STORY TELLER
[Ed. Note: This is an excerpt from a letter Michael wrote to me in only God knows what year of the eighties. Found it so chewed up it must have been the victim of some long ago beloved and misbehaving pet. Taped it back together and here is a piece of it. More from Mike's book next time; for the present I guessed folks are missing a taste of his more familiar voice.]
"....Took a half Quaalude yesterday, went shopping, wound up barely making it back home after grabbing newspaper and this calendar for you that's coming, hit a car in a safeway parking lot, got delirious, went to sleep with clothes on, got up, took clothes off, went back to sleep all night! Woke up to an ant plague in the kitchen and bedroom. Once again, as with every place we go, worst weather (rain this time) in history! That's about six years in a row, about six places.
"I shouldn't of gone over and looked into that waterhole, I didn't need any vision from the hole. I suppose that was part of the trail I was meant to follow, though. Last night, I saw clearly that I have never, since 1974 or so, truly tried to tell any tales at all. Maybe I could tell this one of mine, which so many find fascinating, if I sat down to do it.
"Hey I took those pictures of you down from their awning. I put up two others - one of you in profile smiling with a wisp of smoke over your shoulder, like Rick's bird, and another of you before the big round mirror in Atlanta where I shared your home with you awhile. They look more like you by far. I'm just a nervous guy on a three foot leash, you must understand, and help me slice the leash away. I don't know who put me on it, so I can't seem to get it off without eating my leg away. BORING MIKE! LOW GRADE MAN. Low grade man. Irregular man. I always wind up digressing on my damaged state, like a space ship hit by a comet that keeps flying, but keeps squealing out into the void that it can't fly on. Awww, move over Jimi, and let Mike take over! Yeah! You know what I'm tawking bout! Git on widdit baby! THAT'S WHAT AHM TAWKIN BOUT.
"Did you get my Hard Fart is Art card? What did everybody do and say? I need to know real bad."
-- Mike Zempter
called on his tombstone: "The Storyteller"
Mike -
I am glad you felt - accurately - that others were fascinated by your story. My stories, not so much. The other day I had to tell a woman I've been hit by lightning twice so she would get away from me with her umbrella in a lightning storm on a high stone bridge. She just kept standing there, gaping, saying WHUH? Until I darned near had to become rude. Later, I went to where she worked and apologized and explained to her about the time a friend of mine ignored my entreaty to get away from me with her umbrella on that same bridge and how she almost immediately got hit by lightning walking right beside me. It traveled down the stem of her umbrella into her thumb and burned that good and melted her post earrings so they dropped right out of her ears onto the sidewalk. She stood there looking at me with much the same WHUH look on her face. Mostly, my true stories are not well received and only embarrass me for sharing.
I knew a story-telling man who has been much in my thoughts for some reason this past week. He was known for telling outrageous lies. It was commonplace for him to explain to a girl, for instance, that he failed to show up for their date after she bought an expensive dress because the CIA called him in on short notice to testify before Congress on "this marines at the embassy thing." When somebody saw him at Safeway that night.
Then one day a coworker's teenage son came by work and walked in with his history textbook open. Dad? He says. Is this our Dean? And shows his dad his history textbook with a picture of our liar on page 211. Turns out he was a member of the original Black Sheep Squadron. Further research revealed he had authored several books with the former Governor, had written the screenplays for two John Wayne movies and one Disney classic, and was friends with Ward Bond. But we never heard a peep about any of it from him. At the time it occurred to me that having a very extraordinary life could well make a liar of one. Imagine being late for work because a four pound loaf of french bread fell out of the empty sky and smashed your windshield. Routinely. Wouldn't you eventually begin calling in with a flat tire for the sake of not getting those weird, skeptical looks? (Or at least feeling like you deserved it for a change?) Few must ever have such a problem, but imagine the loneliness. I can, because I think mostly people don't want to hear a better story than the one they just told so much as they just want to be heard. But there was something so apart about you always, Mike, that I think people didn't feel "one upped" when you got rolling. They just sat back and enjoyed the ride.
A memory comes back to me of one boozy night at a wonderfully sleazy dive bar when "our Dean" got going on a story about how he and Dick Powell (Paladin) and Ward and somebody all went marlin fishing and docked in Mexico. Drinking in town, the four got separated. Dick Powell got so drunk he missed the gangplank getting back on the boat and fell in and almost drowned before the other three could pull him out of the icy water. Which sobered them all up so totally they slapped him around and went back into the village for another round. And as he spoke, a friend of mine and I rolled our eyes at each other. I am certain he saw. God Bless you, Dean. I only defined myself.
God Bless you, Mike.