Contents
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Esprit Spring 2005 Home
Cover Photo
Awards
Contributors
Acknowledgements
Submission Information
Mazurka
Self-Portrait
Relig na mban
Eureka
Twelve Days into January
Under-Pass
Like a Virgin; or, On Madonnas
Suisio, July
My Backyard
On
Beethoven's Sonata, Op.81a
Fade to Black
Passing Fascination
Shifting View of Window
Soiled Yogi
Thinking of Toledo
Protrusion
Storytelling in Grotte di Castellana
DeGrazia's Doors
The Sorrowful Mysteries
Dawn of Dante
Little Hope
Triptych
Self-Portrait 2
Zow Gow
Anthroarachnonet
A Breasted
Experience
A Hat in Bath
Front Cover:
Side Door, Holy Trinity
Episcopal Church,
Philadelphia
Inside Front Cover:
Together
Inside Back Cover:
Femke
Back Cover:
Monkey Toes
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| | Dawn of Dante
Chris Longo
"I am about to become a living legend," he says
triumphantly. "You ready?"
"Edge of my seat."
"I'm unsure as to whether or not you're adequately
prepared for this."
"I'm as ready as I'll ever be."
"I know. I'm not certain that's enough."
"Oh, come off it...."
"Jack, this is huge."
"I doubt it's as beg as you think it is."
"I have completely refined my prose."
"That's it? That's what
you called me all the way down
here for—what the shit, dude? I had plans with Alice tonight."
A sip of Guinness.
"Mea culpa, old friend."
"In English, Dante."
"It means 'my bad' in Latin. I apologize."
"It's cool. But still—"
"—you know, for disrupting such a productive and
fulfilling evening."
"Damn straight," I say and nod. "All right, so're you
gonna explain this big-time, like, catharsis or what?"
"Yes. At great length, Crackerjack. Just you wait."
"I told you to stop fucking calling me that."
"Yeah,
yeah." He flashes his lopsided smile, rises. "Let me get a refill. Want one?"
I nod and then drain my glass, hand it to him. The
brooding gloom of the bar makes me crave a cigarette even
though I stopped three months
ago because Alice implored me
to quit at the time I wanted to impress her; plus it was
Lent.
The Beatles croon smooth sad bastard music out of
the jukebox by the window:
And anytime you feel the pain, hey Jude, refrain
Don't carry the world
upon your shoulders
For well you know that it's a fool who plays it cool
By making his world a little
colder
Dante returns. He rests a fresh pint in front of me
and then resumes his place on the other side of the table.
"Tell me what you think of this. Honestly," he says,
still grinning.
"I'm waiting."
"Okay, you've
read The Sun Also Rises right?"
"Yeah, a while ago."
"Any recollection of the author's
utilization of
excessive dialogue between the boring stuff?"
"I guess so. Wait, what boring stuff? The actual
writing?"
"The prose, yes." Another sip. "It occurred to me: why
not just, like, abandon the thick expository parts. But keep the dialogue."
"And?"
"That's it. Isn't that marvelous?"
"I guess."
"It is."
Sigh. "You really think your dialogue could ever be as
interesting as Hemingway's?"
"No. But it doesn't have to be. It just has to be
realistic. And contain allusions."
"I don't know, man. This sounds a little..."
"The word you're looking for is 'revolutionary,' Jack."
"How can you really even tell a story that way?"
"What do you mean? That's the point. You don't. It's just, like, slice-of-life shit. Like, just people sitting around.
Talking about stuff, taking it easy. Drinking.
Whatever."
"That's—don't you want there to be more to your
writing?"
"No. In fact, even less, if possible."
"I see. So what's the point?"
"There is no point." He looks
around the room and
then gestures toward the bar, where a man and woman our age
are talking. "Examine the two individuals inebriating
themselves over there."
"Uh huh."
"See, I could do an entire story about them. Note that
her right foot is on his stool? And how she's talking and he's
nodding but really watching the Mets? That's all gold, Jack."
"If you say so."
"Or this conversation right here."
"Which?"
"This one."
"Ours?"
"Oh, yeah, man. It's minimalism. That's key."
"But we're not talking about anything, really."
More
beer. "They wouldn't even be stories, really, would they? I
mean obviously you'd refer to them as short stories but..."
"But what?"
"Maybe you need to have stuff happen. Conflict."
"I don't think so. This is far more interesting."
"What
is?"
"Our dialogue."
"About dialogue."
"Yep."
"But, see—no, Dante, it's not."
He makes a face. "Today's proletariat doesn't read,
anyway.
But you know what? To hell with anyone who's
incapable of appreciating what I'm trying to do."
"But you're not trying to do anything!"
"Right. It's like Seinfeld. I'm trying to do nothing.
That's my new style."
"That's not a style thought. That's just trivial and
tiresome."
"Is not."
"It is, too!" I chortle. "You really think people want to
read about two college guys sitting in a bar, like, pontificating
about Hemingway and nonsense?"
"Sure. It'll be like Raymond Carver. Don't forget
about the allusions."
"And who're you going to allude to?"
"Everybody. All of my heroes."
"Like who?"
He actually scratches his head. "It escapes me at the
moment. Possibly Conrad."
"Yeah, that oughtta be subtle. Just have somebody cry
out, 'The Horror! The Horror! The Horror!' at the price of
his rum and Coke, huh?" I roll my eyes and throw my
hands up, exasperated.
"He only says it twice. And stop gesticulating. Only
one of us is Italian."
I mull this over and then ask, "If you're gonna drive
the story with dialogue, why not just write a play?
"Plays are so... passé." Pause. "No, no: this is the
style; the dawn of Dante!"
"Whatever." I shrug.
The Beatles are over now, and John Mayer's hollow
voice struggles to fill the room.
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