end. But in my view, that's exactly who Wesley was. And based on what I've read in Wesley's personal journals, I believe he would want me to share his words. Thus, The Found Writings Of Wesley Dumont.
Wesley Dumont died on November 2, 2002. He was 85 years old. Born on October 15, 1917 in Paris, France, Wesley was the son of a Frenchman and an American Red Cross worker. On the day he was born, Mata Hari, the archetype of the seductive female spy, was executed for espionage by a French firing squad at Vincennes outside of Paris. Wesley would boast that this the omen for his luck with women.
I first came to know Wesley Dumont in the summer of 1994 in New York City. He was a regular at a bar in Hell's Kitchen that I would frequent as well. Although I was many years younger than Wesley, we struck up a casual drinking relationship almost immediately and he filled many an afternoon with the sort of stories that went perfect with my thirst for beer. As a young writer new to New York City, I loved listening to his stories. They were so rich in imagery I could almost taste them. Stories that spanned generations. Stories about the whole world. About love and loss. About war. About drink. About the power and the shortcomings of the American spirit. About women. And certainly a lot about writing and story telling in general.
I don't want to suggest that Wesley and I were the best of friends. We certainly spent a good many hours together, especially in those first several years. But the sixty years of age difference certainly kept us from hanging out on any sort of regular basis. I mostly saw him at the bars in Hell's Kitchen, or in the neighborhood. In fact, there were several years in the latter part of the 90s that I rarely saw Wesley at all, and when I did, he barely recognized me. By that time I had put the dreams of becoming a writer off to the side in exchange for a career in advertising. With that I set aside the nightmarish image of the lonely writer sitting in the dark in front of a blank page. I moved in with a girl and that was that. Marriage was on the horizon. But as fate would have it, all that changed and I hit a wall and decided it was fine time to tackle the midlife crisis before it set in. At only 30 years of age I found myself without a job, without the girl, and ultimately back in the bars of Hell's Kitchen rekindling my friendship with Wesley. I had also taken an apartment in the neighborhood that proved to be a pretty good dear rent-wise, and it came with a storage unit in the basement that some people would have paid up to $500 to live in. Wesley had fallen on some particularly hard times financially so I allowed him to sleep in the basement provided that he minded his own business and didn't let on to the landlord that he was sleeping down there. It didn't always go smoothly, but all in all, Wesley kept up his end of the bargain and came and went as he pleased. I was happy to have him around, and he was incredibly magnanimous, never over staying his welcome and always a gentleman. In his self deprecating way, he knew there was nothing sexy about having an elderly man in your single, New York lifestyle.
After nearly a year of living in my basement, Wesley left. He knocked on my door early on Saturday morning and announced that he had to go back to France to deal with some personal matters and that he might not be back. I remember I was incredibly hungover that day and wished I had had more of my mental capacities to inquire more about his trip and the reasons why he could not return. But just that quickly, he was gone. And true to his word, he didn't come back.
Several months had passed, and I went down into the basement to look into some things in had stored down there. It was the first time I had been down there since Wesley left. I was surprised to see that he had left a small suitcase of his belongings next to the small cot, neatly made, where he had slept for almost a year. I found what I was looking for (I forget what it was) and noticed that there was a small leak. Concerned about the well being of Wesley's suitcase and other personal effects, I took them upstairs for safe keeping, just in case Wesley did come back. I put them in a closet without another thought, and soon after, I forgot they were even there.
Thankfully things began to turn a corner for me personally and I was able to move on with my life. The hiccup of getting out of advertising and losing the girl was behind me and I took a job at a publishing house in Brooklyn. And I met a terrific girl, a beautiful librarian named Lilly and soon after we made plans to move in together in Park Slope. It was when I was moving out that I came across Wesley's things again. I suddenly found myself in a dilemma. What to do with Wesley's stuff? I was concerned that if he came back, he wouldn't know where to find me. I explained the situation to Lilly, and we agreed that the best plan of action would be to take his stuff with us and leave our forwarding address with the bartender at Wesley's favorite bar. Certainly Wesley would head back there immediately upon his return to New York City. So that's just what we did. Once we had finished packing the U-Haul truck full of my belongings, we stopped in to the bar for a pint, and I explained to Mike the Bartender my dilemma. I handed him my new address and phone number. Mike immediately tacked it to the wall behind him and off we went. Almost a year later I received a call from Mike. Wesley had passed away. That was all the information he had.
I had never opened any of Wesley's things. There were just some clothes in a trash bag, a cardboard box with some person effects, and a suitcase. But I decided to have a look. And what I found were thousands of pages of Wesley's stories, mostly short stories that have a beginning, but have no end. But in my view, that's exactly who Wesley was. And based on what I've read in Wesley's personal journals, I believe he would want me to share his words. Thus, The Found Writings Of Wesley Dumont.
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