If you’ve been following our narrator’s life of crime, you’ll realize it’s more of a philosophical statement – an act of rebellion – an existential statement: “if you don’t believe in God, then anything’s okay, right? Sartre said that” and so did Camus, Genet, and a few other existentialists, not to mention Dostoevsky “And I mean this is a pretty shitty little way to be doing it, I realize, but you have to start somewhere.”
At least that’s his excuse until he came face to face with the consequences, the flip side of existentialism: that of accepting the consequences of his actions, all of which comes to a crashing conclusion as a RESULT of his actions. Because what he thought in his totally stoned state of mind was his greatest coup, was quite the opposite: Brer Rabbit may have outfoxed the fox with the briar patch ruse and setting up his antagonists with his old limberger cheese trick, but reality isn’t as predictable. Because after conning a ride out of necessity to escape the police from the last drug deal gone bad he only jumps from the frying pan into the fire: because half an hour after he splits, his getaway car breaks down and he’s forced to hitch a ride from a couple of 50s throwbacks with the promise of cashing a check he knows he can’t. At least that’s his side of the story:
..because Killer, the driver (although he was one of these big guys, with the pack of cigarettes up their T-shirts) and “Kid” his buddy (stuck his cigarettes up there too – but Killer really had the muscles to keep them up there.. Kid’s would start to slip down after a while) – were both nitwits. Plus the hair, you know, all combed back and then up and around again meeting at the top somehow before coming down around the front again with that wad of Mineo stuff hanging down between their eyes all the way down to their noses even, Christ! Where all the grease runs off and Levi’s motorcycle boots and black leather jackets draped over their shoulders with all those silver studs all over’m like Brando used to wear – so with all that I figured they had to be harmless, right? – I mean a quality that’s become important to recognize lately, but Killer! Kid? I mean, Jesus Christ, Rock or Duke Maybe, but Killer and Kid! I mean, how many Rockies and Dukes did you know back in high school, but Killer and Kid? – Shit! and I even had’m stop while I got’m some food too! and THAT’S when I pulled the old Limburger routine – by stuffing it in my duffel bag as a setup, all gooey and ready to go and that’s when things got bad. Because in the foggy recesses of my brain, when they’d finally had it with my con and threatened to kill me if I didn’t come across with all the money I’d been promising’m, it finally came down to what I led them to believe was the one thing I COULDN’T give up:
“OH NOT THE BAG NOT THE BAG!”
and of course we all know how that one’s going to play out, since for all they knew it could’ve been filled to the gills with the white power those rednecks are still tryn’a sweep up but at this point I was so stoned it was unfolding like some slow motion cartoon while Bugs is insanely screeching out “NOT THE BAG NOT THE BAG!” and of course that’s all it took because the next thing I know old Kid’s stuffing his hands down the duffel bag right up to his elbows before he stops:
“there’s somp’n in here!”
“Oh, you shithead,” panted the killer, the moment gone now, “whadaya talking about?” as the kid pulled his hands out, then pointed, “Smell!” But Killer caught it anyway, then wheezed, “uh wha’ the..” then rousing, “..Christ!..” coughing. “..Socks.. mus be dem socks!..” “SHiiiiiiiit! You ever smell socks like that?” scratching his head while old Killer bolted up, then bent over and drew in, “there’s somep’n dead in here!” while Kid just kept scratching his head when someone in the back gasped, “What ‘s-that-all-over-your-hands?” – Then he stopped scratching his head and looked at his hands..
For a moment everyone’s focus was on the kids hands…. Then his hair!
And that’s when the shit hit the fan… as the stuff started oozing down onto the Kid’s face-ha.. while he’s tryin’a flick it off his hands – Splot! – causing a blood curdling scream from the back (this was a van by the way – full of like-minded lowlifes all looking for the easy score) – Splot! HAAA-then another one – Splot! – then more of’m – Splot – than me and I really gave’m a scream – UNTIL FINALLY THE KID WHEN HE REALIZES HE’S THE ONE WE’RE ALL SCREAMING ABOUT which sends us all for the door and we’re back in business again ramming bottlenecking crushing and THAT’S when I gave it the old vomit (a trick I used on an earlier encounter) and they exploded out in all directions…
Etc, etc, etc, all of which makes for a funny story, but there’s a lot more detail that our narrator didn’t realize was playing out in his drugged state, and consequently caused just the opposite of what he thought was his greatest coup, and consequently was ultimately the turning point in his life. And since this ultimately is a story of redemption, not condemnation, as our titular narrator’s name may suggest, it’s important to remember that the original St. Augustine was a “bad boy” too. Initially. And what did it take to bring him around?
Instead of Portrait of an American Wiseguy, it might have been Portrait of a Roman Wiseguy, a Hippo Wiseguy, Carthage, or Algeria? – but both came to faith by their misdeeds rather than their good deeds. So it’s important we realize just how low our Augustine sank since what he saw as his ultimate coup was really just the opposite: the death of the one person who would eventually have the greatest influence on him and consequently the change of the title of the first part of The Mendicant called Portrait of an American Wiseguy to Portrait of an American Christian.
But in today’s marketplace of ideas, as opposed to the original St. Augustine’s, that may not exactly be an improvement. Because, as Gandhi said, “If it weren’t for the Christians, I’d be a Christian.” And what is a word anyway but a collective agreed upon perception of an idea with a label slapped on it (or so the linguists tell us) that changes with the latest zeitgeist and thanks to the remarkably appalling examples set by those supposed adherents today, even removing that modifying adjective “American” doesn’t necessarily help other than to denote there’s a difference.
For example, the third part of The Mendicant is titled Portrait of a Christian. And other than to note there IS a difference, the REAL question is – IS it an improvement? Now, if instead it said Portrait of a CHINESE Christian? That WOULD mean something, since to make that claim, instead of winning elections and getting a bigger piece of the pie, you not only won’t get a piece of the Chinese Communists’ pie – but will more than likely suffer all sorts of deprivations and persecutions UNTIL you die – that’s if you somehow manage to get past an early martyrdom. And THAT’S what the next two novels of the trilogy will determine.
Because to go from the first novel of the trilogy, The Mendicant (which can mean anything from the beggar-like “hippy freeloaders” of the 60s to the original meaning – The Augustinian Order of Mendicants! – who made their way by means of alms) – to The Missionary (which at least in part implies a certain level of giving instead of taking) – we have to go through the second novel, The Militant (which sums up that as yet to be explained artwork throughout the ENTIRE trilogy) – to get there!
And what does all THAT mean?
To be continued…