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| I'd searched for the heart and soul of midnight all my life. |
Nightly, I stare at my copy of Jubilee
Hitchhiker and consider whether tomorrow will be the day for me to
fulfil my tattooed promise to myself, to do something for me and not for show,
or for the vicarious-stroke-pyrrhic rewards of having been seen to be doing
something creative, instead of wasting my time between work and sleep on
various pointless non-endeavours. Well, as I can’t remember when I bought it
(likely around 2013 as it was published in 2012, five years before Hjortsberg’s
pancreatic cancer put an end to his varied writing career, so 10 years give or
take) the weight of probability rests with probably not, or not any time soon.
Much like my opened but unread copy of Volume 1 of The Autobiography of
Mark Twain (I have a couple still shrink-wrapped against time as a
potential investment) it serves to castigate me for my fear of pretty much
everything.
I’ve been having a bit of a down moment
for a few days, unaffected by abstinence or indulgence, exercise or inactivity,
music or silence, in which I’ve realised that much of what I do is a desperate cry
for attention and that it is often too crass, too puerile, and so typically
40-something-male-trying-to-be-17-again*. Either that or it’s driven by fear
and-stroke-or anger about myself.
“What the absolute fuck has any of this
got to do with Mañana?” you may ask, if you made it this far.
Well, many is the time I’ve silently
pined for a life like that of Tod and Linda, post-summer of love, dropping out
to ride around Mexico, partying with the locals and the ex-pats, and not giving
two shiny fucks about much else. Of course, I’ve never had the courage to try,
and my recent self-shitted-bed situation has made me inclined to think that’s
probably for the best, as in a similar situation I can only imagine myself
being the murdered prostitute. That is, rather than the framed
gringo patsy that Tod finds himself being once his unscrupulous neighbours get
him stoned on heroin and leave him unconscious, with a hunting knife, next to
the bloodied corpse, having apparently kidnapped his young wife and split.
At least Tod has a huge stack of great
dope and some serious gumption. He sets out to find his damsel and wreak
revenge on Doc, Skank and Nic, the three hoodlums responsible for Tod’s
deteriorating prospects. And, remarkably, he finds them! Kudos, Tod, kudos.
It’s an entertaining romp around
Mexico, a hippy-thriller if you will, and if nothing else, it feels like
Hjortsberg is having some fun. And of course, there is a twist at the end –
he’s a script-writer after all.
Please do forgive me my low energy –
the book is better than I perhaps have described. Although probably not so good
that I’m willing to part with $50.00 to buy his debut novel, Alp. Let me get
through the review for Angel’s Inferno first
and we’ll see how I am then.
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