The Beatnick ClubA Story by Mick November A short story about a man who was the center of a counter culture social scene in the 1950's. This is the second rewrite. They sat at small circular tables looking like a bunch of art students acting out their parts in a college play. Each one was trying to establish himself or herself as a member of an underground social. They were mimicking the superficial exterior of a social class that they did not understand but wanted to be a part of, anyway. Each one was rebelling against an unknown social structure and, in turn, they were collectively and individually embracing counterculture. They smoked imported cigarettes not because they liked them, but because others did. The smoke from their French cigarettes mixed in the air of the coffee houses where they congregated with the smell of freshly brewed espresso and of dank and unwashed bodies. It was on odd mixture of smells that they learned to identify with as part of their own culture. In these coffeehouses, their place of congregation, a lone poet sometimes rambled on about nonsense to the tune of a lonely saxophone or sometimes the beat of a lonely bongo drum. The poet would speak of death, and of living, and of art as an expression of life. They would nod their heads in silent approval of the poet’s ramblings without understanding, truly understanding and feeling what was being said. Their superficial understanding was a mockery but they did not know this, or feel it. They were taking their cues from their leader, their ringleader.
The ringleader, if you could call him that, was a boy of 22 named Bill. He came from a well to do family. His father was rigid and closed off. His opinion was the only one that mattered and he impressed this on his son. He was a war veteran and acted as if he were still in the Army, always telling his son what to do and how to think. His father was the patriarch of the family and believed that it was his God given duty to provide his family with direction in life. His mother was a conformist whose sole mission in life was to maintain the family to her husband’s standards. She used alcohol to cope with the smothering influence of her husband. She was a closet alcoholic. Bill was their only son. His parents did not approve of the education system in the 1940’s and so they instilled in him their beliefs and ideology. They manipulated him and tried to control his every action and thought.
Bill preferred to be called Will claiming it was a more artistic expression of his ‘inner’ self. Will always carried some odd beat generation book with him wherever he went, even to the bathroom. Will never went anywhere without his book. Often in mid conversation he would open up this book to some arbitrary page and begin reading aloud with all of the theatrics of a Shakespearean actor. He did this to gain the attention of the crowd around him and it worked. No one ever tried to relate what Will was reading to the conversation at hand. No one ever even noticed that when Will opened the book, he was always opening the book to the first page. Will’s opinion was the opinion of a God to the others in their motley social group. No one ever took notice to the fact that he was never actually seen reading any of these books. Will was, for all intents and purposes a philosophical God, and it was Will who introduced them to the culture of the beat generation. It was Will who told them what was in and what was out. He shaped them and influenced them to the point of telling what kinds of cloths fit their ‘scene’.
They shopped at used clothing stores recommended by will, looking for the ideal ‘look’ for their attire. Not their own look, but that of a sheep trying to conform to some invisible flock. Will was the shepherd and they were his flock. Sporting black turtlenecks, berets and black sunglasses, misquoting Jack Kerouak, Nolan Miller and Allen Ginsberg they were an expression of youth trying to ‘fit in’. Will decided for them what was in and what was out. Being hip was in and if you were not hip, you were square. Being a square was, in the eyes of Will, a fate worse than death. They were a motley group, looking like a bunch of vagabond ragamuffins and nothing more. They had a favorite place of congregation called ‘The mud hut’. It was ‘their’ place and it was the place. Full of other self-imposed exiles from mainstream America of the 1950’s, they met hear to listen to Will and his cronies talk of life, liberty, and the escape of the mentality of all those who were not part of their intimate circle: the squares.
One Friday night Will arrived at his usual time at the Mud Hut with book in hand, and proceeded to slowly walk to his own personal table. His gait was slow and measured, more looking like a swagger in slow motion, and was intentionally so to catch the eye of others, but no one ever noticed this. A table was always set aside just for him on Fridays. This was done not because of his social popularity or power over the others, but for a more fundamental reason: Will’s table always generated sales for the Mud Hut and the owner knew this. A crowd gathered around the table and the usual competition to be a guest at Will’s table began. Each one of them presented Will with his or her reason to be seated at his personal table, and not one of the outer satellite tables. “I wrote a new verse to a poem, man, and if I can sit her I’ll turn you on to it” one young boy said as a stream of cigarette smoke drifted out through his nostrils. Another showed off a clay sculpture that looked like a Giraffe with one eye and only two legs calling it an expression of the modern man set to poetry, and yet another just played a slow melodic beat on a bongo drum while sticking his head forward and trying to make eye contact with Will.
Tonight a young man named Brian was invited to sit at Will’s table. Brian’s social status jumped as he became the centerpiece of Will’s manipulative world. Brian had something that Will said would “change the whole scheme of things” and everyone crowded around to hear what it was. “Brian has been born, everybody” Will announced to the approval of all. “Brian is no longer dead, he has arrived and now lives” he continued. With that Will and Brian got up and went to the bathroom together. A common practice of Will’s was to go to the bathroom at the beginning of the evening, always coming out with a bit more of a measured strut. Will and Brian were in such a hurry to go to the bathroom that Will left his book on the coffee table, but no one noticed. Brian carried a book, too, and he took his with him, but no one noticed that either. They were all mesmerized by the fact that Brian had been born. Being born was an event that only Will could proclaim, and they all hoped for that yet did not really understand what it implied.
A man with a short black beard came out in front of the small circular tables, and to the beat of a bongo drum began slowly chanting a poem he wrote. He finished the first verse and was about to start the second when a woman’s voice screamed from the back of the Mud Hut breaking the spell that everyone was under. Brian walked out of the mens room clutching a book to his chest and held onto it for dear life. He quickly made his way out the door of the coffee house and disappeared onto the street. Will was nowhere to be seen. A crowed quickly gathered around the door to the mens bathroom and a murmur began. As those seated at Wills table stood up to see what the commotion was about, somebody knocked Will’s book off of the table and onto the floor. It landed with an odd sound, as if it had been hollowed out, but nobody noticed. They were all waiting to see what the commotion was about and wondered where Will was.
Hours later, after everyone had left and the coroner had done his job, the owner of the Mud Hut started cleaning up for the night. It had been a long and tiring night and he was ready to go home and ‘hit the sack’. As he swept the floor he found Will’s book still laying where it had landed hours earlier. He recognized the book as belonging to Will. He picked up the book and opened the cover. He stared in disbelief at what he saw before him: a bloodied syringe, some brown powder and a crumpled picture of his parents. Will had not arrived as he had thought. Will had departed.
© 2013 Mick NovemberAuthor's Note
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Added on July 1, 2013Last Updated on July 2, 2013 Tags: beatnick Author
Mick NovemberOcean Beach, San Diego, CAAboutWriting has always been an interest of mine. Writing is a form of self expression, art and most importantly therapy. It has become a passion for me in the last few years. I am an urban hermit and so .. more..Writing
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