Wednesday, August 04, 2004
The Literary Dick (as in Private Detective)
welcomes questions about literary mysteries and scandals, which should be sent to: woodyswoody@hotmail.com. The Literary Dick (as in Private Detective) will be published intermittently (at least for a while), by Jonathanames.com. Just so you know, Jonathan Ames, our mentor here at this website, has a new book out called, Wake Up, Sir! Apparently, its getting some excellent notices!
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2 and 1/2 New Emails (Including a New Mystery) & a small story from my personal life
Here are some emails I got regarding J. D. Salinger in New Jersey. (The first email begins by referencing some troubles I had with the website www.Salinger.org.)
“Dear Literary Dick (as in Private Detective),
you might find this to be a better site. and upon
further inquiry im sure you can find that the 22
unpublished works are hosted online.
Checkout this site it f**king rocks.
http://www.geocities.com/deadcaulfields/DCHome.html
We were attempting to do a dissection of the 22 in the
forum of chuck palahniuks book club forum,
deadcaulfield himself stopped by for the discussion.
He has a great site and if I could only get a pirated
Peter Pans or the ocean full of bowling balls my life
would be complete. Have you ever read DeLillo's Mao
II?
-----------------G. S.”
“Dear Literary Dick (as in Private Detective),
Many years ago in Montreal I met the person who published The Complete Uncollected Works of J. D. Salinger flogging his books at Concordia University out of his car. I told him that I had just read in the New York Times that the FBI were after him, acting on Salinger's complaint. He seemed surprised, it set him back a bit.... I often wondered what happened to him afterwards...I don't even remember his name....Do you know anything?
Funny thing...I had met Oona O'Neil (under trying circumstances) in 1968 but at the time hardly knew who she was or about the link to Salinger.
Mathew N.”
This is the 1/2 email, Mathew N’s quick follow-up to the above email:
“Later - re email of a few minutes back- ....I just checked my notes....It wasn't Oona O'Neil ....I think it may have been her mother...the notes are too incomplete for me to figure out at this late date, but the woman appeared to be in her late sixties or seventies, and was not in too good condition. Oona would have been in her forties at the time. The other part about the Salinger pirate is right.”
Finally, the small story from my personal life:
The other day I went for a run around the horse track in Central Park. I had finished jogging, and was heading to a water fountain, when I heard someone calling my name, “Mike”. I looked to the source of the noise, which turned out to an old friend of mine. He was sitting on one of the benches that faces east, towards the Jackie Onassis Reservoir; behind him was the wall that separates the park from Fifth Avenue.
I sat down on the bench next to my friend. He was dressed in biker gear and as we were catching up, we heard a yell from the benches that are on the horse track, and this yell was followed by a tiny, black and white, rat-like dog – a bull terrier I think – scurrying crazily out from the horse track towards Fifth Avenue, and running after the dog was a barefooted boy, maybe 11 or 12, and behind the boy, slowed by her fancy shoes, was a woman with blond hair and a pink skirt.
To stop the dog before he ran into the street (and got hit by a car), a group of concerned citizens tried to catch him; they didn’t succeed in getting a hold of the dog – he was very wily – but they did manage to direct him away from the park’s exit . . . and towards me and my friend.
I only had a few seconds to make my decision. My friend remained rooted to his bench, but I stood up, then bent down, and tried to apprehend the pooch, but he eluded me, heading back in the direction he’d just come from, and behind the benches. By this point, the little boy was at hand and he and an older woman (in biker gear) were now working on the problem. The boy looked like a nice kid - he had short hair, and a gray t-shirt - so I decided to crack a joke. I said, “Are you sure this is your dog? He doesn’t seem to like you. You’re not stealing him, are you?” (I’ve worked with kids, so I know how to talk to them.) The boy turned briefly from his struggle to me and smiled, but the woman with the blond hair and pink skirt (presumably the boy’s mother, who was now hovering over the scene) did not smile. She glared at me and said, “You know, that’s not very helpful,” and then I, not yelling, but by no means under my breath, said, “Hey, but I did help.”
Eventually, the boy got a firm grip on the dog and, the excitement over, he and his mother (he holding the dog) walked back to where they’d come from. I was shaking my head at all that had happened, and sitting back down, and I’m not sure if they were entirely out of hearing range when I heard the woman in the biking clothes say, “Bitch.” My friend and I turned to this woman, who had curly gray hair and was small and who looked nice, if somewhat no-nonsense. “Arrogant bitch,” she went on. “She didn’t even thank us. At the end, she gave a small nod and said, ‘Thanks’ but it wasn’t a real ‘Thanks.’ I shouldn’t have bothered to help. – It’s that Upper East Side arrogance. That bitch. She hardly did anything. Did you notice? The arrogant bitch was probably too busy thinking about her real estate properties on Fifth Avenue.”
As she was talking, my friend and I were smiling, and sort-of chuckling, though the woman, who spoke in a matter-of-fact tone, was not going for laughs. My friend explained that he didn’t help, because if he’d tried to stand up on his special biking shoes, he would have skidded all over the place. I said that I could have let the dog run past me, like Spider-Man, but I was worried it might come back to haunt me. This joke got a slightly warmer response than my line about the dog not belonging to the boy. The woman with curly gray hair smiled politely, then elaborated on her feelings towards the woman in the pink skirt, and then after we’d talked some more, my friend and I left the park.
welcomes questions about literary mysteries and scandals, which should be sent to: woodyswoody@hotmail.com. The Literary Dick (as in Private Detective) will be published intermittently (at least for a while), by Jonathanames.com. Just so you know, Jonathan Ames, our mentor here at this website, has a new book out called, Wake Up, Sir! Apparently, its getting some excellent notices!
___________________________________________________________________________________________
2 and 1/2 New Emails (Including a New Mystery) & a small story from my personal life
Here are some emails I got regarding J. D. Salinger in New Jersey. (The first email begins by referencing some troubles I had with the website www.Salinger.org.)
“Dear Literary Dick (as in Private Detective),
you might find this to be a better site. and upon
further inquiry im sure you can find that the 22
unpublished works are hosted online.
Checkout this site it f**king rocks.
http://www.geocities.com/deadcaulfields/DCHome.html
We were attempting to do a dissection of the 22 in the
forum of chuck palahniuks book club forum,
deadcaulfield himself stopped by for the discussion.
He has a great site and if I could only get a pirated
Peter Pans or the ocean full of bowling balls my life
would be complete. Have you ever read DeLillo's Mao
II?
-----------------G. S.”
“Dear Literary Dick (as in Private Detective),
Many years ago in Montreal I met the person who published The Complete Uncollected Works of J. D. Salinger flogging his books at Concordia University out of his car. I told him that I had just read in the New York Times that the FBI were after him, acting on Salinger's complaint. He seemed surprised, it set him back a bit.... I often wondered what happened to him afterwards...I don't even remember his name....Do you know anything?
Funny thing...I had met Oona O'Neil (under trying circumstances) in 1968 but at the time hardly knew who she was or about the link to Salinger.
Mathew N.”
This is the 1/2 email, Mathew N’s quick follow-up to the above email:
“Later - re email of a few minutes back- ....I just checked my notes....It wasn't Oona O'Neil ....I think it may have been her mother...the notes are too incomplete for me to figure out at this late date, but the woman appeared to be in her late sixties or seventies, and was not in too good condition. Oona would have been in her forties at the time. The other part about the Salinger pirate is right.”
Finally, the small story from my personal life:
The other day I went for a run around the horse track in Central Park. I had finished jogging, and was heading to a water fountain, when I heard someone calling my name, “Mike”. I looked to the source of the noise, which turned out to an old friend of mine. He was sitting on one of the benches that faces east, towards the Jackie Onassis Reservoir; behind him was the wall that separates the park from Fifth Avenue.
I sat down on the bench next to my friend. He was dressed in biker gear and as we were catching up, we heard a yell from the benches that are on the horse track, and this yell was followed by a tiny, black and white, rat-like dog – a bull terrier I think – scurrying crazily out from the horse track towards Fifth Avenue, and running after the dog was a barefooted boy, maybe 11 or 12, and behind the boy, slowed by her fancy shoes, was a woman with blond hair and a pink skirt.
To stop the dog before he ran into the street (and got hit by a car), a group of concerned citizens tried to catch him; they didn’t succeed in getting a hold of the dog – he was very wily – but they did manage to direct him away from the park’s exit . . . and towards me and my friend.
I only had a few seconds to make my decision. My friend remained rooted to his bench, but I stood up, then bent down, and tried to apprehend the pooch, but he eluded me, heading back in the direction he’d just come from, and behind the benches. By this point, the little boy was at hand and he and an older woman (in biker gear) were now working on the problem. The boy looked like a nice kid - he had short hair, and a gray t-shirt - so I decided to crack a joke. I said, “Are you sure this is your dog? He doesn’t seem to like you. You’re not stealing him, are you?” (I’ve worked with kids, so I know how to talk to them.) The boy turned briefly from his struggle to me and smiled, but the woman with the blond hair and pink skirt (presumably the boy’s mother, who was now hovering over the scene) did not smile. She glared at me and said, “You know, that’s not very helpful,” and then I, not yelling, but by no means under my breath, said, “Hey, but I did help.”
Eventually, the boy got a firm grip on the dog and, the excitement over, he and his mother (he holding the dog) walked back to where they’d come from. I was shaking my head at all that had happened, and sitting back down, and I’m not sure if they were entirely out of hearing range when I heard the woman in the biking clothes say, “Bitch.” My friend and I turned to this woman, who had curly gray hair and was small and who looked nice, if somewhat no-nonsense. “Arrogant bitch,” she went on. “She didn’t even thank us. At the end, she gave a small nod and said, ‘Thanks’ but it wasn’t a real ‘Thanks.’ I shouldn’t have bothered to help. – It’s that Upper East Side arrogance. That bitch. She hardly did anything. Did you notice? The arrogant bitch was probably too busy thinking about her real estate properties on Fifth Avenue.”
As she was talking, my friend and I were smiling, and sort-of chuckling, though the woman, who spoke in a matter-of-fact tone, was not going for laughs. My friend explained that he didn’t help, because if he’d tried to stand up on his special biking shoes, he would have skidded all over the place. I said that I could have let the dog run past me, like Spider-Man, but I was worried it might come back to haunt me. This joke got a slightly warmer response than my line about the dog not belonging to the boy. The woman with curly gray hair smiled politely, then elaborated on her feelings towards the woman in the pink skirt, and then after we’d talked some more, my friend and I left the park.
