208: I would never . . .
Little Follies, “The Young Tars,” Preface
Preface
“Do you know what it is I dislike about writing?—All the scratchings out and touchings up that are necessary . . . . It’s the power of revising that makes writing such a colorless affair . . . . That’s what seems to me so fine about life. It’s like fresco-painting—erasures aren’t allowed.”
Lafcadio, in Andre Gide’s, Les Caves du Vatican (Lafcadio’s Adventures), translated by Dorothy Bussy
I WOULD NEVER have written this story if Porky White hadn’t insisted on it. Not long after I finished Call Me Larry, Porky threw a party to announce the addition of Frizzlin’ Fritters to the menu at his Kap’n Klam family restaurants. At one point in the evening Porky and I found ourselves standing side by side at the bar, waiting for fresh drinks, eating fritters. On the whole, these fritters were not bad. Like all the other items on the Kap’n Klam menu that are not actually billed as clams (the Baked Stuffed Stuffin’, Marvelous Mush, Krumbs Kasino, and Bubblin’ Broth, for instance), they were flavored with the secret concentrate that Porky had developed, Klamessence. Porky asked me what I was going to work on next.
“I’m not sure,” I said.
“Tell the story of the Young Tars,” he said.
I shuddered and said, “No, thanks. That’s one of those dark, gritty bits at the bottom of my life that I’d just as soon forget. Every time I face an audience, there is a moment, just before I start to read, when the memory of that night returns, every detail. My palms start to sweat and I look out at the people sitting there, waiting for me to start, and I find myself wishing that I’d had the foresight to lock the doors so that they couldn’t get out. No thanks.”
“Peter!” he exclaimed. “I really am surprised at you. That’s kind of a narrow, self-centered way of looking at it, isn’t it?”
“Perhaps,” I said, “but remember that this is my personal history—and so forth.”
“Not entirely,” he said. “There are other people in it, aren’t there?”
“Come on, Porky,” I said.
“Come on, nothing. This is important to me. The Tars may have been nothing but dark, gritty bits in your life, but in mine those dark, gritty bits had silver linings.”
“I know,” I said, “but—”
“But me no buts,” said Porky. “Just look around this room.”
I did. Dozens of young men and women, models made up to appear to be of high-school age, the age of most of the help at the Kap’n Klam restaurants, circulated around the room, passing drinks and platters of Kap’n Klam specialties. The uniforms they wore were identical to the uniforms we Tars had worn years ago, just as the ranks that Kap’n Klam workers carried were the ranks we Tars had carried years ago. The Tars had been the inspiration for the nautical touches and organizational scheme that were so much a part of the Kap’n Klam success.
“I’ll make you a deal,” said Porky, his eyes atwinkle. Leaning toward me, grabbing at my shoulder, he said, “I’ll tell you what Klamessence is if you’ll write the story of the Young Tars.”
“Not a fair bargain,” I said.
“What’s not a fair bargain?” asked Albertine. She draped herself on my shoulder and took a sip of her martini.
“I’ll tell him what Klamessence is if he’ll write the story of the Young Tars,” said Porky.
“Is that the story with the ‘prendergast’ in it?” asked Al.
“Yeah,” said Porky, and he chuckled. “Come on, Peter.”
“Oh, go ahead and write it,” said Al. “How long can it take?”
“All right,” I said. “I’ll do it.” For, after all, why not? It does explain why I’m uneasy before an audience and why I no longer carry a pocket notebook.
“Okay, then,” said Porky. “Come here.”
He motioned us into a huddle. Al and I drew closer, so that the three of us formed a tight circle.
“All the items that say ‘klam’ have real clams in them,” said Porky. He raised his right hand. “I swear they do. But all the rest of the stuff has Klamessence in it. That’s the real secret of my success. That’s how I get people who don’t like clams to eat at a Kap’n Klam joint—Klamessence.” He looked over his shoulder, turned back toward us, lowered his voice. “Klamessence is chicken fat—schmaltz. People go into a Kap’n Klam, eat an order of Baked Stuffed Stuffin’ with Klamessence, and leave saying, ‘Gee, I never tried clams before, but they’re good. They taste like chicken.’”
Peter Leroy
Aluminum Commodore (retired)
Small’s Island
September 25, 1986
(Last revision October 16, 1991)
[to be continued on Friday, March 4, 2022]
You can listen to this episode on the Personal History podcast.
In Topical Guide 208, Mark Dorset considers Writing: Personal Motives for and Attitudes Toward and Terror: Preceding Public Readings of One’s Own Work from this episode.
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At Apple Books you can download free eBooks of “My Mother Takes a Tumble,” “Do Clams Bite?,” “Life on the Bolotomy,” “The Static of the Spheres,” “The Fox and the Clam,” “The Girl with the White Fur Muff,” “Take the Long Way Home,” and “Call Me Larry,” the first eight novellas in Little Follies.
You’ll find an overview of the entire work in An Introduction to The Personal History, Adventures, Experiences & Observations of Peter Leroy. It’s a pdf document.