DISPATCH: "A Transaction with Reality," Launching John Tottenham’s "Service" at The Poetic Research Bureau (Los Angeles)

Featuring Rachel Kushner, Paul Gellman, Evan Laffer and Ian Svenonius

I get my hands on John Tottenham’s novel, Service, in March, a few weeks before everyone else. It’s gifted to my boyfriend, Evan Laffer, who is on the lineup for John’s Los Angeles launch in late April–a star-studded affair at the Poetic Research Bureau. Although John is more of Evan’s friend than mine, he is still a friend, and I’m desperate to know whether the book is good or not, probably because it feels like if a friend of yours can make something great, maybe you can too.

The protagonist of John’s novel, Sean, bears many resemblances to John. Like John, he works at a bookstore in Echo Park, wants desperately to write a novel, and maintains a cantankerous and sullen interface with most of the world. Sean wants to be able to contribute something to the world of literature that has nourished him so faithfully. This motive, and our sympathy for it, drives the novel, which I read with relish and sanctity, skeptical, then entertained, and finally deeply moved.

I’m looking forward to the book launch, anxious to celebrate something actually worth celebrating. The lineup, the venue, and the preceding promotion all have an air of authority difficult to come by in the current reading climate where Casual Encountersz and Car Crash Collective reign supreme. The reading will take place in the main theater at Poetic Research, where I usually see movies. I spot a few friends right when I walk in (filmmaker and fellow Stories employee, Alexandra Jade, writer Zara Schuster, musician Jackson MacIntosh) but am overwhelmed by how many people I’ve never met before. Dressed in dark colors with a slight punk sensibility, the crowd is a reminder of how big even our tiny corner of Los Angeles really is.

Next to where Service is being rapidly sold by a lanky guy with kind eyes, there are five action figures of John himself. Hand painted by Adam Roth, they are complete with gray hair, lines around the face, slumped posture, a sweater and slacks. It’s hard not to blur Sean and John, thinking that an event like this, with all these people flooding through the doors, must be exactly what Sean/John always dreamed of.

Action figures of John Tottenham, crafted and hand painted by Adam Roth.

It takes forever to get a drink from the single bartender dutifully serving what ends up being a packed house. The victory of finally holding a tequila soda is damped by the realization that it is not very strong. I see John and he’s nervously milling about, his face more closed than usual. I try not to watch him, even though I’m working very hard to imagine how he feels, because this is a dream of mine. It feels like this is everyone’s dream, like Service was a community achievement. We’re all gathered here, seeking refuge from phones, clout, and consumerism, allowed to be anxious and crotchety, holding action figures of a disgruntled bookseller instead of a superhero. There’s a general sense that most people in attendance must also be pessimistic and neurotic, but socially savvy enough to be here in the first place.

Most of the seats are taken, so Evan and I squeeze ourselves through an occupied row of chairs towards two empty seats. I try to gracefully step over the legs of other audience members, but I’m holding my huge winter coat–the chill of a 58-degree Los Angeles evening so intolerable to me that I bring it everywhere–and right before I take my seat, I knock over the drink of a bespectacled woman. I apologize profusely, unsure whether it was entirely my fault or not. I think about the huge line and absolute impossibility of buying her a replacement drink. The woman tries to mask her frustration and assures me it’s fine, even though I feel like an asshole.

“That’s Rachel Kushner,” Evan whispers in my ear as he sits down between the two of us. I feel even more foolish about the spilled drink and almost brave enough to try and confront the line again, but I’m all too aware that this renewed bout of reparative energy is only because Rachel is famous, and I want to be famous. If she thinks of me as someone other than the rude girl who knocked over her drink, she might be willing to help me a bit. I brush these thoughts away and settle in. It would be far worse to reveal that kind of desperate transactional thinking than to be known by Rachel as the drink-spiller.

“This is the largest audience I’ll ever read to,” Evan says, his eyes wandering around the room.

“Don’t sell yourself short,” I say.

The Crowd! Photograph by Liz Koskenmaki.

The crowd quiets when Rachel Kushner takes the stage. Red lights make a beautiful halo around her hair, a flattering hue that graces the other harsh bobs, mini bangs, and ponytails in the audience. She unfolds a piece of paper and tucks John’s book under her arm. She’s going to read from Service, but first we hear a narrative she’s written about early 2000s Los Angeles, when she inhabited the same ungentrified neighborhood as John, desolate enough to have an alley full of tumbleweeds and abandoned cars. It’s beautiful and impressionistic, painting a picture of John before his hair was gray. She describes wondering at his ‘70s British preppy outfits, hearing classical music drifting out of his window at all times of the day, and stumbling upon several different beautiful women crying outside of said window late at night. A portrait emerges of John as a kind of unrepentant literary playboy, steadfast in his eccentricity. Then she reads from the book. The passage she’s chosen starts with Sean, the protagonist, trying to build up enough strength to write. He stares at his reflection in the dark computer screen and contemplates his rotting teeth, his “aging young man’s face,” and his dismay at the process of “finding new ways to say ‘he said’ and ‘she said.’” He describes his presumed infertility, and how since he will not be leaving behind a continuation of his genetic line, he should at least leave behind a great work of art.

Rachel Kushner, photograph by Liz Koskenmaki.

I’ve always been perplexed by the idea that people write because they want to give back. It seems terribly arrogant and misinformed to believe that you can contribute something potentially lifesaving (because yes, these seem to be the stakes) to the endless, seemingly infinite project of world literature. Service confronts this impulse with subtlety and humor. My favorite parts of the novel describe the deep calm and escapist satisfaction of reading. Long paragraphs are devoted to the protagonist reading in the bath, settling into a numb stupor of language. “How unthinkably empty my life would be without all the books I’d read and the music I’d listened to, which have provided the backdrop, often the substance, to every day of my existence,” writes John. From this vantage, the desire to put something back into a discipline you’ve taken so much from starts to feel more humble than pompous. Service articulates that, in a way, it’s more arrogant to take and take without ever being expected to contribute.

Ian Svenonious takes the stage next. Wearing his trademark dyed black hair, white patent leather shoes, and full suit, and speaking with a slight whistling lisp, he enthusiastically describes John as “the Chuck Berry” of the Los Angeles literary scene. He calls John the true rebel child we all wish we were, an unflinching and uncompromising artist who has now achieved an incomparably hard task: writing and publishing a novel.

Ian Svenonious, photograph by Liz Koskenmaki

“Many people have said, jealously,” Ian emphasizes, “that John is only able to get away with what he can get away with because of that British accent. But this novel wasn’t written in a British accent. It doesn’t have a specific accent at all.”

Ian reads a passage about Los Angeles. You don’t have to have a death wish to live in Los Angeles, but it helps. The sun makes you weak and lazy, sheltering you from harsh realities, built on a foundation of pretend. Ease takes on a sinister quality when the objective is to produce a thoughtful piece of art. John laments that there are only a few signifiers left of the place-ness of Los Angeles, Echo Park in particular, which, like the rest of the world, is being reduced to homogenized nothingness.

I know that Evan hasn’t prepared an opening tribute like Rachel and Ian, and he admits as much when he gets to the mic. He stumbles through thanking John and Hedi El Kholti for having him and realizes he should thank Joseph Mosconi for hosting the event at the Philosophical Research Society when in fact he’s at Poetic Research Bureau. It’s a classic Los Angeles Event Conundrum. He’s corrected by a member of the audience and apologizes profusely. It reminds me how fragile we all are. Even when we’ve all somehow managed to gather at the same time and place to celebrate John, we are all still vulnerable to feeling like what we’ve accomplished doesn’t matter.

“One of the things I know about John is that he really likes this line by Mark E. Smith from The Fall,” says Evan. “‘Don’t confuse yourself with someone who has something to say.’”

He opens John’s book and then closes it again, “Another one of John’s favorite quotes is, ‘repeat yourself loudly and often.’”

Evan reads clearly and with resonance, in his Podcaster’s voice. The excerpt takes place at the bookstore, where Sean muses about Bob Dylan, the Fall, and the stupidity of his customers. Evan stumbles when he comes to the word “matutinal” and John shouts the correct pronunciation from the audience. This kicks something into gear and Evan continues reading, corrected, in his John Tottenham impression, which isn’t so much of an accent as it is an affectation–an enunciation of every T, the right pause here, the right pause there. He’s very good at it. I’ve heard this impression before, when Evan returns from playing Scrabble at John’s house, and I ask how John is doing.

The protagonist pontificates–to other characters and to himself–about the novels and music he loves or looks down on. The loosely plotted form of Service allows for plenty of tangents, which is convenient for me, because I want to learn about world history, art history, science, criticism, music, but the only way I’ve ever been able to retain any of that is through a narrative. A story is just the most interesting thing to read. I’m grateful John put so many intriguing and accurate observations about other art into Service. They’re more pleasurable to read here than in a collection of criticism or journalism.

Evan Laffer regales the crowd.

Evan’s reading almost goes on too long but the laughter in the audience doesn’t stop, hasn’t stopped this whole time. It comes, strong and hearty, every few sentences.

Next up is Paul Gellman, introduced as Silver Lake Legend, Tall Paul, who brings the theatricality an homage to John would be incomplete without. He modulates his voice, emphasizing Sean’s annoyance at giggling girl bookstore wanderers and customers too lazy to locate Kafka–“It’s in the fiction section, under K!”

The format for this event works so well. I love hearing different voices interpret the same text. It feels like the closest we can get to reading in a way that isn’t so alone and isolated.

Then it’s time for John, who walks on stage in his suit and button-down shirt, looking rugged and handsome. He waits for the applause to quiet before saying, in his signature drawl, “What a lousy turnout. We killed ourselves trying to promote this thing and then hardly anybody shows up. We’ll just have to make the most out of it, won’t we.”

He closes his book and recites the first line from memory. It’s a reminder that this is John’s first novel, but not his first book–he’s been the best poet in Los Angeles for quite some time. He reads slower than anyone else, giving us time to absorb the musicality of his prose…. obsequious service with a simpering smile.

John Tottenham reads Service.

Before Colm Tóibín begins the Q&A–or, as later described, “interrogation,”–John says, “I want to let it be known that I have absolutely nothing to say.”

He does seem tense, like sitting down on this big stage and talking about his book is the worst thing that could happen to him. There’s a palpable pressure to exude satisfaction or joy, as if the whole audience is saying: John, isn’t this what you always wanted?

“It’s 327 pages, the perfect length,” he says.

“That’s what she said!” shouts someone in the audience.

“Come now,” says John, “this is a Semiotexte reading - that’s what he said.”

John Tottenham & Colm Tóibín, photograph by Liz Koskenmaki.

Once they’ve started, the dick jokes don’t stop. Colm asks if the book is cut or uncut. John insists it’s the literary equivalent of six and a half inches. Between nervous laughter and awkward pauses, Colm does his best to dignify Service with context and tradition. He tries to convey that this is a serious piece of literature, but can’t help indulging in John’s irresistible irreverence and desire to turn this whole thing into a joke. Colm wants to emphasize the Britishness of John’s novel, placing him in a lineage with the likes of Kingsley Amis. John doesn’t want to admit any kind of intention or inspiration for the work, but he does tell us that London Fields is his favorite Martin Amis book.

“I was reading it on a trip to the Grand Canyon,” says John, “I loved it so much I could hardly look away from the page and see the rocks. Have you read it?”

“Yes,” says Colm, “but I like your book better.”

Colm presses John about the autobiographical nature of the work, and John insists again and again that it is just fiction.

“It’s a transaction with reality, not a transcription,” says John.

I feel a deep satisfaction when he articulates this because that’s how I approach writing as well. Fiction negotiates with the overwhelming noise of reality to present what is most interesting, not what is most accurate. The word-choice transaction is apt, connecting to something John says offhand: “I thought the bookstore would be an interesting setting.” That is the choice. Carefully considered prose can elevate the mundanity of literal credit card transactions to the level of high drama and intrigue. Service is full of idiosyncratic, discerning fascination, which is what makes it feel so intimate.

While John shuts down every question from Colm or the audience with one word, evasive answers, it’s clear he has set himself up with an impossible task. Service is built on a very particular persona. If he maintains the persona while promoting the book, the artistic feat is lost: John becomes Sean. But if he breaks the persona, we’re able to see too much, and all of the joyous, participatory mythology of the evening will be undermined.

After the final question, we all get up, gather our belongings, and pour into the bar, the smoking patio, the sidewalk. I talk a bit with Ben Loory and his girlfriend Rachel, along with Joshua Hebburn. It’s strange talking to writers I admire–writing is the main thing we have in common, and it seems like we should talk about writing and reading, since nobody else in our lives is interested in discussing that. But the truth is that I would rather chat about our days, what we did that morning, what we ate for lunch.

It feels like the best party in the world is about to happen, but after just a few minutes, our many friends fracture. Ian and his crew head to Astro Diner. Alcoholics like us who want a cocktail trail after John to Edendale. “Attending your own book party is probably the closest you can get to being at your own funeral,” says Evan on the drive, reflecting on the general sense of adoration and good will for John that permeated the whole event.

At Edendale, I congratulate John as he sits at the bar with his uncorrected proof of the novel and a gifted copy of The Rape and Recovery of Emily Dickinson. I’ve already told John how much I love his book, but it’s hard not to worry that the sentiment comes across as forced or insincere. There are many books that I love, that I’ve learned from, that I think are exceptional feats of human creativity. But there’s a much slimmer selection of books that feel like they were written just for me. This is one of them.

I order a vesper and Evan uncharacteristically swirls Hennessey in an oversized glass. The bar is quiet, only a few stragglers from the reading have made it. A woman with long straight bangs sitting next to John turns to me and asks me if I liked Service.

“I loved it, it made me cry,” I say. “You know, there’s something about a sort of seemingly plotless book that always gets me. Like Barbara Pym or Jean Rhys. It feels so mundane, so repetitive, like there’s no structure at all. It lulls you into accepting that, and then the small changes–the tiny, almost imperceptible shifts–are all the more devastating.”

“Don’t spoil it for me!” she says.

“I don’t know what Rachel was on about,” says John. “I don’t listen to classical music, and I’ve never dressed in a way that could be described as ‘70s or preppy.”

“I thought that was strange,” says Evan, “you’re much more likely to be listening to the blues.”

“Who knows,” says John, “last time she was over she pointed out a stack of classical music records. She could have easily looked a couple inches to the left and it would have been my blues collection and that’s what she would have remembered.”

There’s something forgiving in John’s tone while we laugh about this fabrication. The truth is so slippery anyway. Why not invent a hero? Why not have that hero be John? It’s good to have someone to believe in.

John Tottenham the superhero, by Adam Roth.