You need no ticket to make a place for yourself here where humor, black and otherwise, comes to you from the stage where the human comedy itself is being played, its performance trumping the things dark and tragic and found in the world of literature.
A selection from my forthcoming novel, Saint M.
St. M and I walked into the bar that was candle-lit and a bit warm in that there was no air conditioning on this hot June day.
Yo, Mike shouted St. M, you've neglected to pay the electric again have ya?
Oh, shite, M, said the bartender/owner. The only thing that worries anyone here is last call and closing time. Do you think they give a shite if the stout is a tad warm?
St. M chuckled and allowed for how he guessed they didn't give a shite and proceeded to take us through a curtain that separated the main bar from a private area, where there was a group of men listening to another man, who was reading something.
That's Cabe McCabe, said St M. I've brought ya here to show you how real writers get along.
But I get along, I told him. And I'm a real writer.
Bullshite, said St M. If you were the real thing, ya woodna been reading that damn phony writin book this morning.
I supposed he had me there; I should have been well past that sort of amateurish stuff. Still, I did have my honor.
But they write about Joyce in it.
I didn't say it loud, but the word Joyce was picked up by some sort of Irish writer sonar that all at the table possessed. The reader stopped, the listeners put down their Guinnesses and their previously mellow sleepy eyes widened to the size of saucers.
Now boyos take it easy. The kid here was just talkin'. Didn't mean to lessen yerselves by mentioning "Himself", said St M.
They seemed to be satisfied with this explanation, though didn't even say hello to St. M, but simply accepted him as a presence and acted like the utterer of the name of the man whose name was a powerful talisman to them didn't even exist.
That, you know, was me.