A Morass of Marginal Grammar, Creative Spelling and Sausage Parties: An Unauthorized Autobiography

By Tom Canbe

A whimsical jaunt into a world that appears too preposterous to actually be fiction.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Feb 2, 2020
• ISBN: 9781543997934

Book preview

Acknowledgements

This collection of memoirs, short stories, excerpts and historical documents indebts itself to Sherwood Anderson, Truman Capote, George Carlin, Raymond Carver, Tripp Fitzgeorge, Ernest Hemmingway, O. Henry, Kimo Hollinger, John Steinbeck, Kurt Vonnegut and Charles Webb.

Cover art by Sam Springston.

As Rosencrantz once remarked regarding my writing—I’ll tell ya one thing Guildenstern, it sure as hell ain’t Shakespeare.

eBook ISBN: 978-1-54399-793-4

CONTENTS

Imbroglio of Opulence

13 Historical Documents

Moctezuma’s Revenge

7 Excerpts from the collection of short stories

Post Graduate Guide to Secondary Adolescence

2 Selected passages from the novelette

An

Imbroglio

Of

Opulence

Capitalist Tools

Majic With a ‘G’

Luncheon With the Stars

Biblical Proportions

The Summer Before Martha’s Big Sleep

All People Deserve the Freedom To Marry

Hall Of Fame

Kissin’ Cousins

The Manila Surf Club

Damsels in Distress

Headed North With Lawrence

The Ghost Who Loves BJ’s

Hector’s, On the Down Low

CAPITALIST TOOLS

We’re up at Malcolm Forbes’ house for a swim. It’s Aengus, Cyril, Chris, the two Danes, Jaqui and me. We’re living the good life indeed. Seven wayward travelers having a light breakfast at a billionaire’s house in the tropics. Some of us are nervous and chatty; others simply lounge about enjoying coffee or some other beverage. It’s a pretty nice deal compared to the lodgings afforded us aboard the wreck of a copra boat we floated in on.

*******

Elizabeth Taylor passed today. The news is flooded with it as we eat our cereal and load up lunch boxes. A substantial life deserves heavy coverage. It is welcome relief, given the other topical options. The Libyans and cracked reactors make a tired world feel like going back to bed. This is something of a celebration, comparatively speaking. Who doesn’t love to hear tales recounted of a life lived flamboyantly? I’m a big fan of people crazy enough to be married 8 times, especially when the 5th and 6th go-rounds involved the same man.

*******

Chris is commenting on life and lifestyles while we take our first steps on the Island of Lauthala. He’s a west coast Canuck, well into his 60’s, who has done a fair bit of traveling along the way.

No, it just isn’t for me, he grumbles in reference to the island, the owner thereof, extravagant wealth in general.

Someone else makes another noteworthless comment. We amble on. I am glad, as always, to be off the boat. To be off of any boat for that matter. Having spent more time on boats than the rest of my cohorts combined, I am glad to see what this, or any island in Fiji, has to offer. Thrilled that this place has not been commercialized. Pleased as punch that some rich geezer had the cash to buy the place, did so, allowed the people to remain living there, and simply left things alone for the most part.

Well…I just don’t really see the point… Chris continues to ramble. He’s actually not a bad guy, but his sour grapes do not make for great wine. Whine? Yes. He has clearly led a life not fully lived. Maybe he wishes he’d made more money along the way. Who knows? All that is certain is that his deluxe quarters aboard the budget ship swiftly pale in comparison to this place.

For me it’s entirely different. Jaqui and I have been sleeping down in the hold where the crew’s quarters are, or more often, up on deck with the crew and the local passengers making way between whichever islands they live upon and Suva. Truth be told, I’ve been spending a fair bit of my night times amidst the crew, strumming a shitty, un-tunable, borrowed guitar, and drinking cava. The skanky engine smell down below cannot compare with the fresh air and camaraderie on deck. We take turns half-remembering Bob Marley songs and passing around the coconut shell bowl full of radish water, sometimes all night. During the days I nap atop the roof of the boat now and again in an attempt to balance things out, taking in the tropical sun while the Euro Travel Contingent surrounding me exchanges paperback novels and confesses to their journals their innermost secrets regarding methods for conserving their various currencies while visiting exotic destinations.

Lauthala defines beauty. Greenery with flowering plants everywhere surrounded by perfect blue sea. A native population that smiles and laughs about anything and nothing. People and surroundings in harmony, mostly due to a lack of satellite television and gangsta sheik. This would come later and most certainly has if it’s anything like everywhere else in the tropics where cell phones and the Internet have materialized.

We are a motley bunch indeed as we saunter down the coastal dirt road. I’m so engaged taking in the sights that I don’t notice the colorfully dressed older gentleman flailing our direction until he is nearly upon us.

What do we have here, some fellow travelers? he queries optimistically. He wears a loose fitting collared shirt and psychedelic flared pants similar to a pair I owned in high school when we would go to see punk shows on the Sunset Strip and I would purposefully aim not to blend in with the leather jacket and combat boot clones. Are you all from the boat?

Yes. We are, Cyril is quick to respond, uncertain if we are being halted from further exploration or welcomed by this mad, coke-bottle-glasses cross between a UC Berkeley professor of philosophy and Chicago White Sox announcer, Harry Carry.

Is it okay that we’re taking a look around? I nearly apologize.

Most certainly! Make yourselves at home. He extends his hand. I’m Malcolm.

We shake hands with him and I notice he has one hell of an enthusiastic grip. Immediately we all feel as if we have arrived at the place we were meant to be going: This spot, right here, right now. Malcolm is equally smitten with both Jaqui and Cyril right off. One’s a beautiful, tan, blue-eyed blond bombshell, and the other has that London School of Economics ponsie boy accent. I stay out of the way as everyone gushes about the island, travel in general, home countries, job experiences, what brought us all here. Etc., etc., etc….

Real estate, actually. I did, however, seriously consider becoming a barrister, Cyril states, no more or less pompously than he would if indeed he was commenting on U.S. politics or the quality of a fellow traveler’s luggage or adventure sandal.

Yes, clearly you would have been good at that. But you can’t go wrong with real estate, says the man who, most certainly, would know more about that than just about anyone on Planet Earth.

We all step back to drink in the splendor of the surroundings. I wait for Chris to pipe up with something about how he still doesn’t get it, but he stands off to the side, flummoxed and melting into the ground.

Yes, Forbes continues, I’m always interested to meet up with people who enjoy travel. I just find all the stories so interesting. So many ways to go about seeing the world.

He proceeds to share with us the details of some of his massive hot air ballooning and motorcycle trips across Asia and the like. There is no boastful element attached to any of his stories, simply a sense of, this is what we set out to do, and here’s how it turned out. In this way, his travel experience approximates ours substantively. Though the cost involved in Malcolm’s excursions may be exorbitant, the goals are always challenging. The man would not know what to do with him self if sentenced to a week at a 5-star luxury resort. He would invariably wind up seeking out underpaid hotel staff employees in order to locate someone with an interesting story to tell him. Upon this realization, I happily note that I am exactly like Malcolm Forbes. If only my accountant will one day verify such an epiphany on a balance sheet I might even take up ballooning.

The conversation runs on for over half an hour until Mal (this is how Cyril decides to refer to him later in the evening) determines that he needs to get back up to the house. He assures us once again that we are most welcome to join the locals at the community center for Movie Night, and he then proceeds to invite us up to his home in the morning for breakfast and a swim. If this guy isn’t class, I don’t know what to call it. Here we are, a bunch of scungy mucks, peeling ourselves off a crappy auld barge (whereupon, according to Fijian laws, pale-faces are no longer even allowed to travel these days, by the way) and essentially just wandering around somebody’s property. And what’s his response? Come on in and stay awhile!

Perhaps the moral of that little part of the story is: Always bring an attractive blonde and a Pommie poof along when visiting exotic ports.

We eat dinner aboard the scow. Everyone glows about the experience we’ve had, for an assortment of reasons. The Danes, who I can never quite understand as they gibber away in what seems like, maybe, is supposed to be English, are definitely sensing a photo-op coming up in the morning. They resemble the Japanese when it comes to taking a picture of someone taking pictures. The distinct neck tan-lines from the cameras’ safety leashes heighten this effect.

Joviality has captured Chris by now. He partakes of his unlabeled clear jug of alcohol with a hearty pour and a generous demeanor. Aengus, the Irish doctor, feeds Cyril’s ego by discussing some of the job prospects back on the East Coast that Mal had mentioned to him. The Irish/Australian vs. the English war that they often toy with has rolled right out the door. They have become jocular, rather than trivial. Goal-focused, rather than hung up on culture. Fun loving, as opposed to supercilious. Let’s face it, tonight they’re old-fashioned Americans.

Jaqui and I sit back and smile as we listen to the nonsense that prattles its way around the table. It helps to make the roasted mystery meat, gravy and taro root mush-coction go down easier. Won’t somebody ever feed me a goddamn fish one of these nights!? And if so, can you please make it the type that doesn’t come out of a can? We’re in the middle of the South Pacific for chrissakes!

After dinner we make ourselves presentable and toddle over to the community center for some First World entertainment. Instead, we endure a cinematic masterpiece known as Gremlins, which is nothing if not loud. Still, when not confronted by TV and movie screens for weeks on end, one is able to invest the time. The locals all show up and make sure to enjoy the film enthusiastically. No one I speak with has been out of Fiji yet, so I imagine this video amounts to a travel program for them as much as anything. I will forever pine to be able to view the world from that particular limited perspective. Since there’s not much left to do after the picture show, Aengus, Jaqui and I take another little walk to the end of the streetlights and then head back to the dock to board the barge. Without the sooty engines grinding away it’s actually feasible to get some sleep down below for a change.

In the morning the jeeps arrive as scheduled at 9:00, though we’ve been hanging around between the dock and the community center for nearly an hour, just in case we are summoned early. We hop into a couple of open-air CJ-7’s and commence the wondrous ride up to Mal’s Place. Mr. Forbes himself is nowhere to be seen. Perhaps there are only so many trips he can withstand along the same lone road in one day. Someone wonders aloud what the place will look like. Is it going to be some gaudy palace on top of the mountain overlooking his kingdom? If so, I haven’t seen an inkling of it yet from any angle, and this is a very good sign. We wind back and forth in slow arcs enjoying the smooth gravel climb and the panoramic views that go with it.

The jeeps turn left off of the main road after 5 minutes or so and proceed up a driveway toward a structure in the distance. From down below no one can tell what we are seeing. Guard Gate? Pool House? Servants Quarters? Whatever it is, it’s whitewashed and humble and fits the tropical surroundings almost as well as a palapa shack in Latin America or on Gilligan’s Island. This is a nice vibe, I think to myself. So similar to the buildings I have fallen in love with in a book called Blueprint For Paradise, that may wind up the closest thing to a holy manuscript I will ever find. The vehicles ease to a halt and I thrill at the notion that this rich bastard has sorted things out better than I had imagined. He’s not here to impress anyone. In fact, he went so far as to unimpress Cyril, the chubby, saucy boy tart, who won’t be able to perk up for a matter of minutes until he sees the crystalline blue waters of the swimming pool and can finally strip down to his skimpy swim togs while sipping snazzy imported coffee.

But first the formalities. Malcolm appears on the entrance deck of his cottage in crisp white trousers and a red patterned summer button down shirt. He appears something of yachtsman, without looking like a dick. We are a tentative group as we unload ourselves, so Mal steps up, as if to remind us that we are old friends whose arrival he has been anticipating, seemingly for days or weeks.

So what did you think of that ride? he nearly shouts, approaching with handshakes and hugs. Beautiful, isn’t it? It wasn’t hard to decide where to locate the house once we drove up that route.

We all agree, taking in the panoramic view with ocean visible for more than 270-degrees, and mountainous, green terrain abundant everywhere one turns. Chris ends up the first to chime in.

This is amazing. Really beautiful.

Not one to miss a step, Malcolm warmly posits with a subtle wink, Almost as beautiful as British Columbia.

Was there any road up this way before you got here? I wonder.

Oh no, just a couple of animal trails. It was no small affair to get things even to this rustic state. But enough of that, come in, come in. Let’s have some coffee and breakfast!

Entering the place feels like walking into a museum designed by a real person, rather than an academician. Travel memorabilia, paintings, artifacts, photos of famous people. Still, a sentiment of comfort that only comes with furniture that gets sat upon maintains itself.

Jaqui and I gaze at the Fijian tools and war implements and photos of celebrities at charity balls. The Danes snap photos of each other snapping photos. I am relatively certain that one of their shots captures a standard light switch as a focal point. Chris is reading something on a wall. A young man enters from poolside and is introduced as Malcolm’s architect. He looks to be in his mid-20’s and is Midwestern-friendly as he strides forward in a swimsuit that would fit in perfectly at a public pool in a Michigan suburb during a time before the surf wear fashion industry took the world by storm. He has come here to design Malcolm’s mausoleum. The two of them have spent extensive hours picking out the site just perfect to one day lay Mal’s lifeless body or ashes to rest. This is a big decision, but they seem to be taking it lightly enough.

Liz is just lovely in this shot, I gush, as would an elderly lady who has just spied a schnoodle puppy in a Christmas sweater, you two sure do get around.

She is a wonderful woman, Mal responds. She has been instrumental in our charity fundraising efforts. I love her deeply.

We move from the Harley shots to gaze at a photo of some gala event for a few moments more, then adjourn to the pool deck to find Cyril and Aengus, the Speedo pallor twins, contemplating the crisp blue liquid. I touch the water with my foot. Plenty cool, but acceptable. I dive in without thinking too much about it. It seems like something one of Liz Taylor’s leading men would have done, in film or real life, I’m not sure. Most everyone else positions themselves to dangle feet in the bright blue water. The architect puts on a water ski life vest and joins me. He’s such a nice guy that I have almost no trouble maintaining a calm state as he bobs about nervously in his puffy flotation costume. Okay, I do bust up a little bit at one point when he inexplicably tips over and wrestles to right himself while struggling against the bright yellow life jacket. Not too many years prior to this I was on a path to become an architect. Perhaps all that time spent in, on and around the water threw me off track.

Malcolm Forbes glows amidst the scene he has created. Sharing the good things he owns and knows about with nice people is his passion. A sense of relaxation overcomes his tendency toward exuberance, just barely. He’s nothing like so many other posers we meet along the way. The ones with enough money to do just about anything, yet no idea of what the hell to do. Many of those folks wind up purchasing gargantuan sea motorhomes and employing a large staff to deliver the vessels to hipply over-priced marinas around the globe so that they might swoop in like some debonair rod from a Carly Simon tune. Perhaps Mal has dabbled in this at an earlier time, but I neglect to think about it. More likely he has never stopped to realize what a bad name he gives to the exorbitantly wealthy. They would likely vote him out of the club if they could just get him to acknowledge that there is one.

After the swim we’re chomping on sliced fruit and scrambled eggs. This must be what brings up his Faberge Egg Collection. I don’t know what the hell we’re talking about, but eventually I come to grips with the notion that apparently there are some very expensive decorative eggs out there that people want to see. Malcolm likes to share what he has indeed, so these eggs are making their way around the world to be displayed. Plenty queer, but whatever floats your boat.

At some point we become aware that Mr. Forbes and his architect will be flying out later in the day to head back to the U.S. It’s quite an involved process between the jeep ride over to the airstrip, his 12-Seater Jet to Nandi, and his 727 ‘Capitalist Tool’ back to New York. All tolled, they won’t be back to civilization until tomorrow. I chuckle as I review the number of years it has taken for me to get this far away from where he’s headed. By the time they touch down in Gotham we may be putt-putting away only halfway to our next destination here in the same island group. I wouldn’t trade places with him in this deal for anything. Then again, he can pop back down to the South Pacific at a moment’s notice, so maybe…

We all stand together leafing through Mal’s book. He’s given each of us a copy of his autobiography and personally dedicated and signed them. I’m getting the full picture now. It is not really any different from what I had originally perceived, but it is more complete. Here we have a man who realized early on that he could achieve anything he set out to do. And though he came from privileged circumstances, he never viewed this as a defining feature. To him, the world is everyone’s oyster, and the wealthy have no corner on the market. Advantages? Certainly. But there is no exclusivity. He