I was working, listening to a story without really realizing I was listening to one. And actually, it was a song (on Pandora Radio), but one of the ones that’s a story. I was multi-tasking. As of late, that includes sitting in front of my PC (I use it mostly for research, but also for background music and the occasional round of spider solitaire–it helps to reset my brain when necessary); with my laptop to my right (novel revision); and my old manual Royal to my left (half-finished short story). I swivel from one project to the other on my adjustable rolling pneumatic biker stool (wasn’t sure if I’d like it at first, but it’s pretty cool).
Anyhow, I wasn’t paying much attention to the story/song that was playing until I heard someone say, “Do what the man with the gum says.” I glanced at the screen, intrigued. Seriously? The Man with the Gum? Who is he? And is it a big wad of gum, sort of like a wad of chew tucked in his cheek? Or perhaps a stick of sugarless, dentist-approved breath-freshening gum? More importantly, what did the man say to do? To whom? And why–what’s the back story here?
Long story short, I looked up the lyrics and found I’d heard wrong–the line was the old stand-by, “Do what the man with the gun says.” I deflated like a leaky balloon. That was simply no fun. No fun at all.
At first I was bummed the song didn’t address the questions for me; now I’m glad it didn’t. Because the idea of the “Man with the Gum” is caught in my imagination. Even now, days later and when I least expect it, his image flashes up in my brain pan: Humphrey Bogart with a fedora pulled low over his brow, a bulge in his left cheek. (I don’t know why the left cheek, but it’s definitely his left.) When I see him, he’s outside, at night, on a darkened street (sometimes in an alleyway). His face is heavily shadowed: a grimy street lamp in the background provides the only illumination. A mood of cynical gloom coupled with grim expectancy hangs in the air. Sometimes he’s holding a gun in plain view; at others, his hand rests on a piece in his coat pocket. At times I catch a glimpse of shadowy figures–bad guys?–coming up behind him. It’s unclear whether he’s the hero or the villain–although I lean toward hero because, hey, it’s Humphrey Bogart. (If he were Robert Mitchum I could more readily picture him as the baddie–albeit a really sexy one–and I’d probably still root for him.)
But it boils down to, every time I see him, I’ve got to know: Who is this guy? And just what did the Man with the Gum say to do?
Sooner or later, I will know what he said, because the Man with the Gum will likely serve as fodder for lots of warm-up writing exercises; and eventually, I’ll nail it.
Questions, and searching for answers, make life fun; they keep things interesting. I realize that minds greater than mine are at work on issues of much greater significance. My needs, at least for now, are simpler. Right now, I’ll settle for getting to know the Man with the Gum.

John Steinbeck was born in 1902 and died in 1968. The latter fact saddens me because I am in love with him. And obviously, nothing within my power will alter any of it. I can’t wish and have it true that he was born instead in 1968, and still alive and writing (although, for the record, I am open to time travel should anyone have a spare working machine). So I did what I could: I read and collected his works. And, because he was an honest writer, fine and true, I came to know the man.
I have to admit it wasn’t love at first reading with John and myself. I met him while in high school when required to read The Red Pony and Of Mice and Men. I wasn’t brave enough then to suffer with the red pony, or to accept the unjust, black-and-white approach to justice that George and Lenny faced. Especially when I had The Outsiders, and Dorothy Parker was such wicked fun; Alice Cooper’s lyrics kept me laughing and I wallowed in Aerosmith’s awesomeness; I read and memorized the history of the Marx Brothers (and Groucho’s letters); for a while I was busy going to a university library to do research for a Sir Francis Drake essay contest. (I came across my entry in a box of papers a while back, and it truly was pitiful; it didn’t occur to me at the time that poking fun at English history wasn’t likely to win any points with the British judges of the contest. Besides, the point of the essay was to theorize where the Golden Hind’s money had gotten off to and I had not a clue, just as I’ve never known where my own money got off to. I only remember I had a lot of fun writing the essay.) With all these things and more to distract myself with, I was dazzled by the glittering cocktail party of youth. After meeting John I proceeded to work the room.
But then, one day in a thrift shop small and dark, I came across a paperback copy of Tortilla Flat. Best twenty-nine cents I ever spent. I laughed so hard reading that book tears ran down my face. I found John utterly fascinating.
So I guess Tortilla Flat was like our first kiss. Oh, and what a kiss! Our relationship progressed. The Wayward Bus made a strong impression on me; The Moon Is Down did also (Steinbeck portrayed a German as having the same feelings as anyone else; the book was banned during WWII). But East of Eden was the clincher. After Timshel I was ruined for other men.
My best friend and I drove to northern California and visited the Steinbeck Museum in Monterey and the Steinbeck house in Salinas. She tried to get me to pose by John’s old headboard, saying she wanted “a picture of Renee in Steinbeck’s bed.” (I’d say Vicky says what everyone else is thinking, but in reality she says what everyone else thinks before ever they think it; Steinbeck would have loved her. If I actually do any time travel I’ll have to keep those two apart.) Anyhow, I botched it, ran from the camera (a phobia for which there is no specific Latin term), and so I have a shot of the headboard by its lonesome in my photo album. Curse the cowardice!–I mean, come on, we’re talking Steinbeck’s bed!
And then the fateful day came when it dawned on me Steinbeck was dead. It was more than the actual fact: I already knew that, 1968 and all. No, this was more of a paradigm shift. Instantly a mantle of depression swept down and settled upon me. Steinbeck was gone. I already had all his works. There would be no new observations from him; no new stories.
Once again I found myself in a thrift shop when a particular book caught my eye: The Lone Ranger and Tonto Fistfight in Heaven. (I have a working hypothesis that, my spending habits in Barnes and Noble notwithstanding, all great discoveries are made in thrift shops.) I thought, “What the–?” and plucked it up, curious, yet prepared to toss it back on the shelf. I examined the cover: a picture of the Lone Ranger and Tonto duking it out in a cloudy sky, and below them, a house afire, a basketball backboard, a salmon flying through the air, and a pickup truck with its headlights on. Still not sure what I held, I flipped the book over and read the blurb on the back. Intrigued, I opened the cover and checked out the copyright date (1993), and began reading. Within seconds, perhaps a moment or two, I knew the book would not leave my hands until I had read it cover to cover. And I had a crazy thought.
“Steinbeck lives! I’ve found the living Steinbeck!” I cried inwardly, and then added, “–Whoever he is.”
That book was the best seventy-nine cents I ever spent. Once I’d finished it, I vowed to obtain everything to be had by that author. The first thing I did was to look him (Sherman Alexie) up on the internet.
I found out Alexie was born in 1966 on the Spokane Indian Reservation in the state of Washington. He was born with hydrocephalus and odds were he wouldn’t survive; if he did, doctors expected him to be severely mentally handicapped. He suffered something awful as a child, but long story short, he not only survived, he’s brilliant. And as I read his works, my depression vanished. I was as crazy happy as our basset-mix is when he gets to come in the house and snags a piece of taffy.
But my favorite part was when I read that at a very early age (I want to say 5 or 6, but I can’t locate the exact reference) Sherman read The Grapes of Wrath by John Steinbeck. Also, Alexie has said that Steinbeck was one of his earliest heroes and has had a big influence on him. Now how weird is that? I mean, considering my first–first!–thought upon reading Alexie’s words was “I’ve found the living Steinbeck!”
Alexie writes poetry, short stories and novels. Two movies have been made from his works (Smoke Signals and The Business of Fancydancing, which he produced himself). He also has a book called The Business of Fancydancing, and the story where Thomas Builds-the-Fire has the idea of a gun is every bit as hilarious as Steinbeck’s Tortilla Flat. But my absolute favorite, at least so far, is his novel Flight. That book blew my mind. I remember reading the last few pages while on break at work, and–I am not kidding here–I could have sworn the conveyor belt I was sitting on lifted straight off the ground and hovered, me sitting there with the tears of my soul all over my face and not giving a care who saw me. I’ve not looked at the world in quite the same way since reading that book.
That’s really all there is to it: the story of how I met my true love, and then lost him, and then got him back (sort of). It’s nothing like the romances on the bookstore shelves, but it’s mine and I’ll keep it.
But I wonder…maybe–just maybe–if you read Sherman Alexie, you’ll fall in love, too. After all, when it comes to books, it’s okay to share.