Tuesday, September 29, 2009

Turkey Talk:

An inside look into a modern writing process.

By Matt Byron

Friday 8/12/06

7:50 pm.

Seeing as how busy I’ve been and how little free-time I have to work on my various works-in-progress - as soon as I received my cousin Kate’s out-of-town wedding invitation, I knew I’d have to fabricate an airtight line of bullshit to fed the whole family as to why my absence was unfortunate but inescapable. So I decided to experiment with some new material; that I had signed on as an understudy for the 2nd chair percussionist at Chicago’s Historic Civic Opera House and, regrettably, had gotten called in as an emergency backup for 3 performances of the Studs Terkel classic, “Working”. And am of course, legally obligated, given my contract, to fulfill. Whew…shameful! A lie so out there it had to pass on weirdness alone... So--After several reassurances that “Kate will understand” and not to feel bad about my “doing what has to be done” and sincere well-wishes on my upcoming performances--I started to feel a bit scum-baggy. But regrets be damned-because in reality I had other pressing engagements.

I’ve made plans with my good buddy and defacto assistant editor, Diego. All the writing I’ve done (particularly the stuff that hasn’t been proof-read or edited) needed some serious “once-overs” and organizational bandaging, that is,if I ever expected them to reach a printer. We’re looking to churn through about a thousand handwritten pages and make some cuts. For purposes of social lubrication; I’ve decided to employ a bottle of Wild Turkey-which will hopefully send us into some kind of wild editing frenzy. Alright…now prepare for “D’s” arrival. This means that certain items must be procured at once to meet his specifications-no compromise allowed. A few of which are: authentic imported Nag Champa incense, fresh (never, ever stale) Marlboro Reds, internet access, and at the very least an 8-lb. bag of ice.

Since the violent demise of my front door buzzer/intercom system (when I, in a Xanax-induced rage, ripped the entire unit out of the drywall in my living room with my bare hands and a drumstick), I’ve been forced to rely on cell phones, punctuality, and often pennies being pitched off the living room window-to gain my guests access into the building. Apparently Diego has just arrived-unless the loose change ricocheting off my 3rd floor window is coming from someone else. I suppose I’ll go let the poor bastard in-who doesn’t even know yet just how doomed his night is. But before we get to diving deep into a 4 ½ ft. pile of yet-to-be proofread writing, I figured the right thing to do is to toast the work at hand with a drink. This fine bottle of Wild Turkey should be just the thing, and I believe D has reached my lobby.

Saturday 8/13/06

10:45 am.

Note to self-Wild Turkey is not a social lubricant. I know this now-and so does my friend, Diego, who, departed about an hour ago; a twisted grin on his face; waving goodbye and stumbling frantically away down some North Side back alley-with his one remaining show…never the less “klip-klopping” away with a sopping muddy sock at an incredible rate of spend. No doubt, he will make his bus.

My shirt is covered in a thick layer of cool mud with the light smell of Grey Flannel cologne still noticeable. More mud, now dried-on and clumpy, all over my right leg. My hands are scratched up and reek of the distinctive, gag-reflex worthy combination of vomit, whiskey, and cigarettes. One of the times you'd eat Colgate straight from the tube if only you had some. The lucoplacia on my tongue is ¾ of an inch thick and coming loose in chunks. My back and knees ache from a traumatic bout of drunken sprinting to evade two motorcycle cops, with which we succeeded…and I somehow cut my ear. Most likely snagged on branch 'cause their too damn big for my head, or so I was told in grade school…

We can’t be certain, but we believe Chicago’s Finest most likely wanted a word with us after seeing me stumble into the middle of the intersection at Lawrence & Western; and proceed to throw up all over a pizza delivery guy on his bike. A simple case of wrong place/ wrong time for the both of us. Unless I had a new pizza and a fresh change of clothes for this unfortunate fucker, a mere alcohol breath apology would be like pouring slat in a wound-so I decided to spare him the nonsense and just get the hell out of there before two peoples nights were ruined.

To the police, previously unnoticed a couple of cars back at the red light, it must have appeared to be a malicious and intentional act; from a possibly dangerous and deranged pedestrian. A pizza delivery guy, cautiously just crossing the street when some big stumbling freak runs out to greet him…and just pukes all over him-then just turns and runs away. No wonder they hit the sirens. We make a run for it.

“You call that editing?!” Diego screams as we make a mad dash for California Ave. We flee in accordance to D’s precise, seemingly premeditated escape route, through several small alleyways

“Fuck you, Spaniard!” I reply, panting in mid-flight; while we pass through a backyard. “What the fuck were…panting breaths…you doing over…panting breaths…there at the…panting breaths…Statue of Lincoln??”

“Nobody has a problem with me standing over there-the police are after you” D yells back at me.

“Well…panting breaths…fuck you then…panting breaths…because if you hadn’t insisted…panting breaths…on fucking around…panting breaths…on the other side of the street…panting breaths…for 10 minutes…panting , turning left..we would have been inside…still running…Garcia’s having Margaritas…panting breaths…and I could’ve made it…panting and running…to the bathroom…panting still…motherfucker!”

We hopped a fence-right on to the uncharted, dark muddy, slope of a ravine-and nearly slid clear into the Chicago River. A close call indeed but we had lost the cops. After I spit out a mouthful of cold mud and wiped my eyes-I noticed Diego hunched over at the bank of the river reaching desperately for his shoe with a stick, but that fucker had already set sail. I didn’t notice much of a current at first, but after watching his show float away at about 10-ft per second- I had to speak my mind.

“You better not go after it, D-that fucking current will suck your drunken ass right down the river. Its pitch black around here and you’ll probably end up downstream in the bowels of some underground water processing dungeon, or hell you might just end up in Wisconsin. Either way-you’ll be in bad shape when they fish your bloated body out of wherever you surface”

D, from what little I could see was horrified, “Not Wisconsin!”, he cried.

“Oh yes sir…Wisconsin…better off that you let it go, huh?” I replied.

He sighed deeply and nodded his head in agreement. “Fine, fine. Gimme a cigarette - I’m done working on this book for tonight.” He lit the cigarette, “You know your ear is bleeding…”

“FUCK” I mutter as my fingers probe for the source, “Can we just climb back up to the street now, please?”

We slowly make our ascent-still paranoid of cops on the prowl for some vomiting monster who, “disappeared right before our fucking eyes...him and another one-on foot; maybe a Mexican…”

“All this mud and bullshit for FREE, huh?! We should do this again tomorrow night” A visibly frustrated Diego shot out.

“Just chill out little me-ho; we’ll find you another shoe.” I replied.

“It’s not about the fucking shoe, man. Its just that I almost dies out there tonight twice-then nearly got arrested…for evading the police if nothing else.” At this point he starts to shake me violently-“If for nothing else, man!”

I break free, “It’s not my fault...blame the…you can charge all this to that monstrous demon-ale-of-a-whiskey…that’s your god-damned culprit” I say confidently.

“Fuck you and you…all this shit…I’m gonna be soo hung over…I need a bed.”

“We should probably suffer together,” I say “You wanna come by later to work on the book and have a drink?”

“Oh yeah…sure..” D grumbles “I’ll jump on that grenade twice- -at least not in the same day.”

“SEE!” I screech, “That’s what this is al about-TRUST-and it doesn’t seem like you trust my drive…or my work ethic”.

“It’s hard to trust the work ethic principles of a criminally insane, lazy, drug addict, with ADHD-I’ll call you later…I gotta run and catch the Western X49 Bus..see ya, (klip klop-klip klop-klip klop-klip klop….)” And away he goes.

“I’ll give this another shot…tomorrow.” I thought.


  1. Patiently waiting for Joe to tinker with my bits...oh geez...that sounded a little stranger than it actually is.

  2. Consider your bits tinkered. I am subtle, I am very gentle. I bet you don't feel violated at all.

  3. Nicely portrayed. I can visualize your adventurous evening!
    You're making me miss my bestest friend Greta. Oh the stories!! Greta, if you're out there...I remember the Weedeater at Friendly's. A moment of Zen.

  4. Matt, you crazy m$%#@# f&#$@@! Love your stuff brother. Keep up the demented work!

  5. A coup d'etat Matt. After I finished reading it I had the spins, I felt slightly hungover, but like a true connoisseur of the madness I am always ready for more. Pass me the Turkey.

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  7. Thanks fellas. That one is an oldie but a goodie. I'm afraid every pizza guy on bike I see on the North Side is the "one" and is ready to take his revenge. Can's say I don't have it coming. To make issues worse it took my friend D several months of recooperation to fully remember the night. Just one of those great times when yr. young and don't give a shit...