Chasing the Wolf

Nathan Singer

• Publisher: Gallery Books
• Year: 2011
• Print ISBN: 9781440553882
• eBook ISBN: 9781440532238
• Topic: Literature
• Subtopic: Literature General
• Index: Literature

When a young artist and the woman he loves find themselves imprisoned within a moment in time between present day New York and Mississippi 1938, they attempt to make sense of a world in which they can't seem to fit and find their place in the "center of the Universe." But there are stones in their pass way, and hellhounds on their trail. At times both bleak and redemptive - much like the Blues itself - Chasing the Wolf is a surprisingly tender look into the madness of love, the madness of hate, and the dark secrets that lie along the banks of the muddy Mississippi.

PART ONE

MIDNIGHT CREEPIN’

It was enough to make yo’ son, mama, wish he’s dead and gone.

—ROBERT WILKINS

WHEN I’M UPSET, BLOOD LEAKS FROM MY HEAD. That’s the truth—I’m not trying to bullshit you. I don’t know if you folks even use “bullshit” as a verb. At all. Oh well. When I’m over the edge, my gums bust open and my nose bleeds and the whites of my eyes get little red polka dots on them. I only mention that because my eyes really hurt right now. They probably look like crimson marbles with black holes in the middle. It’s been a stressful couple of days. I’ve been hiding out in these woods since I got here. I stole this paper and these pencils from a schoolhouse two miles that way. I wish there had been paints instead. Don’t really write normally. Just writing this to keep from going totally Bellevue. I don’t even know if anyone will ever read this.

My name is Eli Cooper. I’m a twenty-seven year old “neo-postimpressionist,” or so I’m told. If Edvard Munch and Jackson Pollock had a child and so on. Anyway, I am—was—the toast of the Village back home. I had the freshest agent, the dopest shows in the choiceest galleries, the flyest reviews … I could clean my brushes on an old T-shirt and the Voice would call it “The boldest statement in art since Piss Christ.” I had the smartest friends. I had the prettiest wife—

My nose is bleeding.

So you’re probably wondering what NYC’s flashiest flash-in-the-pan of the new millennium is doing stranded in the backwoods of Mississippi in 1938. So am I. So am I. So am I. So am I. There goes my nose again.

DONTPANIC

BACK HOME I had just been hired to do a jacket piece for this noise punk outfit, The Sleepy October. I hate them. I hate that whole bullshit scene. No-talent fucks.

“We’re all about shifting into a new punk paradigm,” their junkie slut lead singer told me. Horrid. HORRID!

But my agent Marcus pushed it on me.

“We can reach the teen market, Eli!” he’d say. “Like street cred with bigger payoff.” Like that means something to me. I’m a tortured artist or whatever. I’ve got a reputation to think about.

I only took the whore job because Jessie wanted a bigger apartment. Jessie’s my wife. Jessie Davis-Cooper. My mahogany queen. My little bitty pretty one. She’s a dancer with an African drum and dance troupe. “Neo-tribalist.” Everybody’s “neo” in NYC. Go figure.

“You should grab this opportunity,” she’d say. “You’d be a crazy not to. We can have a whole new life. We deserve it, Li-la.” Li-la. Miss that already.

So yeah, I detest the New York noise scene. I love the old stuff (well … I guess it’s not old to you). Big Mama Thornton. Duke Ellington. Billie Holiday. Son House … Howlin’ Wolf. (Howlin’ Wolf. Something weird about Howlin’ Wolf …) I’d put on some scratchy old jazz or blues compilation LP and Jess would laugh at me.

But after a refrain or two, hell yeah, she’d start to dance. God. Her dancing … like no one else. Wish I could see her now.

GODDAMN BOILING fucking hot here. Covered in a layer of slime and grit. The air is not even humid. It’s solid. Like breathing casserole. Try to sleep. Sleep it off. Sleep it away. Maybe wake up somewhere else. Good night, Jessie. I’m sorry I didn’t get a chance to say good-bye.

“THE EMPEROR’S FUCKING NAKED, BABY!” That’s what I told her.

“The emperor is fucking naked.”

“Li-la, don’t be such a dramatic. Do this cover art, and—”

“—And what? Burn in “Sell-out Hell” for all eternity?”

“You call it “Sell-out Hell,” I call it a phat Soho co-op and no worries. Tomato, tomahto.”

“Jess, have you heard this music?”

“Oh, let me guess. It doesn’t sound like Bessie Smith or Robert Nighthawk or Skip James and they don’t record in mono into a tin horn. Right? I swear, Li-la, you are an old man trapped in a young man’s body. No, scratch that. You are an old BLACK man trapped in a white boy’s body.”

“Marcus is just trying to turn me into the next—”

“Marcus is a good agent and he wants what’s best for you and you know it. I’m asking you, please, just this once. Take this one whore job and I’ll never ask for anything ever again. You’d be a crazy not to grab this opportunity.”

“‘Crazy’ is an adjective, sweetheart. Not a noun.” She always did that. No idea why.

“It could be the start of something great. This could be your chance. We could have a whole new life.”

“I know.”

I know.

“We deserve it.” “It’s just … shallow.” “What is?”

“All this stuff. Meaningless. Hipper-than-thou drivel. Fake plastic hash. Gives you cancer of the spirit. I hate it.”

“You hate everything. You want to leave New York?” “I didn’t say that.”

“Where would be ‘deep’ enough for you, Mr. Neo-post-impressionism?”

Deep enough for me. Where would be deep enough for me …

“You’re my angel, Jessie. My little bitty pretty one.”

“You’re my little school boy. Inlovewitchoo, Li-la Delila.” Inlovewitchoo too.

THE NIGHT I WAS WORKING on the album art for those Warhol-loving twats The Sleepy October, Jessie had a gig down at the Burroughs Theater. Two weeks past my deadline,...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Title Page
• Contents
• Dedication
• PART ONE: MIDNIGHT CREEPIN’
• PART TWO: DRY LONG SO
• PART THREE: IN DEVILMENT
• PART FOUR: HELLHOUNDS ON YOUR TRAIL
• PART FIVE: LONELY ONE IN THIS TOWN
• EPILOGUE
• In the Light of You
• Also Available
• Copyright