So I’m thinking, gees, maybe I should be a little less philosophical and more funny like Garrison Keillor; talk about normal things not GOD and buffalos. I lost three subscribers after I published ‘GOD’.
I’m sitting in the cafe reading Guy Noir stories (one of Garrison’s creations) from his Substack newsletter ‘Garrison Keillor and Friends’ and laughing quietly to myself so as not to annoy the other patrons. Guy Noir is the archetypical gumshoe private detective - Philip Marlowe style. It’s an original American literary genre. Think Raymond Chandler and Dashiell Hammett, ‘The Big Sleep’ and ‘The Maltese Falcon’. Think Humphrey Bogart in an overcoat, Lauren Bacall in a tight dress.
Anywhos, every paragraph he writes contains a joke, every sentence sometimes. He uses this out of work, down on his luck, sarcastic and cynical private detective as the portal through which to pour his humorous comments about life.
As the scene opens, Guy Noir is in his office on the 12th floor of the Acme building, ‘trying to answer life’s persistent questions’. The phone rings. It’s Jimmy down at the Five Spot.
’Listen Guy,’ He says, ‘I got a whole wad of your IOUs in the till, and the boss is asking when can we cash these out and if the answer is not today or tomorrow he’s got a bill collector in mind, a muscleman with a handshake that rattles your fillings. So I say this as an old friend. Maybe it’s time you get yourself a job as a security guard at Walmart.’
‘Me? A rent-a-cop with a plastic badge who stands in the front door and checks people’s shopping bags? This is your career advice?’
‘It pays money. American currency. You could use some of that. It’s useful for buying toothpaste and things. Plus paying up your bar tab.’
I hung up. It was turning into a lousy week and today was only Monday.
The phone keeps ringing and new characters keep walking into the story - Sugar, his old squeeze with a new boyfriend and a baby, Sister Annette from Holy Childhood who’s gotten a blackmail note from a man demanding twenty-five grand in small bills or else he’ll tell the world that she put herself through St. Kate’s by dancing at the Kit Kat Club under strobe lights in a fisherman’s outfit and at the end of the dance she was wearing only a net, Lieutenant McCafferty from the police department announcing that he’s leaving the force to take a job as head of security for the Lutheran Church. McCafferty had been his No. 1 inside source in the P.D. and now he’s working for the Lutherans who were wary of infiltration by Calvinist elements opposed to moviegoing and beer-drinking and dancing and other social interactions between the sexes as well as the combination of macaroni and cheese. A woman named April May with a voice like melted brown sugar, Big Tuna an acquaintance from the Five Spot, each character opens a new angle on the plot which ofcourse comes together in the end and Guy Noir somehow survives all the traps and trepidations for another episode.
It’s funny, that’s what I strive to be. But Garrison is a master, he’s been doing it for years. Not just Guy Noir but ‘The Lives of the Cowboys’ with Dusty and Lefty (another iconic American genre) and ‘News from Lake Wobegon’ the mythical small town somewhere in Minnesota where ‘the women are handsome, the men are strong and all the children are above average’. And not only that, he’s been performing it in front of people on his live radio show so he knows what works and what doesn’t.
The funniest thing I got is a morning in downtown San Antonio (a real town) outside the Royal Blue Grocery (a real place) with a cloudy sky and a cool breeze and a cappuccino. The street traffic and the foot traffic and the grackles all present themselves, even a lone wasp sits on the elm tree and looks at me. Nothing funny there.
I feel myself leaning into philosophy and pull back just in time but find myself stranded in banality. It’s just a moment of life. Nothing to report. Everything is normal. Absolutely nothing is unusual or funny. A garbage truck rolls by with ‘San Antonio Recycles’ on the side.
A street person is acting out on the other side of the street, cussing, relieving himself in the potted plants surrounding the light post. He crosses the street and approaches me, asks for a light in a calm but rapid tone of voice, I decline. He asks for a buck ‘so I can get something to eat’, I decline. He wanders off muttering and cursing, yelling out spontaneous words, wanders back across the street, hooks up with another street person, gets a light. Nothing too funny there.
Now I know why Garrison invents his characters and sets them in motion against a familiar backdrop. It’s so we can identify with them and then throw them a rope of hope or concern. They’re just like us, just exaggerated a little.
The S. A. Centro guy trundles by pushing his large yellow waste bin on wheels with broom attached. He looks morose, kind of like a street person but with a job.
The red and yellow double decker tourist bus rolls by with the guide inside speaking over the P.A. telling the tourists all about the interesting facts of the town.
A bike cop with a mustache cruises past, grabs his water bottle from its holder attached to the bike frame and squeezes a drink into his mouth. I give him a sign.
It’s pretty profound.
I take a picture of the Royal Blue, I take a picture of me. That’s all.
music by Skinshape ‘After Midnight’
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