Telephone conversation

The following conversation regarding my brother John O'Brien's posthumous novel, Better (Akashic, 2009), took place during the publication process.

Me: Hi Mom.

Mom: Hi hon.

Me: Mom, I'm about to send the final version of Better off to Akashic and I wanted to check in with you first. Is there anything in the book you want to talk about?

Mom: That one scene. I hate that one scene.

Me: Which one?

Mom: The one where he urinates on the floor. Do you know the one I'm talking about?

Me: I do.

Mom: I hate that scene.

Me: I know, Mom.

Mom: It's disgusting. Johnny would never do anything like that.

Me: Of course he wouldn't.

Mom: Maybe you should take it out.

Me:

Mom:

Me: I'd really hate to do that.

Mom:

Me: I don't think the scene has anything to do with John. It's about the character. The character is trying to verify he's alive. He needs to hear a sound that's ... primal.

You know how careful John was about his writing. Every word had a purpose. I really think it should stay, Mom. I really do. It's about being alive. It's important.

Mom:

Mom:

Mom:

Me: John would be furious to see it deleted.

Mom: I guess you're right, but I still don't like it.

Me: I understand that. Try to separate it from Johnny. If he were here, he'd tell you it's about the character. You know I hate to put words in his mouth, but I think I've got this one right.

Mom:

Me: I'm doing the best I can.

Mom: I know you are.

Me: Should I send it along to Akashic then? Is there anything else we should talk about?

Mom: No. If you're happy with it, that's fine.

Me: I'm not sure "happy" is the right word.

Mom: I know. You know what I mean.

Me: I do. Okay then, I'll get this going.

Mom: Okay. Love you.

Me: Love you.

Excerpt from Better:

Suddenly I am aware that the house is positively silent. There is absolutely no aural evidence that any animate thing occupies this house. For all I hear right now, I could be alone. Even the sounds of my own body eludes me. The perennial hum of the world at large: not there. The cumulative buzz of myriad ticks and tocks that drifts into our ears twenty-four hours a day: missing. The orchestration of every noise ever made anywhere, perpetually and reliably amalgamated then distilled down to a back-of-your-head IV of mild distraction in a sucrose base: history.

I do stand. I am in need of a noise. I hit the table with my glass: bok. Not enough--I need a longer noise. I slap myself. Again. Listen: still nothing. I can't possibly be alone here; I know better. Afraid to listen to my watch, much less look at it, my eye instead falls on a remote for the televisions. I can't touch it; I am afraid that if I reach for it, I might lose my balance, fall and strike my head, die in this pervading silence. My eyes blur. My bladder burns. It seems a very long time since I last urinated--too long for a living man. Still standing by the bar, I unzip my fly: zzzip. I pull out my penis; it seems pitifully small, and I can hold it between my thumb and my forefinger. It takes time, then finally there is liquid. At first a mere dribble trickling along my finger and dripping off the knuckle, it grows in force and becomes a steady stream under pressure which separates from my finger and finds its own path. It hits the floor, fairly quietly at first but soon announcing itself with a rumble as it stakes out its puddle and continues falling upon itself, no longer absorbed by the shocked carpet. It's now loud: patapatapatapata. It feels good to hear it. It smells bad, for I have held it too long; nonetheless, it feels good to smell it.

And much to my relief, when the splashing ends, it is replaced by the regular sounds of the house, the city, the rest. I hear water running--plumbed water--in one of the bathrooms. An airplane passes overhead. Probably an antique from Santa Monica airport, for it has that precarious cough that haunts old black and white movie soundtracks. Once the bane of inevitably smaller-than-life airmen, it has no doubt become something to be achieved, duplicated, recaptured in its authenticity, like the dying, spitting, last-time-out-before-the-snow-flies sound of a well-tuned Harley. I hear other things. I hear a trillion things, all of them rich and cogent messengers; they sing to me of my continuing sanity.

* * *

John O'Brien died in April 1994 from a self-inflicted gunshot wound at the Beverly Hills apartment building featured in these photographs.

Further reading.

* * *

Tommy, Angelica, Johnny and me

This week, the Cleveland Scene is featuring an excerpt of my brother John's novel Better, with an introduction by Yours Truly, in which I outline the strange connection between my brother and famed Rugrats Tommy and Angelica.

Read it here.

For those itching for more, I offer the following links:

Rugrat's "Toy's in the Attic" part one.

Rugrat's "Toy's in the Attic" part two.

And an essay I wrote on "Better" for the Los Angeles Times last month.

Today's photo of John and me was taken circa 1984, when Rolling Rock and Stroh's were all the rage.

* * *

On "Better"

As promised, here is the essay on my brother John's novel Better for the Los Angeles Times: "Clues in John O'Brien's Better."

For any new readers looking for more on John, I offer some of my in-depth writing on my brother and his work and an associated blog entry with additional pictures and links. Thanks for dropping in.

Confidential to the city of Los Angeles: Thank you for being you. You give good visit. Also, many thanks for not quaking the earth beneath yourself during my visit. One last thing--and you're probably not going to like this--but the people in your airport look a whole lot like the people in the Cleveland Airport.

Forty nine is seven squared

My brother John would have turned 49 today. Now that's a number. Four. Tea. Nine. Fifty less one.

49.

You've got your 4, which is 2 squared; and you've got your 9, which is 3 squared. Then you've got 4 + 9, which is 13, and you don't want to mess around with 13. You've got to be careful with 13, but it's right on the ass of 49, like I just showed you.

You're probably not thinking about 5, but it's here. 9 - 4. There's your five. Just glance over your shoulder. Five is quiet, but with the sort of power it's swinging, why should it draw attention to itself? Five knows everything about every other number. Just dig how it's wrapped itself around 49.

(shhh. here's a secret. numbers are really characters in your life. really. I know what I'm talking about. I've seen these guys. careful.)


The stunning thing about that photo is the uncanny resemblance John would have to Dad later in life.

(this post is teetering on the edge of a giant glass.)

When people see that picture, they often think it is Johnny holding a baby. Nope. That's Dad holding Johnny. Dad's about 21 or 22. John is 30 or 31 in the picture at the top of this post. Now say "ricochet." Say it out loud.

You never think you'll be dealing with a word like posthumous until you're dealing with a word like posthumous. When it arrives, you stare at it and blink a few times, then you just sort of swallow it whole because there is no other choice.

(confidential to all you writerly types out there: ain't second person grand?)

I apologize. I'm doing the best I can. But with the giant glass and the 49 and the squares and the second person; with everything ricocheting around, it's not easy. Sort of like being alone in a crowded room or a really bad song lyric that you can't stop singing.

Posthumous.

John's last posthumous novel will be published later this year by Akashic Books. Here's a link.

There is more to be said about Better than I can fit into this post or, more accurately, into this day, the space around me or the space inside of me.

Stay tuned.

All the writing will eventually make it to the wall. But it will have to wait until the five stops shouting and the snapshots close back upon themselves.

To that end, I shall leave the conclusion of this post in more competent hands: