Hey, I just started writing a novel about 2 weeks ago. I'm sort of letting it write itself and it is going to be like a noir detective story with a Hippie twist. I just wanted to share my beginning and get some feedback: I’m just starting to wake up in the morning when I hear my cell ring. I look at the ID screen and see an unfamiliar number. At least it’s local. I answer the phone. “You don’t know me, but my name is M’Butu,” the voice on the other end says. I can tell by his distinct lack of accent that the closest this motherfucker ever got to Africa was watching the Discovery Channel. How do these morons keep getting my number I think to myself. “I need some medicine.” At least the asshole didn’t say pot on a cell phone. “How did you get my number?” I finally mutter. “Eric gave it to me.” Well at least this one isn’t a cop. But there has to be a reason that Eric isn’t dealing with him. “Well, how much do you need?” “About an eighth.” “All right meet me at the Starbucks at the corner of Oxford and Center in about a half an hour. I’ve got dreads, and I’ll be wearing a Tribal hoodie.” I hate Starbucks with a vengeance, but I figure there will be fewer cops sitting on it looking for dope dealers than my usual café. Plus I keep a detailed list of dates and times that I have dealt there. If’ I’m caught then I can establish a pattern of the employees ignoring it wit security camera footage. Plus I have smoked out with most of the employees and we’ve worked out a story that management told them to ignore it or they would be fired. They could then turn around along with me and file a class action lawsuit against the company. Most people in the barista position are low paid and hate their jobs especially at the corporate joints. Plus they will try to settle out of court to keep their name out of the papers. I usually try to look a little more “Gangsta” when dealing with someone for the first time; at least as Gangsta as a white boy from Maine can look. It’s like Sun Tzu said, “never let the other side know what is going on.” I can look totally bad ass when I need to. I’m about 98% pacifist but realize that you don’t need to be capable of violence. You only need to convince the other person you are capable of violence. I look at myself in the mirror before putting on my shades and leave the house. I notice the gray hairs starting to pop out in my beard and think, “man, I’m getting too old for this shit.” I grab an eighth of Train Wreck and figure if I fuck up his plans for the afternoon, he might not call back in a little while. 20 minutes later I show up at Starbucks and grab a Chai. The girl behind the counter gives it to me for free smiles and says “Muchas Gracias.“ I tell her her lawn needs mowing too and give her my best bug eyed half crazed Hugh Laurie looks. They may be an evil multi national corporation hell bent on world domination, but they make a decent Chai. I go outside and find a perch. One of my character flaws is the fact that I’m always early. I joke that this is why I’m not a real musician and a lousy dealer. It’s like Lou Reed said “the first thing you learn is how to wait, because he’s never on time. He’s always late.” As my new customer walks up, I can already see where this situation is going. He’s a white guy with dirty blonde dreads sticking out from under a tam and a red, yellow, and green tie dye with a pot leaf printed on it. He looks at me with pale blue eyes over a pair of wire rimmed sunglasses. “Fuck does he want to get busted,“ I think to myself. He calls himself M’Butu, but his birth name is probably something like John Smith. His dad is an investment banker in the suburbs. He probably drives a bright red Range Rover with a Bob Marley sticker on it. He probably sees my dreads and will probably try to get his stuff for half price since I’m a dready too. I never make business deals stoned as it is a recipe for disaster. I have friends who owe money to major record labels who learned that lesson the hard way. So I sit and sip my Chai. He gives me a plastic smile as he sits down at the table across from me. “Realize I’m doing you a favor. I‘m not a dealer or anything. I just help out a few people,” I say. We both know that this is a load of bullshit. It is just bad etiquette to be up front about it. “How much?” he asks. “$60.” I highball him. “$20,” he responds. “$59” “$25, you fucking capitalist. We’re boys,” he responds. How did I see that coming? “$58.” “$30.” “$55.” “$40.” “$52.” “$50.” “Sold.” $50 is fair market value for what I’m selling. “You got change for a $100?” He asks. Fucking asshole. Sure. We finish our deal, and I wait for him to leave. Peace Out, Rev J
Not a bad start, can't wait to see were you take it. The only suggestion I have is with the part with the Starbucks workers and management. I had to read that part a few times to get it. The rest of it was great. Thank You for letting me see it. You going to let me see more? Jenn
You're right that is a little clunky I just added that this morning. I'll definately post more. Peace Out, Rev J
Hey J, Ya being a tease with this book of yours, lmao. I know, can't rush the artist. Just remember, this is suppose to be fun! Howl at ya later Jenn
Hm. You've done a good job of making a strong cynical, anti-authoritarian tone. 'Hippie' and 'noir' hardly seemed like they would fit together at first, but you've surprised me. Interesting start, good characters so far; I would maybe cut down the bartering at least two sentences -- or add more commentary by the protagonist. I enjoy reading it so far, but don't have much comment, yet.
Thanks everybody Now for some more of the story: I walk into the Hot Dog joint 2 doors down center. I’m greeted to the sound of Umpherey’s McGee doing “Franklins Tower” with Phil Lesh at the Great American Music Hall over the sound system it‘s a pretty good quality bootleg probably about first or second generation. It clears my head a little and calms me down. Joe the guy who runs the place is a Head. I remember from previous conversations that we were both at this show. “How’s Business?” I ask. “I was about to ask you the same question,” He replied. “You know pimpin’ aint easy.” I proceed to order a linguesa and tell him about the interaction I just had with M’butu. “Yeah you see that shit in the lot all the time.” “ I know. It would just be nice if just once some Trustafarian would just pay for his shit and not try to negotiate prices with me. Should I be impressed or aggravated that his father made him read Donald Trump’s the art of the deal?” “You catch Phish at the Greek?” “Nah didn‘t have the scratch.” “I heard they sold out in 20 minutes.” “Man economies hard they used to sell out in 10 minutes.” “So what you doin’ tonight? “I’m at the studio.” “Playing?” “Producing.” “You should be playing you’re good.” “Thanks. Finding guys who don’t flake is pretty hard.” “$3.50 for the Sausage.” I give him a fin with a half an eighth folded up in it. He gives me back $50.50 for change. I slide $2 with another half an eighth wrapped up in it into his tip cup. We worked out this system since even though it’s just him and me in the shop there is a big glass window and security cameras. The interesting thing about the paranoia of modern society is that 70% of our interactions and transactions are monitored. You just need to know how work around it or manipulate it in your favor. I’ve learned both. I stop at the corner store and pick up a pack of Djarum Black’s and a Java Monster. Once in a while I dig cloves I know they are horrible for you but everything in moderation. If it weren’t for Java Monster I probably wouldn’t get anything done. I do limit myself to one a day. Moderation in everything is the key. It’s time to catch the train. I have kind of a love hate relationship with public transit just as I do with the human race. I like getting from point a to point b and I like to read or play some stupid game on my cell phone while I do it. The problem is with cell phone technology. Once they integrated the MP3 player with the cell phone a new monster was created. I love music but for Christ’s sake could you please use headphones with that motherfucker. I want to ride and read I don’t need that rhythmic blast of “Bitch, Ho, Nigga, Nigga, Ho, Respect” of gangsta rap blaring at me. Although I almost want to laugh when they get to the respect part because it almost comes across as a punch line. Somewhere under the bay between Oakland and San Francisco a kid in a Phish t-shirt walks up to me and offers me a Joint. I initially turn him down as I have plenty of my own and think that he is trying to sell it to me. He just looks at me and says he needs to get rid of it before he gets on the plane home and if I don’t take it he will have to toss it. So I take it. He starts asking me questions about the system and how to get to the airport and I gladly give him instructions. I once I read a study that stated that people are more likely to ask for directions from attractive people. I readily disagree with that study. From what I’ve found people generally are more likely to ask for directions from people who look the most like them. I think it has more to do with empathy than vanity. I am constantly asked where the nearest head shop or pot club is. I honestly don’t think it is because of my winning smile. I get off the train at Civic Center in the Tenderloin or as I like to call it ‘Downtown Hood’. I walk past a guy playing sax and sounding real sweet so I slide him a couple of bucks. I leave the tunnel and light up a smoke. Someone comes up to me looking kind of crusty and says “got heroin, got speed, got reds.” I thought to myself “wow reds I thought those went the way of the Quaalude and the Dodo bird.” I walk past the pushers that congregate on the street corners. I shit you not I actually see a crack dealer wearing an Alcatraz t-shirt that says “The Rock” on the front of it. Even though I despise what he does I appreciate his sense of humor. Before you get on me for being 2 faced here is the difference between me being a dealer and him being a pusher from Hoyt Axton “Well, the dealer is a man with love grass in his hand. But the pusher is a monster. And not a natural man Yeah, the dealer take a nickel. Give you lots of fine dreams. But the pusher take your body. And leave your mind to scream.” At the same time I see the crack pushers as being kind of sad and pathetic. Most of them are whores who think they are pimps. They get into street slinging thinking they are going to be Tony Montana. But unfortunately the Tony Montana’s in this business are few and far between and never last. Peace Out, Rev J
I like the main character. The slang is unfamiliar to me so I have to slow down my reading to understand it. You got me to laugh and to think.....very cool! Keep it coming
Ok. Ive read the first part of the OP. Here are some of my thoughts.: It's quite silly to establish the identity of protagonist as a drug dealer when he goes out of his way only to sell an 1/8. Actually it's retarded. Make him move pounds man. Only then will I take that character serious and show respect. And a price negotiation on weed? Weed has an accepted price and most people usually know price specific to weight. It's a standard. This tells me the protagonist is an idiot and new to the game. The character is not believable is what I'm saying. Aside, I like the flow and style and am interested enough to come back a read the second installment.
Thanks when I revise I'm going to put the reason why this charachter does that. But since I'm only putting rough draft up here (I'm going to try and publish it) here are the reasons for that. The charachter has a system. Meet the first time customer at Starbucks until there is a certain amount of trust kind of like don't allow strangers into your house. This way if the guy is a narc he's only getting a small quantity if it is a bust. And the customer isn't going to become a pest somewhere the charachter actually cares about hanging out at. Once trust is established the deals move closer to dealers home to a different cafe that is more sympathetic (for lack of a better term) to the chararachter and what he does and has a tendency to look the other way while he is slinging dope as long as he doesn't bring the cops in. It's like telling the customer "I trust you, just not that much." Once another level of trust is established then the charachter sells out of his house. If the charachter was slinging pounds that wouldn't make sense in the noir genre. Usually in noir the main charachter is down on his luck so to speak. Like a private detective who isn't getting cases. Plus I've decided to go with the classic noir/Hitchcock theme of the guy getting pulled in over his head. It is a little harder with a more big time dealer. Peace Out, Rev J
I like it man, it's good. It actually drew me in as you were quite diligent when describing the characters, especially the buyer. Does this have a bit of a biographical influence? The only parts I'd critique, if you didn't mind are the these; "One of my character flaws is the fact that I’m always early." I think that if you make your main character so self aware this early in the story you'd be cutting yourself off of the potential to have certain things go on behind his back. If you'd like to have things happen later in the story that don't go his way, or he gets himself into a bad situation, I wouldn't make him so self aware. Otherwise it may not seem believable if he encountered problems later. but his birth name is probably something like John Smith. I think John Smith is overused. I always see it as the name on the card in Visa commercials or bank commercials. The noting of the grey hairs in the beard and the buyers, "plastic smile," were excellent. Very descriptive. Post more when you can.
Thanks for the comments. I plan to take a day or two to revise what I have (you'll have to wait until I can get it published to see the changes). Then I'm going to work on the third installment. Peace Out, Rev J
I wrote a poem in the shower this morning. Fucked if I know where to put it on this site -_- so I hope you don't mind that it shall go here. Peace~Love! A Zimmerman Limerick By Mel He's old and his bladder is runny And I know that he makes lot's of money But "Bob" Dylan, you know Can still sell out a show And that people still go, it's still funny. Thanks you!
everything's kinda cliche bro *edit* its good and i like your ability to carry a story. it just seems like a lot of the things said/done/described are what's expected, or what you would expect from a bland drug movie or book written by somebody who hasn't lived it. (not saying you're not a drug user, i dunno if you are, but your writing comes across that way).
Parts were inspired by conversations I've had with dealer friends of mine. I actually did have someone come up to me on the train and give me a joint after the Phish show. The Crack dealers are people I see every day on my way to my straight job and hang out in front of the Recording Studio that I intern in. Alot of the snide little side comments and quirks of the charachter are me. It's almost like method acting. I have some more to post in the story. I need to get into the "Noir" part soon. Peace Out, Rev J
