remaining fluid. This friend told me: I knew there was nothing in the water that made him a great writer, but I figured, just in case…
I am not too proud to admit that, in this same spirit, I ordered the zucchini Florentine that night at Musso & Frank. In fact, I don’t much like zucchini, but I had read, in Robert Polito’s wonderful biography of the writer, that Thompson often would select the zucchini Florentine when dining at M&F, and so, when the waiter arrived, that’s what I requested. Along with a bourbon. Which did and did not have much to do with Thompson. Piccirilli ordered a sirloin and what sounded like a nice Cabernet. And it was only after the waiter had left that Pic reminded me: Thompson also favored the pot roast special.
Anyway, at some point early in what proved to be a long evening, our discussion of Thompson segued into a discussion of David Goodis. Goodis is, I learned that night, Pic’s favorite noir scribe. Whether or not Goodis ever dined at Musso & Frank, I don’t know. I can’t even determine if Goodis ever met Thompson. Because, unfortunately, there doesn’t seem to be a lot known – or at least written – about the novelist from Philadelphia. Pic and I had both been through Jim Sallis’ fine essay a dozen times or more. But in the end, our sense of the man derived from the haunted, anguished vibe that emanated from his books. As if, in simply holding Down There or Nightfall in your hands, you got a tactile education in the many agonizing ways that one’s life can detonate in an instant.
What I recall Pic saying about Goodis that night was, “He goes to his dark places more often and more honestly than anybody else, I think. He was fucked up worse than the other GM writers … which is why I love him.”
That comment told me a lot about Piccirilli as both writer and man. It said that he knew where stories come from and that he understood what was at stake every time he cobbled words into myth. And it said that he realized the depths of the connections that can be made between writer and reader.
Near the end of the evening, but sometime before my last bourbon, we decided, suddenly and enthusiastically, to light out on a quest. Initially, the object of the quest was to discover the identity of Goodis’ mysterious and, by most accounts, tormenting wife, known only as “Elaine” – a primary source, it seemed to both of us, of much of his anguished vision. (I’m betting that Goodis knew – and found a perverse irony in the fact – that the name “Elaine” is derived from the Old French for “light.”)
But by the time the check came, the quest had evolved, thankfully and somewhat more rationally, into a desire to light a votive candle in memory of poor old David Goodis and the noir world he bequeathed to us. Somehow, it didn’t seem such an odd idea at the time – two erstwhile Catholics lighting a candle for our lost Jewish idol.
Now, I’m a little bleary on the details of what happened next, but I know that it involved some bad directions from a surly 7-Eleven clerk and a series of wrong turns that put us, eventually, somewhere in East L.A. Which was where we spotted St. Lucy’s. (I had hoped to find a St. Elaine’s, but Pic suggested this would be a long shot at best.)
It was a little mission-style church on a busy street full of clubs that were spilling music and light out onto the sidewalks. Unable to find a parking spot, Pic dropped me off and began to circle around the block. I made my way inside and found a classic alcove in the nave, filled with a black, wrought-iron table upon which rested, in tiers, dozens, perhaps hundreds, of flickering candles, all of them set in small, red glass holders. That the church was wide open and deserted at this hour did not at all surprise or concern me at the time. And as I selected a taper and ignited it, I felt as if I were inside a noir novel, some old, battered paperback from my childhood Rexall. As if I were moving
I am not too proud to admit that, in this same spirit, I ordered the zucchini Florentine that night at Musso & Frank. In fact, I don’t much like zucchini, but I had read, in Robert Polito’s wonderful biography of the writer, that Thompson often would select the zucchini Florentine when dining at M&F, and so, when the waiter arrived, that’s what I requested. Along with a bourbon. Which did and did not have much to do with Thompson. Piccirilli ordered a sirloin and what sounded like a nice Cabernet. And it was only after the waiter had left that Pic reminded me: Thompson also favored the pot roast special.
Anyway, at some point early in what proved to be a long evening, our discussion of Thompson segued into a discussion of David Goodis. Goodis is, I learned that night, Pic’s favorite noir scribe. Whether or not Goodis ever dined at Musso & Frank, I don’t know. I can’t even determine if Goodis ever met Thompson. Because, unfortunately, there doesn’t seem to be a lot known – or at least written – about the novelist from Philadelphia. Pic and I had both been through Jim Sallis’ fine essay a dozen times or more. But in the end, our sense of the man derived from the haunted, anguished vibe that emanated from his books. As if, in simply holding Down There or Nightfall in your hands, you got a tactile education in the many agonizing ways that one’s life can detonate in an instant.
What I recall Pic saying about Goodis that night was, “He goes to his dark places more often and more honestly than anybody else, I think. He was fucked up worse than the other GM writers … which is why I love him.”
That comment told me a lot about Piccirilli as both writer and man. It said that he knew where stories come from and that he understood what was at stake every time he cobbled words into myth. And it said that he realized the depths of the connections that can be made between writer and reader.
Near the end of the evening, but sometime before my last bourbon, we decided, suddenly and enthusiastically, to light out on a quest. Initially, the object of the quest was to discover the identity of Goodis’ mysterious and, by most accounts, tormenting wife, known only as “Elaine” – a primary source, it seemed to both of us, of much of his anguished vision. (I’m betting that Goodis knew – and found a perverse irony in the fact – that the name “Elaine” is derived from the Old French for “light.”)
But by the time the check came, the quest had evolved, thankfully and somewhat more rationally, into a desire to light a votive candle in memory of poor old David Goodis and the noir world he bequeathed to us. Somehow, it didn’t seem such an odd idea at the time – two erstwhile Catholics lighting a candle for our lost Jewish idol.
Now, I’m a little bleary on the details of what happened next, but I know that it involved some bad directions from a surly 7-Eleven clerk and a series of wrong turns that put us, eventually, somewhere in East L.A. Which was where we spotted St. Lucy’s. (I had hoped to find a St. Elaine’s, but Pic suggested this would be a long shot at best.)
It was a little mission-style church on a busy street full of clubs that were spilling music and light out onto the sidewalks. Unable to find a parking spot, Pic dropped me off and began to circle around the block. I made my way inside and found a classic alcove in the nave, filled with a black, wrought-iron table upon which rested, in tiers, dozens, perhaps hundreds, of flickering candles, all of them set in small, red glass holders. That the church was wide open and deserted at this hour did not at all surprise or concern me at the time. And as I selected a taper and ignited it, I felt as if I were inside a noir novel, some old, battered paperback from my childhood Rexall. As if I were moving
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