Superego
by David Benjamin
“Hooray, excelsior and pow!
The ship of state is sunk and dead,
And we, the fools, are at the bow,
From which the wise and good have fled.”
— Benjie, The Id, 1966
PARIS
— Bob Schuster was my first publisher. The imprint was SRTB
Ketchachokee Publications. The four letters designated the main
characters in a “literary” venture that was more of a high-school comedy
than a commercial enterprise. The “S” was Scott Rothney, sometimes
known as Brother Chiboinkin, whom Schuster gave top billing because he
was our most (well, only) intimidating colleague. The “R” was Schuster
(Robert), the “T” was shy, romantic Tom Sundal. I was the “B,” last
because I’d arrived in Madison only recently, after a provincial
childhood in remotest Tomah (Up North).
As for the
“Ketchachokee” appendage, that was Schuster’s idea, which he explained
once. But it made no sense and we all forgot it.
Our editorial product was called The Id, mainly because Schuster had read A Primer of Freudian Psychology.
Scott had, too. Sundal, who was too psychologically brittle to delve
too deeply into himself, had prudently eschewed Freud. I resolved to get
around to Freud but never did. My ignorance of the great Sigmund
probably hampered my literary “career” because this was, after all, an
era when Freudian gobbledegook captivated a lot of otherwise splendid
storytellers.
(Without realizing it, by the way, I discovered that the perfect literary antidote to Freud was William Goldman (The Princess Bride).)
Schuster,
who tended to labor mightily on short poems about death, rapidly
recognized that I was The Id’s most prolific contributor. For me,
writing — in Freudian terms — was a compulsion. However, being a product
of St. Mary’s School, I preferred to see my logorrheic output as a sort
of priestly vocation visited upon me by and angry God.
Either way, Schuster not only made me his “star” author, he committed more of himself to my oeuvre than to his own sporadic snatches of adolescent noir. He embraced his thankless role as The Id’s superego and risked his spotless Goody Two-Shoes reputation to get my drivel — and the odd poem — into print.
For example, he stole for me. To produce The Id,
we needed a printing machine. These were pre-Xerox days, when the
cheapest way to do a “print run” was with a device we called a
“mimeograph.” This contraption was actually a spirit duplicator, or
“ditto” machine. Ditto fuel was a clear, pungent fluid. Fresh on a newly
printed page, it gave off a pleasantly alcoholic fragrance that
suggested a cocktail blend of gin and Prestone antifreeze. If you
pressed your face into your Biology test sheet and inhaled, you began
the exam with a nice, fleeting isopropanol-methanol high. Generations of
school kids were hooked on ditto perfume.
Every teachers lounge
in America had a spirit duplicator. But SRTB Ketchacokee Publications
had none, nor did we have access to the teachers’ room. Nor did we
possess the capital to buy a machine So, Schuster stole a spirit
duplicator.
From his church.
And then he lied, to his sainted mom, who asked where he got it.
“Oh, we just borrowed it.”
Maybe Schuster meant that. But he never took it back.
Besides,
we needed the thing — and its laborious printing process — more than
Schuster’s pastor ever would. We needed to write, and be read (we sold The Id for
a quarter — cheap). Because of Bob’s stealing, lying and churning out
pages on our hijacked ditto machine, I evolved into “the writer” among
my peers at LaFollette High.
Bob’s labors produced readers, many
of whom ended up friends. In those days, we had a rare subculture of
teenage smartasses at LaFollette High. We came from three or four
different classes (both chronological and social) and a half-dozen
feeder schools. We took part — or refused to take part — in different
high-school activities. We never formed a single group or held meetings,
but we all knew who we were. We treated conversation as a contact
sport. Our sarcasm left bruises. We mocked pretense, we defied
authority, we scorned small talk and quoted poetry (Yeats, cummings,
Ezra Pound), we sneered at the masses and we suffered no fools but
ourselves. And we saw, in one another, the evanescent seeds of
greatness.
In common, we all had The Id.
Among us,
Schuster was an island of calm, smarter than the smartest but uniquely
disinclined toward one-upmanship. He laughed softly at himself and
taught us how that works. He abetted us and grew among us without
competing. He published us.
On Sunday, while visiting Schuster at
the hospital, I learned that he’s dying. The doctors are sending him
home. There’s nothing more they can do. Schuster greeted his fate with a
crooked smile and an ironic note on the brevity of it all.
They say that one of the measures of one’s own life is whether, in all your years, you’ve changed anyone else’s life.
Schuster changed mine. More than that, he defined it.
In those two-odd years of pumping a rickety ditto machine, inhaling methanol fumes and printing out the purple pages of The Id
’til they were too faint to read, Schuster provided me my first
audience — which is every author’s deepest need. He lent me access to
praise and favor. He gave me a sense of the hard work — including
stealing and lying — that would be my destiny as an unknown writer,
pouring my blood into a typewriter, compromising my future and ravaging
my relationships to keep on writing so that, in the end, I will probably
die as obscurely as I began.
It was Schuster, more than any
friend or teacher, mentor, parent, spouse or child, who made clear to me
my own fate, my bondage to words and the odds against me. Schuster was
the guidepost to my destiny.
Thursday, September 22, 2016
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2 comments:
Getting older can definitely suck...but I too have happy memories of those ditto machines.
My best to Schuster, there on that sad height.
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