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“BEGINNER'S LUKE to a conventional novel is what an animated film is to a documentary. It is creative, imaginative, humorous and very distinctive.” –Reader Views (from Beginner's Luke)“GODDAMNIT! GET YOUR SCRAWNY ASS OVER HERE!” I nearly jumped out of my skin at the sound of the deepest and loudest voice I’d ever heard, the deepest and loudest voice humanly possible. If a foghorn could speak it would sound just like that voice. A moment of absolute silence ensued during which you could have heard a dust mote falling, then the voice thundered again: “GODDAMNIT, BOY! I TOLD YOU TO COME HERE!”
I wasn’t sure what was going on or what time it was or where I was or even, for that matter, who I was … but my gut told me something was terribly wrong. I opened my eyes slowly, as sensitive to light as a roll of film: just expose me and I’d vanish.
Grimacing in agony, I managed to rotate my head enough to catch a glimpse of the voice’s owner. Sitting nearby in lotus position, wearing paint-smeared jeans and a blue mechanic’s shirt stenciled with the name LUDWIG, was a gorilla of a man who looked (and now that I think about it, sounded) remarkably like Barry White in a bad mood.
It was unclear whether he was addressing me or some other unfortunate soul. He seemed to glower in my general direction. I prayed he wasn’t addressing me. Going there was out of the question.
Suddenly a scruffy terrier about the size and color of a butternut squash bounded yapping into my field of vision. A male with prominent Groucho Marx whiskers, he leaped into the man’s tremendous arms, which held him like wrought-iron grips as he spastically licked his master’s chin.
“GOOD BOY. THAT’S A GOOD GODDAMNIT. THAT’S BLUE’S LITTLE MAN.”
Now that I was awake, technically speaking, my whole body was beginning to throb. Even my pubic hair hurt—I swear to God. I’d never been in so much pain. I opened my sore mouth and moaned. My voice sounded inhuman, a lost little animal crying out in an arctic landscape.
“HE’S ALIVE!” the man bellowed.
I moaned again.
“HOW DOES IT FEEL TO BE ALIVE?”
“I’d rather be dead. Where am I?”
“THE PALACE. BLUE’S PENTHOUSE PALACE, TO BE EXACT.”
Using my peripheral vision, I managed to piece together an idea of my surroundings. The room was church-sized, an old warehouse of odds and ends filled with more junk than Sanford & Son’s, with high wood-beam ceilings and tall arched windows missing half their panes. Judging by the slanted sunlight filtering in, smoky and swirling with dust, it was late afternoon.
***
“I’m thirsty.”
“YOU SHOULD BE. YOU BEEN LAYIN’ THERE LIKE A WASHED-UP JELLYFISH FOR THIRTY-SIX HOURS. AND WHO KNOWS HOW LONG YOU’D BEEN IN THAT DITCH WHEN I FOUND YOUR SORRY ASS. YOU’S ONE LUCKY MOTHER, YOU KNOW THAT?”
“What happened?”
“YOU MEAN YOU DON’T REMEMBER?”
“No.”
“THEN DAMNED IF I DO. I FOUND YOU OUT ON 69 NEAR THAT HIPPIE CAMP NAKED AS THE DAY YOU FELL OUT. I THOUGHT YOU WAS ONE OF ’EM ’TIL I FOUND A LITTLE DEBBIE BOX IN YOUR BAG.”
I was beginning to remember. MTV images of group gropes, bizarre foods and Neanderthals hurling stones swam like spawning salmon through my consciousness. I was no longer naked. I was wearing my old ketchup-smeared jeans and a T-shirt also badly in need of washing.
“Did you find my Swiss army knife?”
“I STUCK IT IN YOUR BAG. YOU DIDN’T KILL NOBODY, DID YOU? THERE WAS BLOOD ALL OVER THE PLACE.”
“No.”
“’CAUSE I DON’T WANT NO TROUBLE. I DONE HAD ENOUGH TROUBLE IN MY LIFE WITHOUT YOU BRINGIN’ THE HEAT ’ROUND HERE.” The floorboards popped and groaned as the man—I assumed his name was Ludwig—rose and approached carrying a tall mason jar full of clear liquid. “SIT UP.”
“I can’t.”
“THEN I GUESS I’LL JUST HAVE TO SIT YOU UP.”
“I said I can’t! I hurt!”
“LOWER THE VOLUME, GILLIGAN. I HEARD YOU TWICE THE FIRST TIME.”
His paw the size of a catcher’s mitt lifted me to a sitting position. For a split second pain shot from my head to my toes, then immediately subsided. He handed me the jar. I looked at him dubiously but drank anyway. It was water, cool and clean-tasting.
Up until then the little terrier had been laying back cautiously checking me out. Now he came forward timidly and licked my big toe. I turned up the jar. Water ran down my chin and soaked my shirt.
“SO WHAT’S YOUR NAME, SON?”
“More water.”
He poured another jarful out of an old ceramic moonshine jug. I drank this one without spilling, then held out the jar for more. He filled it again.
“Luke.”
“AS IN COOL HAND OR SKYWALKER?”
“Both.”
“YOU SURE TALK SOME SHIT TO BE ONE BIG BRUISE.”
“Your name’s Ludwig, right?”
He opened his King Kong mouth full of crazy yellow teeth and roared in my face as if I’d just said the funniest goddamn thing in the world. The smell of his breath, though not unpleasant, made me think of lions feasting on warm flesh in the Serengeti.
The sheer sonic force of his laughter almost knocked me flat again. But the terrier was unfazed. He twisted up his little whiskered face and actually seemed to chuckle along with his master at the joke—whatever it was.
“BOY, YOU’S FUNNY!”
I considered myself, what I knew about myself—which, admittedly, wasn’t much—pretty easygoing, somebody who could take a joke. But this man’s laughter was starting to piss me off. Recalling the joint’s name, Blue’s Penthouse Palace, I said, “Who owns this dump? Where’s Blue?”
At this the man lost whatever remained of his self-control. His molecular structure seemed to speed up and explode in a paroxysm of jocularity. He clapped his enormous hands, grabbed his leviathan head, slapped his titanic thighs, reared back and giggled like a mythological goose.
“Fuck you, man! I said where’s Blue?!”
“I HEARD YOU.”
“Well?”
“HE’S RIGHT HERE. STANDIN’ IN FRONT O’ YOU.”
“You’re Blue? What happened to Ludwig?”
“IT’S JUST A FUCKIN’ SHIRT. DO I LOOK LIKE A LUDWIG?”
“Not really.”
“THAT’S BECAUSE I AIN’T ONE. I’M BLUE THE BLUES MAN. BUT MOST PEOPLE JUST CALL ME BLUE. THIS HERE’S MY BOON COMPANION. LUKE, GODDAMNIT. GODDAMNIT, LUKE.”
***
Hearing our voices modulate to conversational tones, Goddamnit was inspired to kindness. He hopped up in my lap and started licking my swollen face with his rough little shoehorn tongue.
“I BELIEVE YOU’VE MADE A NEW FRIEND.”
“I believe I have.”
“HE USUALLY DON’T TAKE TO WHITE FOLKS.”
“I usually don’t take to terriers.”
“MORE WATER?”
“No thanks.”
“BEER?”
“What?”
“YOU HARD O’ HEARIN’? I SAID BEER.”
I looked at him like he was a madman. Which, by all appearances, he probably was. Praying he wasn’t about to produce poor Ludwig’s decapitated head, I watched anxiously as he opened a rusty Coleman cooler, grabbed two ice-cold beer cans and handed me one with the words, “IT’S MILLER TIME.”
“The label says Olympia.”
“IT’S STILL MILLER TIME. COME ON. DRINK UP. I’LL PUT IT ON YOUR TAB.”
The fact of the matter was, I didn’t require a whole lot of persuading. Folarian leaf lager had long since lost the appeal of novelty. I popped open the can and took a swig. The taste was truly Olympian.
“You don’t smoke, do you?”
“WHY? YOU JONESIN’?”
“Yeah.”
“SORRY.”
“Don’t worry about it. Hey, what’s up with these labels?”
“WHAT YOU MEAN?”
“The horseshoe and little ‘Good Luck’ sign. Doesn’t it concern you that this beer feels the need to wish you luck?”
“DO I LOOK CONCERNED?”
“No, but maybe you should be. It’s certainly something to consider.”
“DON’T TELL ME YOU’S ONE OF THEM YUPPIE ASSHOLES THAT ONLY DRINKS IMPORTS.”
“No. But I do like Guinness. At least I think I do. Did you know in Ireland the head on a draught Guinness is so thick you can draw a smiley face in it and it’ll still be grinning at you from the bottom of the glass?”
“NO, I SURE DIDN’T.”
“It’s true. You can stand a matchstick up in a draught Guinness head in Ireland.”
Blue quickly downed his beer in a few practiced chugs. I wasn’t far behind. We opened two more and polished them off as well. Soon, though, we found our natural rhythm: one can approximately every fifteen minutes. Between the two of us we managed to consume the better part of a case by sunset. Any discomfort I might have felt earlier melted into memory’s cushioned chambers.
“AND MY CHILDHOOD,” Blue was saying as if on the heels of a lengthy heart-to-heart. “I DON’T KNOW IF YOU WAS EVER A CHILD?”
“Once,” I said uncertainly.
“ME, TOO. I WAS A CHILD FOR SEVERAL YEARS.”
He seemed to be talking into my chin. That was odd. Lately, ever since I’d become Luke Soloman, people had tended to stare at my nose instead.
Suddenly I realized Blue had stopped talking. There was a vacant look about him. He seemed to have misplaced his train of thought. “YOU KNOW,” he said finally, “FOR A SKINNY WHITE BOY, YOU SURE CAN DRINK.”
“I’m part Irish … I think.”
“THAT EXPLAINS IT. WHERE WAS I?”
“You were a child …”
“RIGHT. I DIDN’T HAVE NO OLD MAN, SEE. MY MAMA WAS A HOT-BLOODED SPECIMEN OF A WOMAN. RAN ’EM ALL OFF. NOT THAT SHE COULDN’T BE STIFF-NECKED. SHE ALWAYS HUNG UP HER PANTIES TO LINE-DRY BY THE CROTCH SO FOLKS COULDN’T TELL WHAT THEY WERE. AND DAMN SHE HATED TO LOSE THINGS. SHE USED TO DEEP-FREEZE ALL OUR PETS WHEN THEY DIED. SOMETIMES, WHENEVER SHE WAS FEELIN’ ’SPECIALLY LONELY, SHE’D TAKE ’EM OUT AND PET ’EM AND TALK TO ’EM. I USED TO THINK SHE LOVED THEM FURRY POPSICLES MORE THAN ME.”
“Did you have siblings?”
“NO. I WAS A ONLY CHILD. IT MADE ME MEAN. MY MAMA HAD ONE WEAKNESS: INSECTS. SCARED HER TO DEATH. WHENEVER I GOT IN TROUBLE, I’D RUN LIKE THE DEVIL AND SHE’D CHASE ME ’TIL I CLIMBED A TREE OR TURNED OVER A ROCK AND FOUND A STINK BUG AND CHASED HER BACK HOME WITH IT. ’COURSE THE NEXT TIME SHE CAUGHT ME DAYDREAMIN’, SHE LIT UP MY ASS LIKE A CHRISTMAS TREE. FUNNY, THE ONLY MAN SHE COULD KEEP ’ROUND THE HOUSE WAS ME, AND I WASN’T EVEN A MAN.”
He smiled, remembering, as he finished his story.
“BUT WHAT I REMEMBER MOST WAS WHEN I WAS LEARNIN’ TO READ. SHE MADE A POINT TO TEACH ME HERSELF. SHE WAS PROUD LIKE THAT. BUT WHENEVER I MADE A MISTAKE, EVEN A LITTLE ONE LIKE SAYIN’ ‘CHIMLEY’ INSTEAD O’ ‘CHIMNEY,’ SHE’D SLAP ME. HARD. SOMETIMES IT BURNED SO THE TEARS RUN DOWN MY FACE. I STARTED THINKIN’ IF THERE WAS A HELL LIKE THE PREACHER MAN SAID, I’D PROBABLY BURN THERE, TOO. BUT THEN I FIGURED IT WAS JUST LIKE ANYTHIN’ ELSE: AS SOON AS YOU THOUGHT YOU WAS EVIL, YOU WAS EVIL. SO I STOPPED PAYIN’ RELIGION ANY MIND … YOU HUNGRY? YOU LOOK HUNGRY TO ME.”
“Maybe just a little.”
“WELL, I’M STARVED. HOW ’BOUT SOME HOTDOGS?”
***
We built a fire in a fifty-gallon barrel using old newspapers and roasted hotdogs on metal coat hangers while seated on empty apple crates. For all Blue’s gruffness there was an unmistakable delicacy in the way he ate his hotdogs, holding them with the very tips of his monster fingers, that reminded me, oddly enough, of Audrey Hepburn in Breakfast at Tiffany’s.
I examined his face in the flickering firelight. For the first time I noticed the gray in his hair and beard, his wrinkled neck, the worn expression in his eyes which, studied closely, were a great deal more kind than fierce. He looked back at me with the look of a mischievous imp merely masquerading as a weary old man.
“SO LIFE’S HARD,” he continued, picking up where he’d left off as he fed Goddamnit the end of a wiener. “FUCK IT. SO’S CEMENT. YOU KNOW, I’VE CONCLUDED MOST O’ THE SHIT I’VE BEEN THROUGH IN MY TIME WAS JUST THAT: SHIT. I’VE STOPPED DIGGIN’ FOR THE SILVER LININ’. ALL THAT DOES IS DIRTY YOUR FINGERS.”
“What about your music? You play the blues, right?”
“PLAY THE BLUES? I WAS BORN WITH ’EM. THAT’S WHY MY MAMA NAMED ME BLUE.”
“No shit?”
“NO SHIT. FROM THE TIME I COULD WALK I COULD PLAY ANYTHIN’ I LAID MY HAND TO. BUT NOTHIN’ EVER SATISFIED ME LIKE BLUES GUITAR. I JAMMED WITH SOME O’ THE GREATS: BB KING, SLAP MEAT JOHNSON, CHICKEN EATIN’ JONES, BACKDOOR BONES O’BANION. PEOPLE KNEW ABOUT THE BLUE.”
“You still play?”
“NO, MAN.”
“Why not?”
“I LOST THE BLUES.”
“You lost the blues?”
“YEAH, IT’S LIKE LOSIN’ YOUR WOMAN. WHEN SHE’S GONE SHE’S GONE AND THERE AIN’T NOTHIN’ IN THE WORLD YOU CAN DO TO BRING HER BACK. ONE MORNIN’ I JUST WOKE UP WITHOUT THE FEELIN’. SO I LET THE BLUES GO AND GOT ME A REAL JOB. BUT THAT DIDN’T SIT RIGHT WITH ME. SO NOW HERE I AM. HOW ’BOUT YOU? WHAT’S YOUR STORY?”
“I don’t have one.”
“WHAT YOU MEAN?”
“I mean I’m just getting started.”
“OH, I SEE. YOU’VE LEFT SOMETHIN’ BAD BEHIND AND DECIDED TO TURN OVER A NEW LEAF.”
“Something like that.”
“AND FROM NOW ON YOU’RE JUST GOIN’ TO TAKE ONE DAY AT A TIME.”
“Exactly.”
“YOU KNOW, LUCKY LUKE, I LIKE YOU. I DIDN’T THINK I DID AT FIRST.”
“You’re not so bad yourself.”
“’NOTHER BEER?”
“Why not.”
Nothing bonds two solitary individuals like a good shared drunk. This is a scientific fact. It’s important, even necessary for the long-term welfare of the planet to get good and shit-faced with your neighbor every now and then. By the time we finished the case, Blue and I had become family.
“Say, where’s the bathroom? I’ve not pissed in days.”
Blue stood and motioned for me to follow. I did. I should say I tried. I couldn’t stay upright more than a few steps. Once outside the firelight, I fell half a dozen times—each more Chevy Chase than the last.
Luckily, I felt nothing. I even laughed along with Blue at my hilarious self. At the far end of the warehouse we stumbled through a set of swinging doors and stood swaying side by side, pissing into a long metal urinal in the gray light from a streetlamp.
Sometime after that I passed out—only to wake up briefly when Goddamnit started chewing my fingers. I found myself facedown in a corner of the warehouse. In one hand was my Swiss army knife; my other hand clutched a raw, partially mangled hotdog. That was what Goddamnit was trying to get at. I must have thought I was in the woods and gone looking for a roasting stick.
I don’t remember going to bed, or how I could have possibly managed it in my condition, but obviously I did since I woke up the next morning with a tattered wool army blanket over me and a musty foam pillow under my pounding head. My host was stretched out nearby on a ratty couch upholstered in plaid, size 20 boots hanging off one end, snoring like a Japanese Zero, Goddamnit curled up in the meaty crook of his elbow jerking like dogs do when they dream.
Copyright (c) 2010 by
Sol Luckman. All Rights Reserved.
Who would you be if you could be anyone? go anywhere? do anything? Well, you can! Luke Soloman will show you how.
BEGINNER'S LUKE is the first novel in a series of six madcap adventures that, collectively, make up the imaginary life of this lovably irreverent modern-day Walter Mitty. Luke's signature obsessions with self, sex, satire and slapdash highlight a serious, and life-changing, point: consciousness creates. The point is there is a point to living in the imagination–for only through it can we reinvent our ourselves and our world.
A respected New York publisher, whose authors feature a National Book Award finalist in addition to dozens of prestigious award winners, offered the author a contract (subsequently declined in favor of an experiment in self-publishing) for the BEGINNER'S LUKE Series, which made it out of a yearly slush pile of nearly 8,000 manuscripts.
One early reader confided, ”I've had quite a journey ever since you shared BEGINNER'S LUKE with me. I'm more careful, these days, when someone gives me a book. I haven't been the same since reading it, as if I contracted the disease of restlessness and have spent months reconsidering every facet of my life. Your novel changed me forever and I blame you for it.”
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consciousness
March 2010 
Sol
Access: Public
