Scott McClanahan - The Collected Works of Scott McClanahan Vol. I

I’ve stolen things before. I’ve stolen a chestnut from Kroger when I was four, and some bubblegum from a store when I was twelve. I ripped out a couple of pages from the Joy of Sex when I was fourteen and stuffed them in my pockets for a secret time later on. I’ve stolen the Collected Works of Nathanael West and the Bhagavad-Gita from a used bookstore when I was nineteen.

But it wasn’t until just a couple of years ago that I ever tried stealing something as a grown man. It started when Kim asked me to go home with her for Thanksgiving. She lived in the same town Walt Whitman was from, and there was a Walt Whitman birthplace and historic site we could visit. I decided to go.

Of course, I should have known something was wrong when she insisted we listen to the Grease soundtrack all the way there. If there’s one thing that unites all girls from Long Island it’s the Grease soundtrack and a profound interest in weight loss. Kim made me sing all of the John Travolta parts even though I hated it. I got chills they’re multiplying — it’s electrifying.

I should have known something else was wrong when she said, “Now we’re going to stay with my mom, but I’m just warning you. If she starts talking about her spirit animal or healing your pain body, don’t think anything about it. My mom is a witch.”

Of course, I didn’t say anything about it. But just a couple of minutes after we got there, Kim’s mom just looked over at me and said, “So tell me Scott. What’s your spirit animal?”

She told me her spirit animal was the raven and she could heal people just by placing her hands on them. She was a healer and a caster of spells. I sat in a chair and kept quiet. Then I felt this presence behind me. I felt these hands, hovering just a few inches from the top of my head. I turned around surprised. Shit.

It was Kim’s mom standing there. She had her eyes closed and her arms out. She was wearing a black gown now.

“You’re not doing that weird healing shit on Scott are you?” Kim asked from the bathroom. She was getting ready so we could go to dinner later that evening with her dad.

Kim’s mom opened her eyes reeealllll slow and said, “Oh no sweetie. I would never do that. I would never do any unsolicited healings. However, the energy tells me that he’s looking for someone.”

Walt Whitman.

Of course, I should have known the trip wasn’t getting any better when we sat down with Kim’s dad that night at this fancy Italian restaurant and he proceeded to order a drink. He was this little red-faced, Billy Joel looking Irish guy. He didn’t really say anything to me except something about how if I ever hurt his daughter, “Maggots would eat out my eyeballs.”

Then he ordered another drink.

I told Kim, “Your father really is a charming man. He’s really making me feel very welcome here.”

Her dad finished up that drink and then he ordered another. He finished up that drink and then he ordered another. I didn’t know if seeing some dead poet’s birthplace was worth this. I knew it wasn’t worth it when her father was brought the bill and he completely freaked out.

At first it was just him cussing beneath his breath, but then I looked over and he was taking out his lighter, and then he was waving the lighter around and around his head and he was shouting at the top of his lungs, “I’m gonna burn this guinea joint down. I’m gonna burn this fucking guinea joint down.”

Kim said, “Do something Scott.”

I was so shocked I just stood there.

I thought, “Guineas? What type of person is racist against Italians in this day and age?” Besides that, most of the guys working in this joint were just young Mexican men pretending to be Italians.

But I didn’t say anything.

I kept saying to myself, “It’s gonna get better. It’s gonna get better.”

At least that’s what I kept repeating the next morning when we got up and drove over for what I’d come here for. On the way over there, we passed the Walt Whitman Mall. The Walt Whitman Mall? Then we finally came to this little wooded area and a historic marker that said, “Walt Whitman Birthplace and Historic Site.”

We got out and walked into the visitor center and this 40ish looking lady behind the counter said, “May I help you?”

I said, “Yes mam. I think you can. We’re wanting to go on a tour.”

The woman looked at me and said, “Oh you’re not from around here are you?”

I said just like every time this happens, “No mam. I’m from West Virginia.”

Then she asked, “Now what part of Virginia are you from?”

I explained, “No mam, I’m from West Virginia. It’s a real state.”

Then I asked her how much tickets were and she said, “Oh I’m sorry, but we’re closed to the public today.”

What?

And just about that time — a school bus pulled up outside. A bunch of smartass-looking 8 thgraders walked off the bus, through the door, past me and out the door, where a tour guide was already waiting on them.

The tour guide shouted above their voices, “Walt Whitman was born on this site on May 31, 1819. He was a poet, a journalist, and a true lover of freedom.”

Kim said, “I thought you were closed to the public?”

The woman told us they were always closed to the public on the third Monday of every month and allowed local school groups to come by.

I told her that we could go with the school group on a tour, we didn’t mind.

But she just shook her head and said she was sorry, the third Monday was always reserved for school groups. It was the rule.

Kim patted my shoulder and said, “It’s all right, we can just come back tomorrow.”

But the woman just shook her head again and said she was sorry but they were closed tomorrow too. On the third Tuesday of every month they were closed for cleaning purposes.

It was the rule.

What? We had to leave the next day. We wouldn’t be able to go.

Kim tried cheering me up. Later that night she took me to a party at one of her friends. And when we walked in, I knew the trip wasn’t getting any better. I listened to the music playing in the background, I got chills they’re multiplying. It’s electrifying .

Kim laughed and told me I should sing along and show her friends my great Travolta voice.

Her friends went, “Yeah Scott, do it, do it. Do it for us.”

But I refused. They wouldn’t appreciate my Travolta voice. After I drank a couple of beers though, I did sing a couple of lines from the Olivia Newton John part. Well you better shape up/cause I need a man/and my heart is set on you . I started feeling better, but then one of Kim’s friends started telling me about how one of their overweight friends from childhood was battling cancer now.

She said, “I saw her recently and she’s lost a lot of weight.”

I said, “Well I guess cancer is not all that bad is it? At least she’s losing weight.”

And instead of laughing she just shook her head like this was true. “I know. I know.” Then she asked me why I was here and looked so sad.

I told her I wanted to see Walt Whitman, but it was closed.

The girl looked at me confused, “No. It’s not. The Walt Whitman Mall doesn’t close until like 10 at night.”

I said, “No, I mean the Walt Whitman birthplace. The poet? You know where he was born?”

“Oh,” the girl said. “I didn’t know he was a real person. I just thought that was the name of the mall.”

So I smiled. I smiled and I heard these lines. If you want me again look for me under your boot soles. Failing to find me at first keep encouraged/missing me one place search another/I stop somewhere waiting for you.