Indie Monday

Today’s guest: Randy D. Pearson

Randy Pearson

On occasional Mondays, I’ll be featuring other authors on my blog—authors who produce quality work outside the boundaries and strictures of the traditional mass-produced, mass-marketed commercial publishing world and traditional bookstore shelves.

I’m delighted that today’s featured guest is the multitalented novelist, short fiction author, storyteller, and humorist Randy D. Pearson. Randy is the author of two novels, Driving Crazy (2015) and Trac Brothers (2018), and a book of short stories, Tell Me a Story (2016). Randy’s writing has been featured in numerous publications, including the Washington Square Review, Pets Across America: Volume 3, Small Towns: A Map in Words, Seasons of Life, Voices from the Ledges, Fiction 440: Volume 1, and Retrocade Magazine.

Recently I posed some questions to Randy. Here’s what he told me.

DL: Randy, welcome. Could you tell us a little about yourself?

RDP: Why sure! I was born in a horse stall in Wyoming . . . wait, that wasn’t me. I busted out of a giant egg . . . no, that can’t be right. My best guess (after all, I was pretty young back then) is that I entered this world in Lansing, Michigan, probably in a hospital of some sort. With an artist father (commercial artist, professor, and a marvelous painter) and an imaginative mother, creativity surrounded me. Though I couldn’t draw well—who gets a D in art?—I found I had a talent for concocting weird, unique ideas, and eventually became proficient at putting them into words. I now have three books in the world, one of which (Tell Me a Story) is my short story collection, cataloging thirty years of my work. The other two are full-length novels—Driving Crazy is a road trip comedy and Trac Brothers is an action adventure with some humor and a little bit of Michigan history.

A lifelong Michigan resident, I currently live out in the country with my wife of five-and-a-half years, a lovely stepdaughter, and four calico cats.

DL: Tell us about your latest book and works in progress. Where did the ideas for those works come from?

RDP: My latest novel, Trac Brothers, hit the shelves in 2018. It’s the story of two brothers who inherit a fully functioning 19th century handcar (like the railroad industry used back in the day). Jam and Jax find themselves stranded in the town of Manton, Michigan, and realize the only way they are going to get back home to Lansing is to put the unwieldy beast on the train tracks, and have the adventure of a lifetime. This novel has been so well received that the sequel (TB II: Santascoy’s Revenge) is in the works, hopefully for a 2020 release.

The idea for Trac Brothers flooded my brain one day while parked at a railroad crossing. The gates came down, but the train hadn’t shown up yet. My mind wandered back to the old silent films, and I thought how funny it would be if two guys came slowly pumping past in a handcar. The story blossomed in my head, and I sat there mentally writing it, until cars behind me started honking! The train had come and gone, and I sat there dreaming of brothers with a handcar.

DL: Why do you write? What do you hope to accomplish with your writing?

RDP: My brain has a condition that I call “What-If Syndrome.” When some mundane thing happens in my life, I immediately spin off into some sort of wild tangent . . . what if THIS would’ve happened instead? I have also missed the ending to countless movies and TV shows because I’m mentally creating a “much better” story than the happenings on the screen.

I write because if I don’t get these ideas out of my head, they won’t stop bouncing around! Ideas from twenty+ years ago still nag and pick and needle at me! Eventually, I have to say ENOUGH and let them out.

As for what I hope to accomplish, simply enough, I just want to entertain. I don’t care about being rich, and my wife says I’m not allowed to become famous. I just want people to hear or read my stuff, and come away feeling like it was time well spent.

DL: Please talk a little about your writing process. What is your favorite part of the process? Least favorite?

RDP: As you can gather from my previous responses, I usually write stories in my head first, long before I ever enter them into my computer. For short stories and for my first novel, Driving Crazy, I generally write them completely in my brain, let them percolate and circulate for several days (or weeks . . . months . . . years . . .). I find I can’t start writing a story if I don’t have some idea how it ends. I hate writing myself into a corner! However, with Trac Brothers, I finally had to start putting the ideas down in sections due to the scope and complexity of the story. I tried doing an outline, but that wasn’t working for me, so I ended up writing a five-page synopsis of the entire story—essentially a short story version of the novel, hitting the high points. That helped me to keep on track, so to speak.

My favorite part of the process is seeing how the story and the characters develop. I can’t tell you how many times characters have done things I didn’t expect them to do. It’s the coolest sensation!

Least favorite has to be editing. I hate cutting my babies! Though I tend to keep the purged bits and put them on my website—if movies can have deleted scenes, why can’t novels?

DL: Could you reflect a bit on what writing or being a writer has meant for you and your life?

RDP: For me, writing has always been a release—getting these wacky and wonderful ideas from my brain to a computer screen or page. When I was young, I didn’t write for others, only for me. In my teens, I would hand-write my stories, or type them on my Atari 400 computer and print them on a dot-matrix printer. Sometimes, if I felt brave enough, I would show them to family and friends. They would generally say something like, “This is cool,” or “how fun,” and that would be the end of it.

In my late teens and early 20s, I started posting my short stories on my BBS (Bulletin Board System, the precursor to the Internet). I ran a couple of BBSs with my various Atari computers—one called Magrathea and other The Fletcher Memorial Home. Again, people would read the stories and give me vague platitudes and verbal pats upon the back.

It was only when I joined Writing at the Ledges, the phenomenal writing group out of Grand Ledge, Michigan, did I finally start receiving constructive criticism and honing my craft. This led me to become a published author in 2008 when they released the first of their group anthologies, Small Towns: A Map in Words. I learned how to format, how to edit critically, and how to market /sell. With this understanding of how to publish under my belt, I was able to bring Driving Crazy to the world in 2010. Today, people have read my stories and articles in a couple dozen periodicals, anthologies, websites, and magazines.

In terms of what it means for me to be a published author, it has given me a great number of gifts. I’ve done hundreds of events since my first one at the 2008 Grand Ledge Island Art Fair. Being in front of people, reading stories or hawking my books, is an exhilarating experience that would’ve terrified the younger me. I enjoy entertaining, and am delighted that my stories have brought elation to so many people. I’ve met dozens of authors and readers, many of whom are now dear friends . . . and in one case, even more. During an author event at Everybody Reads in Lansing, the owner introduced me to a wonderful woman named Wendy. A couple years later, she became my wife.

DL: What are links to your books, website, and blog so readers can learn more about you and your work?

RDP: My website is https://www.randydpearson.com. Here readers will find links to my three novels, including excerpts and those fun deleted scenes, as well as short stories, articles, pictures, and a list of events.

My books are also available on Amazon. My author page is https://www.amazon.com/Randy-D-Pearson/e/B01DPZ04WA.

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Three Favors

I’ve been reading a lot of online postings lately about people dealing with their grief over loved ones—brothers, sons, parents, spouses—who have died. I suppose I’m sensitive to the subject at this time because the anniversary of the death of one of my loved ones, my grandson Jamie (the model for Toby in my mystery series), came around a week and a half ago.

Jamie was twenty-five when he died, and we all loved him dearly; his brother Alex used to say Jamie was the glue that held the family together. He was in a year-long vegetative state that preceded his death, and that somewhat prepared us for losing him. But we still weren’t ready for the 2:30 a.m. phone call from his mom telling us he was gone.

Who is ever prepared for that call?

Even now, eight years on, his loss is still hard to manage. I find myself talking to him almost every day, narrating my life, telling him how much I miss him. When I find feathers on my walks, I like to think Jamie left them as reminders that he is still around in some form.

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Wishful thinking, I know; dead is dead.

So when I’ve been reading about how people are trying to come to terms with their grief over loved ones who have died, I empathize with their losses deeply.

But there’s another kind of grief—the grief that comes in the wake of losing someone you should have been close to, but weren’t. Sometimes what you grieve for then is not the loss of the person from your life, but the loss of the possibility that any closeness could ever happen.

While that could describe my entire family of origin, I think of it particularly in terms of my brother Cal.

His name was Charles, but everybody called him Cal because of his initials: Charles Allan Levin. He died in 1984; he was only 41 years old. He was older than I by six years, and for a variety of reasons we weren’t close as brothers. Or even as strangers, for that matter.

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My brother, 1960

Not only were we completely different personalities. Much of the problem in our adult years came from his long-term drug use, which wreaked a seemingly endless havoc on the family, as these things will do.

It’s conventional to say people died after a “long battle” with drug abuse, but that’s not quite true in his case. He didn’t so much fight against the drugs as embrace them like a lover. Yet even as I write it, I know that’s not exactly accurate either.

He died in a YMCA in Honolulu after failing to complete a lavish drug-treatment program in Hawaii that he conned my father into paying for. My father told everyone (including me) that Cal died from emphysema, but on the death certificate I saw the actual cause of death was amphetamine poisoning.

The only surprise was that his usual drugs of choice were barbiturates and pain-killers.

My last contact with him was several years before he died, when he called to ask me for money because our father (his usual touch) was out of town. I refused, and he hung up on me.

As you might expect, my anger at him and what he did to the family was profound and corrosive. It lasted for a long time, both before and after his death. He sucked up all the oxygen in the family for years; he and my parents formed a demented triad of mutually-assured destruction that left me on the outside looking in on my own family.

As I grew older, however, and gained some distance on it all, and began to deal with my own issues created by our family which was, if not broken, then really really bent, my attitude toward my brother began to change.

I started to get some insight into why he turned to drugs, and why he had such a hard time giving them up, or even admitting he couldn’t live without them. I started to see that, far from being the reason for the upset in the family, his drug use was a reaction to existing family problems, which of course only worsened because of his addiction.

I came to realize that the pain affecting me from my family pre-dated his antics, and also affected him. I understood we each tried to deal with that pain in different—albeit equally ineffective—ways.

When I started writing poetry, I found myself writing some about my brother. One in particular helped me come to a sort of accomodation, if not forgiveness, with him, in part through a recognition finally of both what he had lost and of the similarities between us. I think this poem captures those insights.

A version of this poem appeared in the April 2004 issue of Saucyvox.

Three Favors

1

It is 1966 and I’m struggling

to figure out the chords for “Desolation Row”

needle-dropping on my turntable

when my brother calls from next door where

he and the neighbor are watching a movie

and the 16mm projector jammed.

“Can you try to get it going?”

A simple problem to diagnose:

the worn sprockets on the well-watched film

have twisted over one of the feeders.

 

The curl in the plastic needs to be freed

and the film rethreaded. I start

the old machine and in the square of light

thrown on the screen in the neighbor’s bedroom

appear grainy black and white images

of a truly epic blow job

in extreme close-up, a woman’s lips

and sinuous tongue slaver up and down

a monster phallus glistening with spit

for longer than I would have thought possible.

 

My first stag flick makes me gape in wonder

at the animal rawness of it

as though it is a documentary

about an encounter between two apes

and the camera morbidly scientific

instead of pornographic—exactly

the opposite of erotic, with

a sound track filled with soggy sucking

and a man’s hammy moaning

tinny on the project’s tiny speaker.

 

When another actor enters the scene

and begins to take his own clothes off

I judge I have seen enough and leave them

to their whoops and fun. “The world’s longest

blow job,” the neighbor chortles. I return

to the silence of my own room

where I take up my guitar again

and rest an ear on the curve of its shoulder

to let the hard vibrating wood

ring the bones of my head like a bell.

 

2

The second time, 1971,

we stay in the Southfield apartment

where our parents moved when they fled Detroit.

My brother needs a ride to a job

to meet a friend, this contractor,

he tells me, and he can’t drive himself

since he wrapped his Mustang around a tree.

I am in another room, this time reading

(I’m in my hard-boiled mystery phase)

when his spare and stricken figure heaves

 

into the doorway. “Can you give me a ride?”

he asks, his scarred right arm hanging limp

at his side, casualty of a scalding bathtub

he had fallen into once while stoned.

This is the time when he makes phone calls

day and night cadging prescriptions for pills

from shady physicians. He tells them

he is a cancer patient from out of town

grappling with terrible pain. He makes

his voice quake in pretend agony.

 

He directs me to a cracked and potholed street

on the east side of Detroit where we roll

to a stop outside a house with black paint

hiding living room windows and high grass

gone to seed in the lawn. He steps from the car

uncertainly and hobbles stiff-legged

up the walk. Rings the doorbell and waits.

It occurs to me this is not about a job.

No light escapes from the front door

that cracks to allow him entrance.

 

A minute later he is out, walking fast.

“We’re done,” he says, and drops into the car.

“Take off.” I smell his sour sweat and his voice shakes,

this time for real. In his lap he cups

something small, like an animal he shelters

and gives me a sidelong glance that says more

than I want to know about fear and shame.

For the rest of the day he wanders around

the apartment with a spoon in his pocket

and I stay in my room and read about Sam Spade.

 

3

‘Seventy-seven, in another room,

grading essays for my classes at Wayne State

when my brother phones, which he never does.

Our father is away for the weekend. “Can I borrow

fifty bucks?” he asks. “I swear I’ll pay you back.”

I don’t even remember why he said

he wanted the cash, but I thought I knew.

He must have been desperate indeed

to try me. But I am through granting favors.

I blame him for every unhappiness

 

visited on our family, for all the problems of my own.

“Don’t lay that on me,” he spits, and hangs up.

It is the last time I speak with my brother.

Years later he is dead, found in a room

at the Y in downtown Honolulu.

Today, older than he would live to be

I imagine bars of tropical sunlight

peeking through his window blinds, striping

his decomposing body, his mouth twisted

in lines deep as cracks in asphalt, hair wild

 

as stalks of unmown grass as he sprawls,

melting after seven undiscovered days,

across his narrow bed, forlorn as a poor woodsman

in a dismal tale who has squandered his three wishes

and died alone, without family, friends, job,

or money, having lost, along with his

precious time in the sun, his last lucky chance

that some indifferent lips might try,

tirelessly, to coax him, childless and self-

abandoned, back into despondent life.