Ismael Garay The Literary Blues It was my season in hell. At least that's what my friend Paul called it, because he had read some obscure French poet, Arthur Rimbaud. Paul, as you can tell, is a literary asshole, always quoting crazy dead writers that nobody's heard of, expecting people to be impressed, or perhaps waiting for a cute literary girl to swoon at his vast knowledge of French symbolist poets'then proceeding to spread her legs and invite him to casually deconstruct her while quoting Verlaine in the original French, like his mentor Professor Calameri. Of course, this never works, because Paul never gets laid, and quoting Verlaine to a group of females in a bar before stumbling in a drunken stupor is not as sexually attractive as he thought it was. If I had read Rimbaud, I may have confidently written: it was my season in hell, and the intellectuals would say, oooohhhh Rimbaud. But I haven't read Rimbaud. Having seen the movie "Total Eclipse" about Rimbaud and Verlaine, in which Leonardo Dicaprio (who played the part of Rimbaud) prances around naked and gets in on with a bald guy doesn't exactly make me want to read that fag poet. Did I mention Rimbaud was French' After the French didn't help us against Iraq I no longer drink French wine, or eat french fries, much less read French poetry. Not that I ever drank French wine, or even read French poetry, but I think that's beside the point. Rimbaud never got me laid. None of this changes the fact that it was indeed the worst summer I'd experienced in recent memory, aside from that one summer when I was impotent and drowning my sorrows in ranchera music and Snapple. But this was different, in many ways. I was bored out of my mind, tired of the dog days, daydreams, and nothingness that my life had become. I was sick of life and my girlfriend wouldn't go down on me. "Wow, kind of reminds me of Dostoyevski, you know, Notes from the Underground," said Paul when I called him up and confessed my sorrows. As you can tell, he's condescending without actually being condescending, a real asshole. He'll quote a book at me, knowing I don't read anything except that one comic strip by Matt Groening in the La Weekly, the personals, and the horoscope. But he pretends that I've read whatever strange book he brings up, making me feel like an illiterate shit. After I poured out my heart, the fact that I had no job, no blow jobs, no ambition, no car, no place to hang my hat, no prospects, and no desire to do anything except whack off and watch CNN all day, he says, 'oh, wow, Dostoyevski'. Only the week before he had called my summer une saison en enfer. "I've done nothing all summer," I said, ignoring his literary reference. "I spent the entire day watching tv. Mothers hanging their children with belts, the Eiffel tower burning, terrorism, war, etc, and I just drift from day day . . ." "You ever read Rimbaud's "Drunken Boat' You sound like that, or like a character in Henry Miller, but without the sex and the whores. You're not paying for whores, are you'" "I can't afford whores, asshole. I'm talking about my life, not some library book." It was very depressing talking to Paul, expecially considering he had a high paying job as a literary critic for "The Advocate", Los Angeles's leading gay magazine. Paul would walk into the offices pretending he was a homosexual, a role he'd have to play for 8 straight hours (no pun intended). He even brought Scott Nickels, his best friend, to his workplace to introduce to his boss, and after that there was no question Paul was gay. Paul went on and on, talking about his chihuahua's sex life, job opportunities in UPS or Starbucks, Kobe, Rimbaud's theory of the visionary poet, and the difference between Mcdonald's salads and Carl's Jr.'s salads. It was depressing that Paul's chihuahua, Buddy Jr., was getting laid more than I was. Then he had to hang up, because one of his viejas was coming over. This is how he referred to his older lady friends'viejas. After hanging up the phone I walked outside to smoke a cigarette. It was Friday evening and soon one of Paul's viejas would show up at his doorstep, which would turn into a night of alcohol and fucking before the girl remembered to go home because her babysitter had a curfew. Paul would tell me about how Eva's son called him papi, about how Marisela's daughter didn't like him, and then he would compare the oral sex techniques of Marisela and Eva, jumping from one thought to the next like it was the most natural thing in the world. (In case you're wondering, Marisela knew what she was doing. She went down on Paul with gusto, with ganas. Eva's blowjobs sucked.) Paul had about four older Latina women he was sleeping with'pure, simple, uncomplicated sex, no commitments'they were his viejas, they were older, experienced, lonely, and very sexy. They were all in their late thirties and they all had kids. I finished my cigarette and decided to get drunk. I drove to Seven Eleven, bought two six pack of Snapples and drove to Lincoln Park, where I drank two Snapple in brown paper bags. It was a lonely night. I settled for dinner with my girlfriend's family, another night of no sex, and went home to watch Conan O'Brian. * * * A few days later Paul called up, said he needed a drink. "None of that Snapple shit, either. I'm in real trouble. It's my viejas. I'll bring the Charanda. " Charanda was a Mexican drink, tequila I think. It sounded pretty bad. We decided to meet at Garfano's later that night. When I got there he was arguing with one of his viejas in front of Garfano's, which was entertaining to the potheads with too much hair and Ozzy t-shirts who were smoking out with some skinny white guy with glasses who looked like John Lennon on crack. The image of a sexy older latina I had carried around in my mind was instantly shattered by an overweight woman with too much make up, her large breasts almost popping out of her shirt as she screamed at Paul, a cigarette in one hand, her high heel shoe in another. She was screaming at him about how he was just fucking around, how all he cared about were his books, how he was screwing other girls. In between her screams she would raise her trembling hand and take a couple of puffs from her cigarette. She walked away after throwing her shoe at Paul, got into her car, drove away, and then drove back to pick up her shoe. "Asshole," she said to Paul as she drove away. Paul had been staring sadly at his shoes the entire time, sometimes offering a shrug, staring at the book in his hand. After she left, he said, "Nice tits, huh' She's a little on the crazy side'kind of like in Henry Miller. Or maybe Celine. You really should read Henry Miller. I can introduce you to her, if you like her. She has some cute friends." We walked inside and ordered a pitcher of beer. "I don't get it, Ish," he said to me after his vieja had driven away. He looked like he hadn't slept for a few days. "I spend every minute of the day reading. I haven't gone to work for the last few days. I'm not even interested in the viejas anymore. No fucking, no eating, I've barely seen the sun. I just read. I'm up all night with two cups of coffee, I read when I take a shit, when I'm eating, I even tried it with Eva when I had her doggystyle, but when she saw me reading she was insulted for some reason, and I haven't seen her since. Know what I read during sex?" "I'm not sure I want to know," I said. "The Song of Songs. You know, in the bible. The little bibles they pass out." I couldn't help laughing at the image of Paul with a bible in his hand and fucking at the same time. "Motherfucker, you read the bible during sex! That's got to be blasphemous, some sort of sin, or a commandment." "It's not as bad as it sounds. I just combined two things I enjoyed into one. Like in Seinfeld. Remember, where George is eating when he's fucking his girl. Or was he watching television' I'm not sure, but I haven't done anything else, you know, I'm just reading. One book after another, Neruda, Kafka, Joyce, Proust, nonstop, coffee and books, that's it." Apparently he was addicted. He was also broke, which pissed me off. I had to pay the beer tab. After three pitchers I went to the liquor store and bought a six pack of Snapple. Paul was spending all his money on books. It was worse than I thought. First editions, rare editions, hardcovers, signed copies. He showed me the seventh copy he had bought of Baudelaire's "Flowers of Evil." He had payed over two hundred dollars for a first edition of Kerouac's On the Road. His entire paycheck had disappeared after a few visits to Border's, used book stores, etc. He had also been caught stealing Tolstoy from the Central Public Library. He was a mess. It was beyond me to say anything helpful. I thought I'd seen it all, from potheads to alcoholics, from crackheads to close friends that had taken too many mushrooms, but this was a new one. When I got home I realized that my books for English 101 were missing from my backpack. There was a message from Paul. He sounded depressed, rambling incoherently about Frederick Exley, quoting Shelley, asking me if I had read Celine, if I preferred to sleep with Sylvia Plath or Anne Sexton. I drank a Snapple and fell asleep.