MEMOIRS OF THE EFFSTER

 

 

First Day of Spring '61

 

So we're sitting around this table near the back door at Gerde's Folk City in the Village, Allen Ginsberg, Jack Kerouac, and the Effster, all recovering from last night's party at LeRoi Jones's apartment, Allen still loaded on psilocybin and Jack already stoked with his own drug of choice (Ripple red), and the two of them engaged in another episode of one of their interminable arguments while I'm scratching out a couple of chapters of the new novel on a yellow legal pad. A warm day for the first of spring, so we've got the door open and the sun's pouring in. Gerde never lets too much sun into Folk City. Easy to see why. Not too many places more depressing than a night spot at lunch hour.

The Effster's not the only one writing there that afternoon. Some baby-faced kid in blue work shirt and denims with curly light brown hair twisted this way and that like it hasn't been combed since New Year's eve is sitting on the edge of the stage hitting a few chords on his guitar then stopping to write some lyrics, then hitting the chords again. Allen called him Bobby when we came in, said the kid's been in town only a couple of months and already he's making waves in the folk scene around the Village.

The Effster's not real crazy about folk music.

"I gotta get out of New York," Allen says, scratching his beard. "It's stifling me."

The Effster knows just what he means. I've been here almost a year now and can sense a gradual waning of my literary production. I mean, here it is almost April already and I'm only half a dozen chapters into my third novel of the year (Stranger in a Strange Land under my Robert A. Heinlein pseudonym). I've already finished Ship of Fools and A Shade of Difference (the sequel to my 1960 blockbuster Advise and Consent under my Allen Drury pen name), but still have Failsafe and Seven Days in May to do before June.

By this time last year I'd already finished The Agony and the Ecstasy, A Canticle for Leibowitz, Three Hearts and Three Lions, Franny and Zooey, and Tropic of Cancer; and the year before that I'd already done Starship Troopers (another Heinlein title) and a real fat one called Hawaii under the Michener pseud.

Got to get cracking.

"Thank Krishna that Peter and I are heading back to Paris the end of the month," Allen sighs.

"What for?" Jack says with one of his demonic grins. "To meet up with Burroughs? You won't get much out of him these days. All he's doing is that cutting and pasting jive. That's not writing."

The Effster knows Willy B. pretty well. In fact, last time I was in Paris I convinced him to change the title of his novel to The Naked Lunch (he wanted to call it Word Horde), and finished it for him when he got sick from too much majoun.

"Gonna meet Corso there too," Allen says. "Paris in the spring. It's inspiring."

"Greg's the one who could use some inspiration," Jack says. "Hasn't had much since The Happy Birthday of Death."

I agree but keep my comments to myself.

The Effster does not put down other writers. That's reserved for critics and reviewers.

But I've been thinking Allen might be losing his touch as well since he began hanging out with Tim Leary and dipping into mushrooms and meth. He read me his latest poem, "Television Was a Baby Crawling Toward That Deathchamber," and I thought it missed the point. But again I kept my opinions to myself.

The Effster is nothing if not sensitive to other writers' feelings.

"Greg's Happy Birthday is truly a fine work," Allen says heatedly. He and Gregory Corso are old friends. "And ‘The Bomb’ is one of the greatest poems ever written about the nuclear age."

"Nowhere near as good as his 'Marriage'," Kerouac counters, "but who would've noticed ‘Bomb’ if the old Effster here hadn't suggested Greg have it typeset in the shape of a mushroom cloud?"

"Greg owes the Effster for that one,” Allen says. “We all owe the Effster one way or another. You, Jack—what would've happened to On the Road if old F. here hadn't convinced Millstein to give it that rave review in the Times? You wouldn't be King of the Beats now."

Jack nods. "No argument there. And where’d you be if the Effster hadn't made a few phone calls and got Ferlinghetti arrested for selling 'Howl' in Frisco?"

"Yeah," Allen says somberly. "No obscenity trial, no notoriety." Then grins through his beard. “And no extra printings. You're the greatest, F."

I merely shrug. The Effster has never seen any sense in belaboring the obvious.

Just then the folk singer wanders by, frowning.

"Hey, Bobby," Allen calls. "Why so glum?"

"Lyric troubles," Bobby says, running his fingers through his bed-head hair. "Got a song full of questions but no answers."

"Then you've come to the right place," Allen says, gesturing dramatically. "Myself and my two friends here, Jack and the Effster, are the world's greatest answer men. Aren't we, F.?"

I say, "Sometimes the answers are so obvious you can't hear them. Sometimes they're just blowing in the wind."

Bobby's eyes widen. He snatches paper and pencil from the breast pocket of his work shirt and begins scribbling. "I'm gonna use that, if you don't mind."

I shrug. The Effster is nothing if not generous with his bon mots.

"This is for a folk song, I presume."

"Yeah," he says. "Need some original material for my gigs. Want a real mix. Some standards, some new, some serious, some funny, and some just strange. Don't know how the original stuff'll go over, though."

"Anything original these days is good," I say. "The times they are a-changing."

Bobby jerks like he's been kicked and starts scribbling some more. "Can I use that too?" he says.

I shrug once again. "Why not? It's merely a statement of fact."

"Thanks a lot, F. Thanks a million."

I wave off his thanks. "Don't think twice, it's all right."

He scribbles again. "And that? Can I use that?"

I nod and refrain from saying another word. The Effster fears this Bobby character will copy down his order for another beer.

"Thanks again, F," he says, heading for the door.

I look at the sky outside and see the gathering thunderheads and figure it should be safe to mention the weather.

"Better hurry," I say. "Looks like a hard rain's gonna fall."

He starts scribbling again as he goes out the back door.

I wish him well.

The Effster is nothing if not generous with his well-wishes for fellow writers, even if they're folk singers. And I have a feeling that with proper guidance from the Effster, this Bobby What's-His-Name might do all right.

Back to work.

 

 

Summer '73

 

So here’s the Effster, sitting around the gat-shaped pool (a concrete .45 automatic with steps at the clip end of the grip) at my Left Coast hideaway playing chess with Stevie Spielberg between knocking out chapters of my new horror novel in progress,

"So F," Stevie says, sliding a pawn toward my knight, "what do we do with all those subplots?"

He's talking about Jaws, the novel the Effster recently finished under his Peter Benchley pseudonym. Stevie just read it in manuscript and wants to direct it.

"Dump them," I tell him. "They're ballast. I just put them in there to fill out the page count. This is a movie, Stevie. You've got to learn that what works in a book doesn't necessarily work on the screen. Dump the subplots and keep that shark on the screen; and while you're at it, work some sort of basso obligato into the score whenever the shark's around. You'll have yourself a winner. The Effster guarantees it."

I glance at the board and take his queen with my king's bishop. "Hey, thanks, F."

"For what? Taking your bishop?"

"No—for the advice."

I smile. The Effster is nothing if not generous with his advice.

Just then Georgie Lucas climbs out of the pool and hangs over the chess board as he dries off.

'I tell you, F," he says, "that computerized camera idea of yours is really working out on the special-effects tests. It's going to take years to do but I think you're going to love the final product."

"I hope so," I tell him as I type another chapter on the new novel. "l mean, you know how 'Star Wars' is the Effster's favorite of all the scripts he's written this year. Didn't want to give it to you if you couldn't make it look right."

"Speaking of writing," Stevie says, obviously trying to distract me as he slides his rook down the right hand side of the board, "you're really taking your time with that new book there."

“Damn right," I say. "It's going to be important, so the Effster's spending a whole day on it, start to finish."

"A whole day!" Georgie says. "You've never spent more than a few hours on a novel!"

"I know that. But it's for Brian."

They both say, "Oh."

I take Stevie's remaining bishop with my queen.

"Yeah, he came to the Effster last week. Wants to do something with teenagers after 'Sisters.' You know DePalma—likes all that red stuff in his movies. I told him the Effster would whip something together for him but I want to do it as a novel first. I mean, you guys know how the Effster has been trying for years to get this horror thing rolling, but it remains dead in the water. I don't know what it is. I thought I'd jump started it with Rosemary's Baby under my Levin moniker, but even with a hit movie it never got going. Did I tell you I'm going to do another Levin novel soon? Calling it The Boys from Brazil. Anyway, I waited a couple of years and tried again with The Exorcist under my Blatty pen name. Another bestseller, but still the horror thing is just sputtering along. I'm hoping this new one will turn the corner."

The Effster is nothing if not persistent.

"If anyone can do it, F," Stevie says, "you can."

"I know. I know. I've just got to set my mind to it."

"Look what you did for international thrillers with your Ludlum books."

Stevie's trying to sneak up on the Effster's queen but I see what he's doing.

"Maybe that's it," I say. "Maybe the Effster should start a new pseudonym and pump a horror novel or two a year into the market under that name. Create a Ludlum of horror. Yeah. That's what I'II do. But what name will I use?”

"Yo, F!" says a new voice.

"Yo, Sly!” I say as Stallone saunters into the backyard. "What's happenin'?"

'Not much. Whatcha workin' on?"

"New novel called Carrie."

He eyes the roll of paper at the rear of the typewriter.

"Slow goin', huh?"

I should explain, for those of you unfamiliar with the Effster Method, that I type on a continuous sheet of paper; it rolls from below the machine and flows onto a take-up roller after the Effster has had his way with it. I call it a Word Processor. (When I get a few minutes I'II work out a way to get this done electronically, but for now this will have to do.) My secretary unrolls it later, cuts it into separate sheets, boxes the manuscript, and sends it off to the publisher.

The Effster never rewrites. He doesn't have to.

Sly says, "I assume this means you finished that screenplay you was doin' for me."

"It certainly does."

I reach under the table and pull a script from the box there. I hand it to him.

"There you go."

He stares at the top sheet. "'Rocky?'"

"It's perfect for you, Sly. Tailor made for you by the Effster. It's gonna make you."

He flashes a lopsided grin. "You're da greatest, F."

"Ain’t it da troot," I say In Brooklynese so he can understand better.

The Effster is nothing if not gracious.

"Now," I say as I turn to the chess board and move my queen's bishop three squares, "if I could only think of a catchy pseudonym for my new series of horror novels. Checkmate, by the way."

Stevie gapes as Georgie and Sly laugh.

Stevie says, "Got me again, F," and knocks over his king.

Which gives me an idea.

"Thanks," l say.

"For what?"

"For giving me the surname of my new pseudonym. And for helping me out, I'm going to make the first name Steven—though I might change the spelling a little—in your honor. "

The Effster is nothing if not demonstrative of his gratitude.

"Now get out of here, you guys. The Effster's got too much to do."

They wave and leave.

So much to do. I mean, I'm planning Slapstick, a new novel under my Kurt Vonnegut pseud, plus Ragtime under my Doctorow name for the snobs, and not one but two Jack Higgins novels, Storm Warning and The Eagle Has Landed. I'm finishing up The Forever War under my Haldeman name, plus Hef's been calling all week, wanting the Effster to do the entire December issue of Playboy. Which is okay, but I'd only agreed to do all the fiction. Now he wants the Effster to do all the editorials and non-fiction too. I'm not terribly interested in writing non-fiction, but I agreed.

The Effster's nothing if not accommodating.

Back to work.