Hit Restart – Hilary Goldstein

Charlie Brown’s Pulp Fiction

I’m putting together some introductions for the 15 stories in my upcoming collection, Even Swamp Creatures Get the Blues. There’ll be a spiffy website up in the near future with notes on every story. While researching some early drafts of one of the stories called “Israel Stein, Private Dick,” I came across the first appearance of the world’s worst detective. It’s a really dumb exchange between Stein and a potential client (a stereotypical mob boss).

The character has evolved quite a bit since then. And no stupid mob boss in sight. I put this in the “I didn’t always know how to tell a story” category. I thought you might get a kick out of this. Especially if you used to watch holiday specials on TV as a kid. To set the scene — the client is explaining to Israel that he expects results. He does so in the dumbest way possible.

     “Let me tell you a story.” He snorted air out his nose like a bull about to charge. “Something I learned as a kid. A lesson you would do well to heed.” His lip twitched slightly and he paused. For a second I thought he was in need of a smoke. So was I. But the hopes of enjoying a satisfying puff of nicotine were dashed when he began his tale.
     “See, it’s Halloween right, and this kid is supposed to go trick or treating with his friends. It’s a big fucking deal. But he doesn’t have no money. And his dad drinks a lot, so he’s no help and his mom’s a fat whore and all she does is watch Ricky Lake all day. So he gets this bed sheet and he cuts holes in it, like he’s gonna be a ghost. But he cuts too many holes. I mean, he’s got more eyes than an Idaho spud. So there he is, a big white potato, trick or treatin’ with all his friends. And they are dressed as princesses and goblins and shit. So they go to the first house and all the other kids get fucking candy. I’m talkin’ Gobstoppers and Jujubees and those chocolate covered raisins. Bliss, right? But the potato–he gets no candy. He gets a rock. A fucking rock. And all his friends laugh at him and dangle their Mars bars in front of his face and giggle and dance around him, showing off their Butterfingers and bags of jelly beans. And do you know what this kid does?”
     I shook my head, but I hoped he didn’t eat the rock in defiance.
     “He throws the rock through the guy’s window.”
     “Boy, kids are really out of control nowadays.”
     “Do you know the moral of this story?”
     “There should be some kind of curfew to keep kids off the streets at night?”
     “Ya know, for a detective, you don’t detect well.” It seemed my client was on to me. “No, the moral of the story is, don’t give me fuckin’ rocks. I expect some good candy when I come back here next week.”
     “I’ve got Oreos, if you want some.”