NOIR TO ME by Dan Fante

(credit Volker Correll)

Q: What attracts you to the "noir" of life, the banal, down-on-your-luck, spiralling out of control, aspect of life?

A: My own experience.

Q: Do you fear looking into the abyss of the unknown?  What do you think you will see?
A: I see my own struggle with sanity, sober.

Q: Was it a particular work of art, literature, music, time, place, person or event that grabbed you and drew you to the "noir"?
A: Selby's Last Exit To Brooklyn. A suberb piece of work.

Q: If so, then what or when or who was it?


Q: How would you define the nebulus term "noir"?
A: For me noir is dark literature. Seline, Bukowski, Henry Miller, Edward Lewis Wallant. 

Q: When it comes to the "down-and-out" quality of life, how closely do you associate with it?  Does it scare you?
A: I have a long history as a much-troubled drunk. My work is an effort to 'speak' to people like me. Madness and addiction can be overcome. I want my reader to identify.

Q: Are you drawn to the "noir" for some vicarious or voyeuristic reason?
A: No. It is where I come from.

Q: Do you think others are drawn to your work out of curioustiy or some sort of feeling of symaptico?
A: The human condition is much undiscussed in contemporary fiction. I think the honesty of my work is what attracts the reader.

Q: In your words, why are so many people resentful against noir?
A: Most people want to be entertained. Our culture is centered around 'the quick fix' emotionally.  Apparently, honesty in literature is not commercial.

Q: In your words, what is the greatest work of Noir ever written?filmed?pictured?painted?
A: Off the top of my head I'd have to say the film: Doctor Strangelove. Simply brilliant.

Q: What would you like to add that I have neglected here about the "noir"?
A: Writing memoir noir fiction 'from the heart' has resulted in me receiving hundreds of e-mails from people who identify with my characters. They 'see' themselves in my work. They say they are 'moved' and changed by my novels.  No higher compliment is possible for a writer.

Dan Fante, Confronting His Demons On The Page

An excerpt from 86’d by Dan Fante,
On sale September 22^nd from Harper Perennial

It happened to me rarely these days. Working and making money and writing and managing Dav-Ko was all that I’d been doing for months. But I now clearly had a serious case of the fuckits.

I can’t say it was Ronny Steadman and I can’t say it wasn’t but within me there is this leveling devise thing that, when my mind exceeds a certain point, just goes on tilt. Snaps. I know that normal people can take a pill or go to bed or call their friend Bob and watch TV or have sex with their wife or jerk off, or some goddamn thing. But that stuff doesn’t work for me. 

I know what I was thinking. I was thinking: what’s the big deal. Life is too short for this shit and I need to take the edge off. Fuckit. I deserve it. Fuck it!    

                      __________           

A door slammed. I woke up.

It was a strange room. It looked to be a nearly unfurnished one-room apartment with only a small window and dark yellow walls. No pictures.

Clearing my head, I rolled toward the floor and looked down - a woman’s dirty underwear and a pack of cigarettes and a strange half jar filled with blue liquid tucked just beneath the head of the bed.

Lifting the jar up I studied it: A set of false teeth, bridges, uppers and lowers. The sight of these in the strange colored water unnerved me and the glass slipped from my hand and fell to the floor. A pool of blue liquid now flooded the linoleum and nearby underpants.

Reaching back down I picked up the teeth again and held them in my hands, examining them.

How the hell did I get here on this bed with these goddamn things? The top bridge had six fronts with one missing space.  No back teeth. The bottoms had no molars but like the uppers, all the front teeth were there. In other words whoever owned these had no real teeth on the top and bottom. My brain collated this information and gave me an image of the toothless bitch who owned them. Whoever had slammed the door must have left in hurry and neglected to put her teeth in. 

Near the underpants on the floor but away from the blue pool, were my pants and socks. Both my shoes and my jacket appeared to be missing.

Reaching for the pants I found that the pockets had been turned inside out. The wallet was gone. My money was gone. The cell phone too.

Pulling back the sheets around me I discovered several hair pins and a sex stain. I was naked except for my torn and soiled shirt. Two buttons were missing. 

  

Finding the bathroom I vomited again and again until my head hurt so much that I had to fall to the coolness of the tile floor and curl myself around the porcelain toilet, in a ball. Then the shakes started.   

Fifteen minutes later I’d pulled myself together enough to leave the crapper. But lighting a cigarette forced me back into the bathroom to puke again.

Back in the main room I checked for more signs of where I was and what had happened. I saw more dirty women’s clothes and underwear strewn in the corner. Under some socks was a stack of supermarket coupons held together by a rubber band. Nothing else except a large, gold plastic crucifix looked down from above the apartment’s main door.

The window was partially covered by a sheet. The only furniture other than the bed was a dresser. I opened the drawers. They contained a child’s clothes. Old and worn.

Outside, looking down from the second floor, the neighborhood appeared to be Ghost Town, in Venice – a row of old, run down houses with sad, un-watered lawns. But maybe not. Maybe I was in Compton or old Torrance or even Long Beach. I couldn’t be sure.

On the window sill were two green plants. They still had their price tags stuck to the black plastic pots.  

Then something shiny got my attention: my car keys. Across the room in the corner.

But that was it. Nothing else belonged to me. All of my shit was gone – gone with whoever slammed the door and departed in a rush.  

Back in the bathroom I washed myself. There was no soap. No towel. No toothpaste. Nothing.

I gulped as much water as possible from the faucet until I felt myself wretch convulsively, but somehow I kept the liquid down.

So far so good.

Drying my face with the end of my shirt I then ran water through my hair with my rattling hands in an attempt to smooth it into place. Then I used the last of a toilet paper roll that sat on the toilet tank to clean my teeth.  

I now had a sudden and immediate need for a drink. Without a drink I would start puking again or pass out. Or die.

Picking up the set of teeth I stuffed them in my pocket, one in each, along with my car keys. Then I pulled on my socks.

On the street in the heat I intended to circle the block until I found my car. But a few minutes later, with no luck, I reached a main drag with a sign:

North Van Nuys Boulevard

. Fucking

Van Nuys Boulevard

. The ghetto. Had I spent the night with a Mexican hooker. That figured. My thing had always been Latin women.

My feet were starting to burn badly and swell as they scraped the asphalt. A mother with her two young daughters averted her glance as she passed me crossing the street.

I kept moving, my brain aching and slamming itself inside my skull. I couldn’t stop. I had to locate my car and I had to have alcohol. A drink. Immediately. The voice of Jimmy, my hangman, scorched my brain. Well done, fucko! Lost in the gaddamn Valley! No shoes. No money. Just swell. You’ve outdone yourself once again. You’re a gutless juicer and a loser just like your fucking brother. You deserve this. Hey cheesedick, with a little luck you just might get yourself arrested for vagrancy – or drunk in public.

There was only one way I’d ever been able to shut Jimmy up:  drown him in bourbon.    

Finally, my fists sweating and still clenched around the teeth in each pocket, I reached a section of shop fronts: A 99-cent store. A 7-11. Instant pay-day loans. A porno arcade. A pawn broker. In the window above a display of beat-up used watches, the pawnshop clock read 10:20 a.m.

I stopped. I felt myself starting to pass out.

Leaning against a wall I sucked in air. It took thirty seconds for the dizziness to pass then I was okay. I could walk. 

Maybe the 7-11? I decided to turn back. I had no money but maybe I could steal two talls or a forty-ouncer while the guy’s back was turned. For once Jimmy screamed some good advise: Hey nutcase, are you completely crazy? You’ve got a torn shirt and no shoes!...Keep moving, for chrissakes.

So I kept going.

Then, on the corner, I saw it. A bar! It was open – a square neon sign in the window flashing.

I pushed the door open and went in.   

Two working guys sat at the rail drinking bottled beer. The juke box played mariachi music.

Then it happened. I was inches away from the stools. The bartender had seen me and was moving toward me when I felt the spasmodic rush of hot liquid hit the inside of my pants. I’d crapped myself! Without underwear I felt the heat of the mess running down my leg. 

As I reached the stools I tossed my car keys up on the bar, trying to appear self-confident.

The bartender’s expression changed. He knew. The stench had been immediate and overwhelming.

“What’s up?” he snarled. 

“Look” I said, “I’ve got an idea. Hear me out, okay? Do you want to make some money?”

“I ka smel jour idea from ober here! Take a walk, cabron! Now. No chit. I mean it. You wann troubl in disa plaze, you got troubl!” 

I raised my hands in the air like a guy under arrest. “No kidding!” I blurted. “Do you want to make a hundred bucks? For real.”

“For wha, chitman.”

“For a pop. One drink! A hundred dollars for one drink. Straight business.”

“Lemme guez, okae. Jour problem is jou ain’t got the hundred on you. Am I rie?”

I nodded.

 “Mira stupido, jou got ten seconds to get jour stinky culo outa here and go bak on da stree. Ten seconds, comprende? Nine…eight…”   

“Two hundred! No joke!” I was panting now. Gulping air.  “I’ll pay you two hundred bucks for one drink…and a phone call! I run a business. I’ll have someone bring the money. It’ll be here half an hour after I make the call. C’mon, cut me a break.”

“Thaz it, chitpants! Timz up!”

The guy scooped my car keys off the bar and held them toward me. “I tole jou, take a fukking walk!” he hissed. “I ain no kiddin’!”

Then something happened. With my key ring in his outstretched arm, the bartender’s expression changed. He was looking at what he held in his hand. “Whaz about thez?” he said.

“What?” I said.   

“Deez one, my man!” he snarled, pinching the coin on the ring between his fingers.

It was a fifty cent piece. A silver half dollar. The coin and chain had been a gift from my ex-girlfriend Cynthia years before after I bought the Pontiac.

I felt my body breathe again. “What about it?” I asked. “You want it?”

“I collek. I collek koinz.”

“So?”

“Dis one iz a 1916. Firss jear minn. Walkin’ Leebertee. Goo condicion too.”

“I know what it is,” I lied. “How about a trade?”

The guy folded his arms across his chest. “Hokay, chitmajn, herez dee deal: Jou get jour stinky, shakin ass to the bahroom ‘n clean up an when jou come back I giff jou one drink – an one phon call. For dis.”  

“Two drinks” I blurted. “Two drinks and you have a deal. Double shots. Deal?”

“Deal,” he snarled. “Now go wass jour ass.”

Bonus material:

 (Bonus material provided by Dan)