All Books Must Stop For Inspection

A time when people were hungry for real life victims of injustice to get their names cleared, and real life bad guys to get their punishment

All Books Must Stop For Inspection

His first book, which followed the exploits of a gay interstellar accountant who doubled as an undercover therapist, sold enough copies that if you piled them up alongside the Statue of Liberty and set them alight, the resultant bonfire would warm all the passengers on the Staten Island ferry for at least a month of crossings, but when Scott Powers pushed out his second book, the critics said the fire from its sales wouldn’t even roast a marshmallow, which caused Scott to consider becoming a rug weaver in a remote corner of Slovakia.

Of course, Scott was only being melodramatic, and with the shrewdness of a resolute snake that commissions an ad campaign to change its venomous image into cream pie, Scott moved to Los Angeles to see first hand if he could convince Hollywood to make a movie of his failed second book, which dealt with a family that lived in modern poverty and struggled to raise a rebellious autistic son amid worsening unemployment and social unrest.

Does it have breasts? asked Max Heisenberg, executive producer of a movie studio so well known that nobody had to say the name.

I can add some, said Scott.

Very well, get back to me. And don’t forget the car chase.

Since Scott once had a girlfriend for about six months, he figured he could add the female bits pretty easily, but he had never been in a car chase.

Dog Bone in a car chase

Near Venice beach, Scott found a drag racer who called himself Dog Bone. Dog Bone had a souped up Pontiac and several outstanding bench warrants for failure to pay his speeding tickets. Dog Bone agreed to help Scott, for a price.

How much? asked Scott.

Not money, said Dog Bone. I just need you to buy me three six packs of Bud and a couple bottles of wine. They took my driver license and as you can see, I have a child’s face.

Are you?

What?

A child?

No, said Dog Bone. I’m about 27 years old, I think, but they insist on ID these days.

Scott said okay, did the deed, and came back with a grocery bag that he carried with both arms. Dog Bone sat in his Pontiac, and told Scott to climb aboard. They drove down to the boardwalk.

What now? asked Scott.

See that car over there? At the light?

Yes.

We’re going to chase it.

The other car was a Ford with a stripe down the side. When the light turned green, it burned a little rubber to impress  the girls on rollerskates, then took off flying. Dog Bone chased.

A cop stopped both cars, arrested both drivers, and told Scott that he recognized him from the cover of his first book, and he could therefore leave the scene of the crime and head back to his apartment, wherever that was, on the condition that Scott make a movie someday.

Scott said thanks and went back to see Max Heisenberg, executive producer of a movie studio so well known that nobody had to say the name.

Lance Borger, an old friend of Scott, had also written a book. It was a wrenching account of two black men in Mississippi who had been arrested for a murder they didn’t commit, and who were dragged from the small town jail by vigilantes one night. The book, based on true events, explored how racial discrimination and bigotry in the 1940s became the catalyst for even more discrimination in the 1950s and 1960s, and even into the twenty-first century, and how the federal government, which had appropriated jurisdiction, tried to cover up their mishandling of the original case and the decades long aftermath in the name of letting sleeping dogs lie, which was a phrase that Lance, during his research, had actually discovered in a formal memo between one high Department Of Law official and another.

Before Lance Borger’s book was published, Ellen Fleming, his editor, consulted with Lance on a title. Ellen’s firm was finalizing the publication, and there were still a few details to hammer out.

The adjective noun of adjective noun, said Ellen.

What’s that? asked Lance.

A blueprint for titles, said Ellen. Like The Impenetrable Lightness of  Misguided Souls, or The Concentrated Guilt of Transparent Subways.

I figure I’d call it A Modern Lynch Party, said Lance.

Not bad, said Ellen.

Lance Borger’s book made a big splash. It came out at a time when people were hungry for real life victims of injustice to get their names cleared, and real life bad guys to get their punishment.

The Department Of Law, which had recently and retroactively declared that all its actions were unquestionably legal, had its officials call, or send letters to, all the bookstores in the nation with a demand that they use A Modern Lynch Party to fill their furnaces and dumpsters.

To fight back, Lance approached Max Heisenberg about a movie deal. Max asked Lance the same things he had asked Scott, that is, if Lance’s book had breasts and a car chase, and when Lance said no to both and that those things wouldn’t be appropriate for a drama that addressed serious racial injustice and exposed serious malfeasance within the Department of Law, Max said: well, market forces in the film industry operate within inclusive parameters that afford agency and participation for all constituent stakeholders in an equitable manner that promotes diversity and excuse the hurry but could Lance please find his own way out.

In the parking lot, Lance ran into Scott Powers, who had updated his adaptive screenplay and sealed the deal. He had changed the rebellious autistic son to a sexually curious daughter, and added an outlaw boyfriend the police had to chase one night when they caught him stealing condoms from the drugstore.

Scott told Lance about his movie deal. It’s awesome, he said. I get almost full artistic control over the car chase.

Lance said that was great, and then mentioned his meeting with Max Heisenberg, and the rejection that followed.

Scott wasn’t having it. He snapped his fingers. Lance, he said. Wake up, friend. You can’t be so strict these days. You’ve got to adapt.

No way, said Lance. I can’t put titties in a story of social tragedy, a miscarriage of justice worsened by the failure of our institutions to find, or even care about, the truth.

Work them in sideways, said Scott. Maybe a little romance, you know, between a cop and the girl he saves.

I don’t think so, Scott.

Okay, it’s your funeral. See you later. Scott left the parking lot, entered the building where he had a meeting with the production team to nail down the number of flips and fires they could fit into the chase.

Lance got in his car. As the engine hummed its old Pontiac tune and he pulled out of the parking lot, he wondered:

If you could pack all the frivolous books of the world into a cargo freighter, would the ship’s weight raise the level of the Suez canal enough to flood the Sinai Peninsula and make it arable, and if so, would the descendants of the two black men who were lynched in Mississippi want to move there and start a heritage farm to raise awareness of systemic injustice, and if they did, would the world begin to think less about fast cars chasing breasts and more about those whose society had betrayed them?

It was an interesting speculation, at least for Lance, who enjoyed thorny thoughts. He mulled the idea as he waited for the light at La Brea. When he finally hit the gas and the car lurched forward with a little tire squeal, he knew that even though implausible, it could happen, depending on the angle of your perspective and your willingness to think like a child again.

Lance laughed and shook off his leftover disappointment. It could happen! he yelled out the window in his excited voice to a girl on rollerskates as he headed for the freeway ramp. Maybe I’ll write a book about it.

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Well, you may have noticed that this is semi whimsical / absurdist week at Dynamic Creed. Thanks for reading! Next time will probably be something more serious. There’s a few pieces in the queue. Hit the heart on this piece and drop a comment. Always love to hear from folks! All the best, Victor David

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