Originally published by:
MacAdam/Cage Publishing
155 Sansome Street, Suite 550
San Francisco, CA 94104
www.macadamcage.com
2005 by Craig Clevenger
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED .
Excerpts from the work of Geoffrey Sonnabend are courtesy of the Museum of Jurassic Technology.
Where the Wild Roses Grow, copyright Nick Cave. Used with permission from Mute Song, Ltd.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Clevenger, Craig, 1964
Dermaphoria / by Craig Clevenger.
28 chapters
ISBN 1-931561-75-3 (alk. paper)
1. Los Angeles (Calif.)Fiction. 2. Loss (Psychology)Fiction.
3. CriminalsFiction. 4. MemoryFiction. I. Title.
PS3603.L49D47 2005
Paperback edition: September 2006
ISBN: 1-59692-102-1
Book and jacket design by Dorothy Carico Smith.
Publishers Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Some Kind Words for Craig Clevengers
T H E C O N T O R T I O N I S T S H A N D B O O K
Clevenger has produced an utterly persuasive and compelling novel, combining the zest and enthusiasm of a new voice with the craft and the guile of a veteran The Contortionists Handbook is so accomplished, and in so many different ways, that it instantly elevates Craig Clevenger into the top echelon of writers.
Irvine Welsh, The Guardian (UK)
I swear to God this is the best book I have read in easily five years. Easily. Maybe ten years.
Chuck Palahniuk, author of Fight Club and Choke
Immaculately detailed and emotionally explosive: this is rolling, riveting stuff, of a piece with stylish, edgy movies like Memento and Requiem for a Dream.
Kirkus Reviews (starred review)
Clevenger delivers images that sear themselves into your mind. The result is a novel that is hard, pure, remarkably accomplished.
Seattle Times
What sticks about this remarkable debut are its pitch-perfect shock ending and John Vincent himselfhis complex, conflicted mind, original voice and unnervingly self-defeating existence.
Time Out New York
Handbook has a tough-as-nails style that recalls classic noir novels by James M. Cain or Cornell Woolrichno simple trick.
Dallas Morning News
Expert writing. Tight, mean, lean and focused. It commands your attention with terse writing. It rewards by providing new insights into how people drift above and below societys consciousness.
Texas Monthly
Clevengers talent is revealed in his ability to create a true testament to the resilience of the human spirit.
USA Today
acknowledgments
David Poindexter saw to it that I continued to write, above all else. Jason Wood redlined every draft with his merciless eye for detail, as only a good editor and great friend can, and J.P. Moriarty came through when I needed him the most.
Im forever indebted to Dennis Widmyer and Chuck Palahniuk for breathing new life into my work, which would not have been possible without the sole effort of every authors dream fan, Wendy Dale. I can only hope Im half the writer, and half the friend, that Will Christopher Baer has been, my brother in all ways but blood.
My friends and family have been a source of constant support on every level, especially Shannon Wright, Charlie Wright, Jim Matison, Scott Krinsky, Damir Zekhster, Todd Bogdan, Paul Fritz, Becky Fritz, Susan Marshall and David Marshall, and my brother, Mick.
I owe my presence behind the Velvet curtains to Kareem Badr, Roland Gaberz, Mirka Hodurova and Kirk Clawes. The good souls at MacAdam/Cage continue to bring my work to light, thanks to the efforts of John Gray, Maureen Klier, Julie Burton, Melissa Little, Avril Sande, Melanie Mitchell, Scott Allen, Jeff Pappis, Jeff Edwards, and especially Dorothy Smith. Thanks to the bookstore crew, Rayshaun Grimes, Kate Schwab, Wayne Jessup, Susan Zussman and Jeff Big Sexy Seibel.
Many thanks for many reasons are due to Ray Bussolari, Jim Lambert, Jeff Aghassi, Heather Fremling Bowser, Caty Farley, Jamie Bishop, Layla Lyne-Winkler, Brad Gustavson, Jacob Berman, Jimmy Kallos, Dawn OBrien, Brett Redfield, Brian Wagner, Chris Casilli, Scott Fegette, Logan Rapp, Todd Buranen, Staci Buranen, Sarolyn Boyd and the whole Red Room crew.
T O J ILL N ANI
We, amnesiacs all, condemned to live in an eternally fleeting present, have created the most elaborate of human constructions, memory, to buffer ourselves against the intolerable knowledge of the irreversible passage of time and irretrievability of its moments and events.
G EOFFREY S ONNABEND
Obliscence: Theories of Forgetting and the Problem of Matter
From the first day I saw her I knew that she was the one As she stared in my eyes and smiled For her lips were the colour of the roses That grew down the river, all bloody and wild
N ICK C AVE
Where the Wild Roses Grow, Murder Ballads
one
I PANICKED AND SWALLOWED A HANDFUL OF FIREFLIES AND BLACK WIDOWS the inferno had not. Shiny glass teardrops shattered between my teeth while the fireflies popped like Christmas bulbs until I coughed up blood and blue sparks, starting another fire three inches behind my eyes and burning a hole through the floor of my memory. A lifetime of days, years, minutes and months, gone, but for a lone scrap, scorched and snagged on a frayed nerve ending and snapping in the breeze:
Desiree.
Hard as I try, a given recollections pictures, sounds and smells, synchronized and ordered first to last, are everything but, swarming back through the cold hole in my brain where they hit the waning light and crackle into smoke. Others wait until dark to show themselves. I can hold a pictures fragments together for a lucid half second before a light shines through my eyes and they scatter, slipping between my brains blackened cracks. One memory after the next turns yellow at the edges and crumbles to flakes at my touch.
I smell rotted pulp, old newspapers crawling with silverfish, the dank, dissolving bindings of books I dont remember reading. The stench gives me chills that turn to sandpaper on my neck and shoulders. My back burns if I lean the wrong way and I feel bandages but I cant touch them. My wrists and feet are cuffed to a chair in a room built to the stark schematics of my own head. Peeling walls the color of fingernails, cement floor, an overhead light with an orbiting moth. Im alone with three machines. Two are on pause behind me, a third speaks into a telephone near the door.
I miss you, SnowflakeI love you toobunchesbunches and bunchesyes, Mommy too, his baritone whisper like the rumble of a distant train.
The machines are good. Whoever made them has all of my respect. Stunning detail in their faces, each loaded with a databank of behaviors for random interval display, all manner of mannerisms from coughs to sniffs, synthetic-cartilage knuckle cracks, biting lips and picking nails. The odor of static, the electric smell from a bank of new television sets gives them away.
When I get homeokay, I will. Love youbye bye, Snowflake. Faint dial tone, the ping ping of the doomed but determined moth against the lightbulb, then the machine sits in front of me.