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How Soon Is Never?: A Novel - Softcover

Spitz, Marc

 
9780609810408: How Soon Is Never?: A Novel
Softcover
ISBN 10: 0609810405 ISBN 13: 9780609810408
Verlag: Broadway Books, 2003

Inhaltsangabe

A thirtysomething rock journalist, Joe Green struggles to cope with a rapidly changing world, a heroin addiction, and the new demands of adolescent music fans as he becomes convinced that getting the Smiths, a long-broken-up rock band, back together can provide the ultimate answer to changing his life. Original. 20,000 first printing.

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Aus dem Klappentext

There is a light and it never goes out . . . or is there?

Welcome to the big Reagan 80s, where ketchup is a vegetable and the Cold War looms large and chilly. If like Joe Green you were coming of age during this boom era, your main concerns include one or more of the following: a rainbow assortment of Polo shirts worn with the collar flipped up, K-Swiss tennis shoes, a new cable channel called MTV, and Top 40 radio. Stuck in the suburban haze of Long Island, New York, Joe Green knows there has got to be more to life.

However, salvation is on the way, in the form of a quiffed-up quartet from Manchester, England, who take over the airways of a local radio station. Hearing the Smiths for the first time jerks Joe awake: Morrissey s wry and witty lyrics speak to him, and Johnny Marr s driven guitar chords get under his skin. He destroys his Phil Collins cassettes, pomades his hair into New Wave submission, studies up on his Oscar Wilde, and falls in love. He even shows up for dinner on time. That is, until his favorite band breaks up and then breaks his heart.

Fast-forward some fifteen years. Joe Green is making a living as a rock journalist, still recovering from a wicked post-college smack addiction and slumming with youngsters who ironically appreciate the seminal 80s music that once gave his life meaning. It s too late to go home, or is it?

What if Joe Green can get the Smiths back together? What if reuniting the long-broken-up band can reverse the passage of time and bring back the magic of youth? What if it helps him win the heart of the woman he loves?

How Soon Is Never? is an acerbic, ingenious look at Reagan-era adolescence, the power of hearing a record that changes your life, and the dangers of nostalgia.

Be prepared to see a bit of yourself in Joe Green.

Auszug. © Genehmigter Nachdruck. Alle Rechte vorbehalten.

hello, I am the ghost of troubled joe

My name is Joseph Green. I don't like the name Joseph. Prefer Joe, but that comes with some heavy pop cultural baggage. If you don't know already, I'll get it over with . . .

From 1969 to 1981, 6'4", 280-pound Mean Joe Greene (number 75) was the fearsome defensive tackle for the Pittsburgh Steelers.

My legacy: not much, really.

His legacy:

Team MVP in 1970.

NFL Defensive Player of the Year, 1974.

Four Super Bowl championships.

One award-winning 1980 Coca-Cola commercial ("Hey, kid . . . catch!").

Inducted into the Hall of Fame in Canton, Ohio, 1987.

I think he also played Sasquatch on The Six Million Dollar Man.

And then, although few pro-ball enthusiasts point this one out: there's his unchallenged, three-decade run as an unholy source of my profound social awkwardness and tandem substance abuses. Yeah, to this day, even though I'm skinny, 30, Caucasian, and pretty even-tempered when sober, the utterance of my name to new acquaintances, bank tellers, hotel front desk clerks, and, worst of all, eligible women between the ages of 27 and 40 provokes the question:

"Mean Joe Greene?"

Each one acts as if I've never heard it before. It's made me pretty fucking mean.

This is one of the reasons why I tend to hang out with 22-year-olds lately. My new social circle consists of kids just out of college. They're members of Generation Y to my arrested X. That eight-to-ten-year age difference can catch you on a mean snag if you're not careful. And it's caught me. Since Miki, I haven't even tried to pursue a steady girlfriend my own age. One of those wife-and-mother-of-your-baby candidates. I don't have any pets. I can't even keep a plant alive. A cactus died on me.

I go out every night with party-crazed kids who don't have the same level of internal decay that I do. They can drink and snort and pop prescription drugs till five in the morning every night, then hop out of bed and do it again the next day. In an effort to keep up with them, I sometimes subject myself to daylong morning-afters that might only be cured by Keith Richards-in-Switzerland-style total blood transfusions. Twelve hours of smoking and moaning, prayer and guzzling gallon jugs of Ocean Spray cranberry juice cocktail also works and is much more affordable. Most of the time, I'm grateful that the new breed has accepted me as one of their own. When I'm feeling mean and spiteful and jealous of their youth, I fuck with them. After a dozen years of partying, my tolerance has become a brutal thing, and since I'm trying to be more honest than usual here, I'll tell you that it does fill me with pride whenever I drink a 21-year-old down to the puke-slimy tiles and walk away.

Occasionally one of these young girls with their fine skin and goofy wide eyes will go home with me. They're good-looking and hungry for experience. I tell myself that they like me, they're not just "experiencing" me. I do my 10,000th line of blow with them while they're all excited about snorting up their first. After last call, I travel home to the Williamsburg, Brooklyn, loft they share with four other recent college grads. I ride with them on the L train. I'm so wired and paranoid that I'm convinced everyone is staring at me like I'm some child molester who looks a lot like the guy on the cover of Jethro Tull's Aqualung album. I wonder if the roommates are laughing at me while I try to fuck their friend in the next bed but can't get a hard-on. Sometimes the girl rides home with me and I hear 15-year-old R.E.M. and U2 songs on classic rock radio in the back of taxicabs while I reach under their T-shirts to squeeze their impossibly smooth tits. Those tits by the way are heaving things that feel like they've never, ever been touched by anybody else before but that doesn't make me feel very special somehow. It makes me feel dirty. So when we get to my place, I drink away the rest of my chances of getting anything resembling an erection. Instead, I put on an LP. They ask, "Is this Dinosaur Junior?" I tell them that it's actually Sonic Youth and smile even as I notice that they're wearing a Sonic Youth T-shirt. This makes me drink even more. These girls get out of my bed the next day and bound into the street to take over the fucking city with their ridiculous energy. I get out of bed two and a half hours later and sit in my shower trying to steam the toxins out of my pores because I read somewhere that Frank Sinatra and the Rat Pack used to do that after a night of ring-a-ding-dingin' with the Jack Daniel's. In addition to the cranberry juice, which I also heard somewhere is a boon to organ rejuvenation, I buy Fleet enemas along with my Camel Lights at the Rite-Aid pharmacy on Hudson Street because I pray it will purge the remaining poisons out of my ass. I'll do anything to feel clean and reverse what I did to myself the night before. What I did to them too. And while everyone else my age is at work or with their wives or their kids, I find myself in the tiny bathroom of my overpriced apartment in Manhattan's West Village. The bowl is full of cigarette butts. The floor is full of old copies of New Musical Express and porn. The television is playing continuous reruns of The Golden Girls but I've had the sound muted for about two years. Unless there's a plane crash or some other manner of "special report" heralding the end of the world, the old gals' wisecracks remain muted through the night and day. The TV light keeps the roaches away. Sometimes, I cry. Most of the time, I ignore my editor's e-mails and phone calls, demanding the 300 words that I have to file on bands like Interpol. Their lead singer is also ten years younger than me. He has a record deal and lank blond hair and unlined eyes, and he says things like: "I don't really feel comfortable in most social situations. With this music, I'd really like to destroy society as we know it." I interviewed him over sushi and martinis at the Tribeca Grand Hotel. I was too intimidated by his youth to grab his skinny little neck and snap his head off. Instead, I nodded and said, "Yes. I understand." Then he asked me if I had any pot because he was heading off to England in a few hours and didn't have time to make a call.


Some days, I go back to the house I grew up in and root through the cardboard box of my stuff that my mother keeps in the attic . . . like the mementos of the dead. The stored black-and-white marble journals that meant so much to me in high school are now no different from the plaster handprint of my little monkey-sized paw from a kindergarten art class in 1973 or the broken ventriloquist's dummy clown that I used to play with. I look for meaning but everything I find just makes me feel older and sadder. Still, I snatch some artifacts and bring them back to the city, hoping they'll ward off some demons. But soon, there are more bad-sex stains on the only pair of sheets I've ever owned, and the next little girl has gone again, and instead of porn or expensive English music magazines, I read my high school yearbook wistfully on the toilet. As painful as high school was, I've reached the place in life where I'd happily saw off my nuts to go back for just an hour so that I could be that person with untouched flesh and easily filtered pores and a virgin liver, wondering what my first fuck or my first line of coke or the first time I hear a song that changes my life is going be like. I'm not sure if I have to shit or puke but I opt for puking cause there's a plastic enema bottle up my ass.


Yes, I am vain. Yes, I am immature. Yes, I enjoy complaining. But before you assign me general admission seating in that especially torturous place in hell reserved for 30-year-old guys who still hang around their old college town, let me...

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Verlag
Broadway Books
Erscheinungsdatum
2003
Sprache
Englisch
ISBN 10 
0609810405
ISBN 13 
9780609810408
Einband
Taschenbuch
Auflage
1
Anzahl der Seiten
350
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Verantwortliche Person
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