Rhythm and Books

It is Sometimes Pleasant Even to Act Like a Madman

We were standing around talking, just about to close up shop, when a tall, lanky misfit walked through the door. He had the brooding, disheveled look of an actor or musician.  He pretended to browse the book display up front, but we could tell he was checking us out, sizing up each one of us. 

"Can we help you find anything?" one of us called out.  He stopped for a moment and shot us a menacing stare, then turned and left the shop.  Maybe it was a hunch, but something told us it was him.  This was the guy who'd been booted from Greenwood’s Secret Book Club.

It hadn't been our intention to start trouble in the club.  We simply wanted in on their secret discussions about books we admired.  Like Bolaño's 2666, for instance.  We tried to crash their last meeting at a Mexican restaurant, then wrote about our misadventures.  Apparently the club was embarrassed by the whole thing, along with our exposes on their previous meetings by the river and after hours in the bookstore under our noses, and so they finally sent someone to talk to us.

She didn't look like any reader of esoteric literature we'd ever seen.  She had a nest of wild blond curls and curves that would make a snake crawl straight.  She pranced in with the confidence and freedom that only the young and beautiful possess.  No doubt she'd left some sad-sack boyfriend back in his dorm room, probably mad with jealousy, wondering if she was hooking up with some jerk from high school.  But this one had bigger fish to fry.

She introduced herself as Mary Brooke and made no bones about her membership in the SBC.  She wanted to know if we'd been in further contact with O, the German literature professor who'd been ousted at the club's last book discussion.  We told her O had not written lately but we'd be happy to contact him on her behalf.  She said she needed his guidance on a personal matter and asked if we could forward her contact information.

Then the pretty little exterior began to crumble, and before we knew it, she was near tears.  We led her up to the cafe and poured her some hot tea with honey, then invited her to sit on the balcony to discuss the situation in private.  She gave us the whole story, about how the book club's notorious leader, Dr. H., ruled over the group like a vicious dictator.  He'd chosen all the books, ran all the discussions, granted himself the last word on every book.  Most recently, he'd printed out copies of his 1,800-page novel and given each member a copy to read for the next discussion.  The guy had major hubris issues, she said.

"His book is terrible," Mary Brooke added.  "It's so lousy, I wouldn't even give it to my comp professor to read.  Also, I signed a contract saying I wouldn't allow anyone else to see it.  I shouldn't even be talking about it."

There, there, we told her.  "Let's get this straight," one of us said.  "You want us to help you get rid of this guy.  So you can get back to reading the books you secretly love."

She put a hand to her brow.  "I just want a good story," she said.  "With not a lot of pages."

Several of us had been on a hardboiled kick.  Just the good stuff.  Thompson, Willeford, Chandler, McCain.  Any of these would be the perfect antidote to an 1,800-page book assignment.  We sent her home with a sackful and told her there was more where that came from.

The next week or so we noticed some conspicuous purchases.  We scrambled to fill orders for The Killer Inside Me by Jim Thompson and The Woman Chaser by Charles Willeford.  It seemed that at long last we'd thrown our hat into the Secret Book Club ring and it hadn't come back ripped to shreds.  We had a stake in the action, and now we were looking to go all the way.

But there was one problem.  We never heard back from Mary Brooke.  She used us like a cheap date you stick with the bill.  Luckily we had eyes and ears all over Greenwood.  You don't keep a secret in this town.  You just pray it passes out in the corner and never wakes up. 

Finally we heard from a waiter at Lusco's.  Lou Ford, party of eight.  That was an easy one.  Lou Ford was the deputy from Thompson's The Killer Inside Me, one of his best characters.  Ford was a sharp, ruthless killer masquerading as a benign country rube.  He tries to put the squeeze on a prostitute who has moved to town, but instead the young deputy begins an illicit affair with her.  Together they hatch a plan to blackmail one of her customers, the son of a construction big-shot who Ford believes is responsible for his brother's death.  But the girl gets in Lou's head and unleashes "the sickness," a sleeping psychosis that rears its head violently.  One murder begets the next and the next and so on.  As Lou tries to cover his tracks, his mental state slides further until we reach the bitter end.  This is prime-cut noir, told from the killer's point-of-view, a chilling, convincing, and sometimes surreal vantage.  In this line of writing, Jim Thompson is among the very best.

Everything looked to be going in our favor.  We arranged to have the booth next to Lou Ford's party at Lusco's.  It was the perfect venue for their meeting.  The tables were divided into walled-off rooms, and you coursed a maze of curtained booths, chatter and clinking glasses to get to your table.  A reporter buddy once described the restaurant as "the ideal place to hatch a doomed murder plot, a crooked political deal or a life-ruining adultery."

We slipped into our booth and silently poured drinks from our concealed brown packages, then set to eavesdropping on the meeting next-door, which sounded well underway.  The conversation was positively riotous.  Apparently, they'd been meeting awhile, and after numerous drinks, the discussion had down-shifted to gossip about husbands and co-workers.

It didn't take long to figure out that Lou Ford was a lady realtor from Brandon, up for the weekend with some college girlfriends.  They were deep in their cups, cackling and reminiscing in increasing decibels.  Damned if we hadn't been duped again.

It got us going on Willeford's The Woman Chaser.  While we all loved the Thompson novel, Willeford's was the underdog favorite.  Willeford's books are perfect outsider lit, slipping out of the grasp of any genre, though their spareness and tone are related to the hardboiled style.  The Woman Chaser follows a masterful used car salesman, Richard Hudson, whose boss has sent him from San Francisco to his hometown of Los Angeles to purchase a dead-end car lot and turn it around.  He does a bang-up job, but Richard soon discovers that his real passion lies in the movies.  With the help of his stepfather, a washed-up film producer only a few years his senior, he directs his first picture.  As he gets caught up in his artistic pursuits, Richard is confronted with the awful reality of compromise and the politics of the movie business, sending his project and his career careening toward disaster.

The book is distinguished by its lively style, its humor and subtle danger.  It hums along so pleasantly that you really feel shook up when it ultimately speeds over a cliff.  One thing that had us perplexed, though, is the title.  To varying degrees of dissatisfaction among the group, there is little woman-chasing in Willeford's novel.  Sure, there's a cruel affair with a secretary, and Richard's dangerous flirtations with his teenage stepsister, but otherwise the title seems like a misnomer.  It so happens that an editor, against Willeford's preference, changed the title from The Director, a perfect irony considering the book's subject.

Before long, we'd gotten several cocktails in us, some famous Lusco's onion rings and spicy shrimp and fried chicken and pompano, and we were giving the girls next door a run for their money with our empty bluster.  "Where are today's hopeless hardboiled writers?" one of us brayed.  "Connelly?  Ellroy?  Nah!"

"All our best fatalists either kill themselves or turn to self-indulgent rock music!" cried another.  "Or both!"

It got so bad that the slurring broads next door became embarrassed for us.  They quietly packed up their wine and slipped out before we tried to merge booths and hit on them.

It must have been a week later when the mysterious lurker paid us a visit.  We didn't think much about it at first, just some anti-social creep fondling the books, too cheap to buy anything.  But after we shut down the store and shuffled off into the parking lot, we were spooked by what sounded like a car knocked out of gear and rolling toward us.  We scattered in every direction as a runaway Prius raced by, nearly plowing into us.  It spun into a doughnut, then made a second pass.  We hollered and wailed, shaking our fists.  The car whipped around and contemplated a third chase. 

Suddenly the door opened and the lanky jerk from the store stepped out.  "Aliquando et insanire iucundum est!" he cried, then climbed back into his quiet hybrid and sped off in a waft of burnt rubber.

We knew it could only be the tyrant Dr. H, cast out of his beloved club.  Somehow he'd fixed on us as his undoers.  But we were lowly book folk, simple lovers of tales who just wanted to trade words over drinks, who knew nothing of madness or power or the tragic consequences of compromise.  Nothing but what we had read.

Farm to Feast

Oddly, it's easier to purchase sustainable and locally grown foods in most big cities than it is here, in the Mississippi Delta, a region synonymous with fertile farm country and self-reliance.  However, we're encouraged to see recent interest in farm-to-table fare, and we've begun to favor it ourselves, reading such inspiring books as The Omnivore's Dilemma by Michael Pollan and Animal, Vegetable, Miracle by Barbara Kingsolver.  But what's really won us over to this way of eating is the taste.  There is something undeniably better, not to mention healthier, about eating fresh and local.

While opportunities for fresher local fare are growing rapidly here in the Delta — thanks to the local Greenwood farmer's market and conscientious chefs — one thing we never lack, and have always enjoyed in abundance, is a story to go with every meal.  Both of these things were celebrated over the weekend at a tremendous event we attended at Dockery Farms outside Cleveland, Mississippi.  It was a 100-plate meal, served in a line of tables set end to end, stretched out behind the iconic Dockery seed house, and composed totally of ingredients gathered from local growers, raisers, bakers, grinders and brewers.  The meal was prepared by local chefs, including our pals Taylor Bowen Ricketts (executive chef of Delta Bistro), Mary Hoover, and Elizabeth Heiskell of the Viking Cooking School.

We'd experienced weeks of rain in the Delta, so it was a miracle that any harvest could be gathered at all, but sure enough, on the most brilliantly sunny and temperate day of the month, thanks were given and great platters roamed up ad down the table, spilling over with delicious victuals — cheddar chive biscuits and cornbread from local hero baker Donald Bender; Mike McLellan's baby lettuce with Indianola pecans and a scuppernong vinaigrette; prawns from Lauren Farms in Leland on Delta Grind cheese grits; lady pea and okra ragout with cream from the Billy Ray Brown's family dairy (whose delicious milk from grass-fed cows we hope to carry very soon in the Turnrow Cafe); mustard and turnips greens; heavenly yams dripping in sweet goodness; and a particularly inspired smoked catfish, brined in molasses and moonshine.  Like any good outdoor gathering, a table off to the side teetered with luscious desserts from friends and neighbors.

While not a spontaneous celebration of close friends, the whole affair was staged for the television series The Endless Feast, which will devote an episode to the ongoing efforts in the Mississippi Delta to get back to the land, to match the region's storied cuisine with the products of its own earth.  The producers proclaimed it to be one of the loveliest and most genuine gatherings they'd ever filmed, and we can't wait to see the whole show when it airs later this year.

The whole event had us thinking about how far we've come, from KFC to free-range chickens, Luvel to Brown's Dairy, Wonder Bread to wondrous Bender bread from Mockingbird.  There's no comparison.  We pray this feast is truly endless.

Keeping the Kids Happy

In the span of a week, we hosted two events for kids that came off exceedingly well.  The first occurred last Wednesday when artist Alex Beard passed through the Delta.  He divides his time between New York, where he grew up, and New Orleans, for which he has developed a deep love and devotion over the last twenty years.  Unlike many of the gloomy reports you'll hear out of the Big Easy, Alex is encouraged by what he's seeing in the city after Katrina.  In many ways, he says, it's better now, having survived its apocalyptic ordeal, scarred but smarter.  It has brought the community together in a way it never was before.

It wouldn't be hard on first impression to pigeon hole the artist as a suave, handsome East Coast elite, but he has a genuine earthiness that has no doubt fed his artwork and made him want to come to the Mississippi Delta to meet school kids and share word of his new illustrated children's book.  In addition to New Orleans, there's no doubt that his experiences in Africa have tempered his perspective on the world.  His African travels inspired The Jungle Grapevine, a clever book about a string of misheard statements and wild rumors about the beloved watering hole that run rampant through herds of animals on the savanna.  Alex demonstrated, to the kids' delight, how this works when he lined up several of their teachers, whispered a message into one ear, and let the statement become misconstrued as it made its way from one whispering teacher to the next.

He also shared great stories from Africa, like the time he was camping in the bush and woke to find a lion sniffing his sleeping bag, and the time he got bit by a monkey.  (He has the scars to prove it.)  He demonstrated how anyone can create an illustration out of the simplest beginnings, whether a traced hand or a squiggly line.  The kids really enjoyed the book-signing portion of the program, when Alex removed the dust jackets from their books and illustrated the backside with their favorite animals.  "I wish he was my uncle!" one child was heard to exclaim.

The event was so well received we ran out of books, but we have more signed copies on the way.  We were convinced that Alex's connection with the kids, along with his marketing savvy and his dashing gentleman artist/adventurer persona will take him far.  We expect he'll be a major figure in children's publishing within the next few years and look forward to his return.  ("Contrary to popular stereotypes in New York," he said of the Mississippi Delta, "this is not a backwards and illiterate place, but one of the most civilized cultures in the whole country.")

Speaking of hot trends in children's publishing, we couldn't resist celebrating on Monday the release of the latest Jeff Kinney book in his hugely successful Diary of a Wimpy Kid series.  The books are presented as a 7th grader's sarcastic daily journal, printed on faux lined notebook paper with hand-written script and hilarious illustrations.  (Here's a sample from the website where the series began.)  The series follows the misadventures of grade-school life.  Pre-teen kids, especially young boys, are fanatical about the series, and we've always enjoyed watching their excitement over the newest installment.

Their rampant excitement was on full display Monday, the release date of the fourth book, Dog Days.  We hosted an after-school book release party and were pleased to see 40 kids show up.  Most of the kids were actually out of school for fall break and had been cooped up all vacation due to incessant rains, so they were happy to come out, run around the mezzanine, drink punch and eat cookies decorated like the wimpy kid's head.  There were Wimpy Kid tattoos, prizes and games, like a juvenile version of Last Man Standing.  ("If you've never picked your nose and got away with it, sit down."  No sitters.)

All in all it was an encouraging week.  The lure of video games, YouTube and iPods haven't totally wrecked the local kids' love of books.  And thankfully, books are one things their wise parents don't mind buying them.

A Howard Street Affair

We're teaming up with some friends down on Howard St. next week — Tuesday, October 13 — to promote a string of related events showcasing the sights, sounds and flavors of downtown Greenwood. 

The evening begins at Gallery Point Leflore, the great new art gallery at 214 Howard.  They opened this summer and represent an impressive collection of artists in various disciplines from the Delta and wider Mississippi.  They've planned a unique show featuring the works of three artists and musicians — Duff Dorrough, one of the Delta's most beloved guitarists and singers, as well as a worldwise painter of clouds; Bill Abel, a well-known blues guitarist, potter, watercolorist and builder of cigar-box guitars made from driftwood fished out of the Mississippi River; and David Moore, about whom we know very little but look forward to seeing and hearing.  Meet them at the show's reception from 4:30-6.

Down at Turnrow (304 Howard), we welcome back two prominent Alabama writers, Rick  Bragg and Sonny Brewer.  Both have new books with MacAdam/Cage.  Rick's is The Most They Ever Had, a portrait of hardscrabble lives surrounding a cotton mill in Jacksonville, Alabama.  Sonny's new novel, The Widow and the Tree, is based on real characters and incidents from his colorful hometown of Fairhope, Alabama.  We'll host a signing/reception for them at 5:30, and they'll discuss and read from the new books at 6 p.m.

After both shows, we'll adjourn to The Blue Parrot (222 Howard), serving some of the finest food and music in town.  Chef Regina LaVere will feature some of her divine Latin cuisine, while the artist-musicians will perform, coupled with remarks by the writers. 

This promises to be an outstanding event, so get out and walk up and down Howard to hear, see and taste this town.

America's Got Salad

This has about as much to do with books as it does potato salad, but we couldn't resist sharing it.  It came to us courtesy of Martha Foose, who is fairly obsessed with it.  Now we see why.  She stopped in the bookstore on Friday and insisted we watch, and now we can't stop.

Like a good thriller, there is a twist about a third of the way through this clip.  No matter how you feel about it during the first 30 seconds, you will see it differently by the end.  Enjoy!