Kevin
Killian
San
Francisco, March 2017
Dear Elijah and Richard,
Reading “Sperm Cult” (Los Angeles: Bad Dimension
Press, 2017) and looking at the pictures you evoke in it, I stagger to
my desk and revamp my novel that began with the little excerpt Andrew
published of it, “The Story of a Stolen Kiss.”
I’ll relate what I know of its larger structure.
The two brothers Jimmy and Vinny are seen through the eyes of
Jimmy’s friend, a boy of strong will called Chris. Vinny is
somewhat older and rather like a god to the two younger teens, who
worship him like Brandon de Wilde worships Warren Beatty in
Frankenheimer’s “All Fall Down” (1962).
When Vinny dies in a tragic accident, falling off a church steeple in
Smithtown, Long Island, the two younger boys establish a cult in his
name, determined to bring him back to life, like the
“Maximin” cult that surrounded poet Stefan George
in Weimar Germany.
This distraction struck him at prime moments, but also at the worst
times imaginable, when he was out on the court, in charge of the ball.
He might be up for a basket, in mid-plunge into the screaming, fertile
air, and then it seemed like he was in freeze mode, stuck in the air,
his right arm forever attached to the ball, and he was thinking, is
this what I want? To be a showy showoff for Smithtown? The girls kept
screaming and the dads kept pounding the bleachers with their big dress
shoes, but he was stuck in mid-air. When Chris was, maybe 12, there was
a big Walt Disney film he’d seen a dozen times, had Fred
MacMurray from My Three Sons playing a small town scientist people
laughed at, even his wife, for he was so forgetful, they called him the
“Absent-Minded Professor.” The laugh was on them
because Absent Minded invented an anti-gravity rubber—the
“goo that flew” and called it
“Flubber”—the opposite of the element
rubber. With his sneakers made of Flubber Chris could sail to great
heights and Smithtown won every game, but was it what he wanted? These
thoughts crawled around his mind like starving prisoners looking for a
way out.
There was a cute chimp in the sequel, “Son of
Flubber,” but by the time that came out Chris was embarrassed
about his Walt Disney enthusiasm. –But he should have watched
both movies better—for how did he get down?
As the cult develops, Jimmy and Chris begin a program or ritual
sacrifices to Satan, aided by a sinister teacher at the local high
school with a little black book of his own. This is George Dorset, who
played a similar role in my earlier novel Spreadeagle, and takes him
into his prime as a Satanic leader who calls himself Mocata, when not
teaching elements of darkroom photography to the students at Smithtown
High School..
While Chris and Jimmy plan their resurrection of Vinny, they find
themselves disaffected from their steady girlfriends and wind up
turning to each other. They are so angry with the 1960s—the
book takes place in 1965. The year of Ariel, Dune, In Cold Blood,
Totempole, Stoner, “Hapworth 16, 1924,” Everything
that Rises Must Converge, The Homecoming, Up the Down Staircase. Chad
& Jeremy, Ain’t That Peculiar, “Be True to
My School” by the Beach Boys, Phil Spector.
He didn’t really care for the feel of George’s dick
in his mouth but he steeled himself not to blink when he saw it coming
in, for this was his place in the world, to become the receptacle for
his wisdom. He had gone to Black Mountain College for god’s
sakes, and he had been part of the Forster working. George
didn’t expect him to throw a rod himself, that
wasn’t required of him, thank God, but he was getting good at
the game of always keeping his mouth open in class so George could
study his mouth and groove on it thinking that, afterward, he could
keep him after school and get a blowjob.
It was all a game—the grandest in the world. There was that
one movie “Kim” with Dean Stockwell, and he was an
Indian boy helping English rule, or an American boy pretending to be a
beggar, and the spy counsel brought him into a room with one thing in
it and made him remember what it was. Let’s say it was a
thermos. They sent him out and another guy in the anteroom quizzed him.
“What did you see?” He said he’d seen a
thermos. Then they gave him a hearty English breakfast of kippers and
mash, tousled his hair, stuck their hands down his dhoti, had a good
feel. Next day they sent him into the room and there was a thermos and
a mousetrap. Kim looks at it and memorizes them, then goes out and
earns his breakfast by reporting on the two things he’d seen.
Third day, a fishing pole is added, or a buggy whip, or a hive of bees,
and he remembers three things. You build a kid up like that, he can
remember 365 things after a year is up and by that time he’s
too big for that little loincloth and they buy him some Boy Scout
shorts. He’s a hero to everyone. It was called the
“Kim” Game and Vinny was learning it too, but an
American high school version and the year was 1965, the last year of
the world according to the complex algorithms George referred to, his
whole dick balls-deep into Vinny’s throat…. but
even if your mouth is full the ears of a smart boy can hear beyond the
bullshit.
I kind of like it when they come into my mouth, he thought. It was the
real “Goo That Flew”!
Guys, you’ll be hearing more from me as the chapters mount
up, but you’ve already told the tale, a hundred times before,
Richard Hawkins, Elijah Burgher. With your Chicago crew
you’ve lived out every page of my book. But you
weren’t there, in Smithtown Long Island, in 1965, so you
don’t quite know where the bones are buried, a secret I share
with you gladly,
Love from Kevin Killian