I used to be the Great Swanzini. Now look at me. My cape has bird shit all over it. My top hat is curled open at the top, like a sardine tin. My magic wand is … flaccid.
I live in a piece of paper. It’s an enormous sheet of paper, twelve feet square, that I dragged into an alley between one art gallery and another art gallery. Every night — or in the daytime, even, when it’s cold — I roll up in it, like tobacco in an enormous cigarette.
At first, I didn’t even have paper. I lay in the alley all night, freezing. But one morning, I saw two girls struggling to carry the biggest piece of paper I’ve ever seen. I asked them what they were doing. We’re from the gallery, the first girl said. Which gallery? I asked. The one on your right, said the second girl. Oh, I said. And then I said, What is it? It’s one of Giancarlo’s discarded drawings, said the first girl, rolling her green eyes. We’re taking it to the recycling bin. Can I have it? I asked them. The proper thing to do, said the girl with the green eyes, for our green Earth, is to recycle it. I hid behind a mailbox and watched them drag the sheet across the avenue, lift the lid of the recycling bin, and toss it in. I watched them re-cross the avenue. As soon as they stepped inside the gallery, I approached the bin, opened the door, and fished out the paper. It had a drawing of a man’s face on one side. The other side was blank.
Even with paper, the nights can be long. Sometimes, reaching into a pocket, I’ll feel a bit of rabbit fur, or a stray card, and I’ll remember. Those nights are the longest.
I found a pencil in The Grecian Isle, a night cafe, moments before the man with the crisp collar grabbed me by the collar and laid me flat on the sidewalk. I took the pencil back to my alley and tested it on the paper, on the blank side. I drew a rabbit, and several smaller birds. Then I drew a man’s face. I’ve never been an artist. But I thought, flipping the sheet over and over, that my face was as good as Giancarlo’s. I tried writing a story. If it wasn’t very good, I don’t think, at least … it made me feel better. Just a little better.
During the day, I write on paper. I’m writing this between the eyes of Giancarlo’s face. At night, I sleep in paper. When I stick my head out the end of the paper to see whether it’s day or night, the people walking by look at me with more disdain than you could imagine. And I feel so degraded. Someone once told me … when you feel like shit, and you’ve long since reached a point of shame, a rung from which one can step no lower, you can feel no worse, not about anything. But I feel so degraded. I feel more and more degraded every day. If I were any more degraded, I’d be dead.
But I used to be the Great Swanzini.
“The Great Swanzini” is from my out-of-print story collection I Am Currently Working on a Novel. If you enjoyed it, kindly consider buying me a coffee.
The saddest people in the world get together every morning. They wait in line for the liquor store to open.
Illustration by Rolli
I can’t remember why I started drinking, even. I used to be able to remember. Then I forgot.
“You should see a therapist,” Janice told me. My sister.
“It’s not that big a problem,” I said. “Not yet.”
Janice grabbed my neck.
“Just go. It worked for Dad. And for Mom. Do you want to end up like Biscuit?”
I stared at the table.
I was pretty drunk.
We finished our drinks.
On the way out, I grabbed Janice’s neck. Or I would’ve fallen down.
I apologized.
“Thanks for breakfast,” she said.
*
Mom let me taste her margaritas. Growing up. Just one sip from each one. She could knock back quite a few.
“Doesn’t that taste awful?” she always said.
I always answered, “Yes.”
“So you’ll never drink them when you’re older?”
I always said “No.” Every time.
One night, coming back from a friend’s, I found my dad lying on his back on the lawn.
I helped him up. It was minus twenty.
“You forget how cold snow gets,” he said.
I helped him to the bedroom.
Mom was lying on the bedroom floor.
Biscuit and I picked her up and lay her on the bed next to Dad.
She opened her eyes for a second.
“Don’t tell my kids I was drinking,” she whispered.
*
Dr. Hollowood looked the part. He had hardly any hair, just a few scratches on the side. And glasses.
Though his office wasn’t like I’d pictured. There were no bookshelves or sumptuous carpets. There was no couch. Just a chair.
“Why do you drink?” he asked.
“I have no idea,” I said.
“Try to think.”
I thought as hard as I could. I was drunk.
“What are you thinking of?”
“What was the question again?”
We talked for half an hour.
Dr. Hollowood looked at his watch.
“That’s all the time we have today. It’s my daughter’s wedding.”
I was wondering about the tux.
*
The saddest people in the world get together every morning. They wait in line for the liquor store to open.
I was waiting in line.
The woman at the front of the line kept rubbing her face.
The man behind me was vibrating.
There was a young guy sitting by the door. Behind an empty guitar case. He didn’t have a guitar. I guess he was hoping for the best.
“It’s 10:01!” said the woman at the head of the line, pounding on the glass.
The door opened.
On my way in, I tossed a quarter into the guitar case.
The guy looked up and smiled.
He still had a few good teeth.
*
Dr. Hollowood crossed his legs.
“Did you have a happy childhood?”
I knew he was going to say that.
“It was pretty happy, yeah.”
“You mentioned your parents were both alcoholics?”
“Yeah.”
“I guess I was happy anyway. I was a kid. It’s strange how that works.”
“How do you mean?”
“Well… You’re unhappy as a kid. But you’ll never be that happy again.”
Dr. Hollowood touched his chin.
The door opened. A shirtless man ran into the room.
“It happened again,” he said.
*
I met Janice for lunch.
It was May 23rd. I hoped she wouldn’t remember.
“You’re looking better,” she said.
“I’ve had maybe one or two drinks,” I said proudly.
I’d actually had three.
I hadn’t been that sober in a long time.
Janice looked wistful. She poked her spaghetti wistfully.
“You know, it’s been ten years.”
I knew she was going to say that.
“Hard to believe it. Ten years since — ”
“I’ve gotta go,” I said, getting up.
I grabbed my coat.
Janice touched my hand.
“Lunch is on me,” she said.
*
It was just about 10:00.
The woman at the front of the line had almost rubbed her face off.
The guy behind the guitar case was sleeping.
The door opened.
When I got to the door, I stopped.
“I don’t want to do this anymore,” I said out loud.
I tossed two quarters into the guitar case.
The guy didn’t even wake up.
*
When I was seventeen and he was nineteen, my brother was driving us home from a party. We’d both been drinking. A car jumped over the median and hit us.
I remember … we were upside down.
I undid my seatbelt and fell down.
I undid Biscuit’s seatbelt and he fell down.
They were pretty sure his neck was already broken.
*
Dr. Hollowood and I went golfing.
The first swing, I sliced pretty bad.
Dr. Hollowood lined himself up.
“It’s a matter of confidence,” he said. “Imagine the greatest golfer in the world. You’re him — only you’re better.”
He swung.
The ball landed right on the green.
I tried it. I imagined I was the best golfer in the world. I really don’t follow golf. For some reason, I kept thinking of Jack Nicholson.
I hit the ball.
I hooked it, this time.
“Now you’re overconfident,” said Dr. Hollowood, laughing.
I lifted my club like I was going to smash it.
“You know what,” I said. “Maybe that’s it. My drinking. My confidence. I basically have zero confidence.”
“Genetics is also a strong factor,” said Dr. Hollowood.
“You’re probably right,” I said.
*
I met Janice for dinner. It was my turn to pay — usually I’d pick someplace cheap — but I was saving so much by hardly drinking that I took her to Chez Pedro.
“You look great,” said Janice.
“I’m sober,” I said. I was.
A taco shouldn’t cost $30. I ate it slowly.
Janice stared at the table.
“I’ve got some flowers in the car,” she said. “You … want to come?”
I just stared at the tablecloth. My sister stared at it, too.
“What the hell,” I said, looking up. “Let’s go.”
Janice smiled.
*
There’s a ritzy cemetery downtown, Forever Cemetery. Biscuit’s buried in the cemetery across from it.
Most of the headstones there are small and cheap. When I saw how shitty Biscuit’s looked in comparison — I’d never been there — my parents didn’t have a lot of money — I cried, just about. It was just an iron bar. The across part had dropped off.
Janice put the flowers down and cried.
I felt horrible. I needed a drink.
I hugged her.
It was bad.
It wasn’t that bad.
*
I saw Dr. Hollowood once a month. He’d recommended once a week, but that’s a lot of money.
I had an appointment. I was waiting to cross the street.
“Is my zipper open?” said the guy beside me.
It wasn’t.
He looked down.
“Is my dick out?”
I shook my head. A couple times.
The guy looked horrified.
“Then that means … I just pissed myself.”
I didn’t even laugh. It could’ve been me.
It was me. Just a few months ago.
*
I haven’t gotten drunk in a year. I haven’t had a drink in six months.
It’s not a long time.
It’s a long time.
One morning, walking past the liquor store, I was barely even tempted, I saw the guy with the case. He had a guitar now, too.
It’s been a minute. So I have several things to report…
First off: I have a poem, “The Moonless Night,” in the beautiful new hardcover anthology AWhale of a Time: A Funny Poem for Every Day of the Year, published by Nosy Crow.
You might like my brand new, darkly humorous, illustrated essay, “Mr. Grimsby,” which was just published in Cutleaf. It’s about a dark visitor who’s familiar to many of us…
A poet-robot… a chain-smoking seductress… a dying connoisseur. All of these characters and more make appearances in my new collection of poems and drawings, Plumstuff, out today.
Plumstuff is a reinvention of my out-of-print debut Plum Stuff. It contains 20 revised poems from that collection plus 40 new ones — and all-new drawings.
Poems and drawings from Plumstuff have appeared in The Walrus, Rattle, The Saturday Evening Post, The Wall Street Journal, Transition, The Feathertale Review, The New Quarterly, Quarterly West, The Antigonish Review and other outlets.
Here’s what the critics are saying…
“This is a book for those who truly love words.” – Cloud Lake Literary
“Bursting full in its depths.” –Cinnabar Moth
“Sit with these poems … give them a 2nd or third go-round. Let them marinate the brain a bit so you can fully savor the flavor.” –The Poetry Conversation
Also — I have a poem (about lunar pastry) in the forthcoming hardcover children’s anthology Whale of a Time: A Funny Poem for Every Day of the Year, due this fall. Other contributors include Maya Angelou, Hilaire Belloc, Roald Dahl, Edward Lear and Ogden Nash, so I’m in good company. The cover is very nice, too:
rollistuff.com 