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Don't Ask Questions: An Interview with Oscar Deadwood

by Adam Jack

      The sun sits in the sky, burning the desert, the road and me. It's hot the way Hell should be. When my eyes are sting with sweat dripping from under my broad hat, I can see dust devils dancing in the sand, hopping over the brush and hard little bushes. The horizon wavers like someone's shaking a sheet under the sand, and a Chevy truck blasts past me in a cloud of heat and dust and pulls over in the shoulder ahead.

      Through the window, the driver asks, “Where you going?”

      I open the door and climb up into the truck. “West,” I reply. Together, we hit the open stretch and for the first time in a week, I can take my hat off.

      “Name's Oscar,” he says, blue eyes on the road, as if he suspects an Injun raid at any time. “Oscar Deadwood.”

      Now let me tell you about Mr. Deadwood. He's not a tall man, maybe average, 200 pounds or so, blond hair creeping slowly backward over his head. In his t-shirt and jeans, he looks like he might be an athlete. Or used to be, maybe.

      “My name's Adam Jack.”

      “Pleased to meet you, Adam. If you're thirsty, there's bottles of water in a cooler behind your seat.”

      I reach behind the seat and pull a small stack of books off a cooler. I set the books down and grab a water, and as I'm placing the books back atop the cooler, I see the name of the author on the top: Oscar Deadwood. “You some kind of writer?” I ask, sounding a bit more confrontational than I intended.

      “Well, I should hope so,” he replies. “That's my book there, The Perfect Revolution.” The cover's got some kind of robot, looking menacing the way robots usually do on the cover of “scientific romance” novels.

      “What's it about?”

      “About a military coup in the United States, told through the journal of a young soldier who wittingly participates in the coup in the most horrendous of ways.”

      “Huh. Sounds interesting. Any good?”

      “It is excellent.” I crack the cover, and ask, “You mind?”

      “Not at all.” Over the next few hours, I read the book, asking what this word means or what that word means (myself not being one of these “literary” types. Men in my profession usually aren't.) Over the radio, Mr. Deadwood plays a Bob Dylan disc for a while, then switches over between classical and jazz. There's not much to the radio in the desert, but Mr. Deadwood isn't disappointed. I close the book after the last page, and say “Huh.”

      “What's that?”

      “Well, it seems to me that this boy, Ben-ben, spent a lot of time in Iraq. It's . . . it feels honest. You serve over there?”

      Deadwood shakes his head. “No, I didn't. I was in the Navy, in the eighties and nineties. I was stationed in Scotland, but a servicemember is a servicemember, the uniform is different but the mindset is basically the same.”

      “So what's your opinion of G.W., then? You being a former Navy man.”

      “Lower than a lot of politicians, and that's pretty low.” We share a chuckle, and he asks, “Anything else?”

      “Well, maybe. Lemme think a while.” After flipping through the book a couple times, I ask, “Okay. There seems to be a lot of nonsensical and contradictory orders and it causes quite a bit of confusion for Ben-ben. Is that one of those, whatdoyoucallit, literary mechanisms?”

      “Very perceptive, Adam. Yes, it was merely a literary device and I think the quagmire in Iraq speaks for itself.”

      “What's a quagmire?”

      He laughs at me and says, “Mess.”

      “Oh. Not bad, Mr. Deadwood. This your first book?”

      “No, I wrote a book called The Trinity first and it is coming from Silverthought Press one of these days. It is about a white supremacist group on a miltary base in Scotland in the 1980's, and I believe the setting and feel will definitely be authentic. It isn't science fiction at all, and different from Revolution.”

      I think about Scotland for a bit, and then ask, “How'd you come up with the idea for this book? I mean, robots and revolutions . . .”

      “A conversation about the state of our country. The person I was speaking with thought that one day things might degenerate so bad economically that some generals might say enough is enough and start sending tanks to the White House. I took it from there. I don't really believe in flashes of inspiration, but TPR truly was. A lot of it took shape as I wrote . . . I just took off and ran.”

      “How long'd it take you?”

      “Started September 15th of 2005, finished the first draft February 15th of this year. After some excellent editing by Paul Hughes it was ready for print and published in June.”

      “Sounds like you write a lot then. You a readin' man? Since you don't believe in those 'flashes.' I mean, your ideas have to come from somewhere.”

      “Yeah. Ray Bradbury, Umberto Eco, Michael Ondaatje, Chuck Palahniuk, Larry Brown, Raymond Carver... it depends on my mood. These are the guys that inspire me. I was reading a lot of Palahniuk while I was writing TPR, so I'm betting some of that seeped through, but overall, Ray Bradbury is probably my biggest inspiration.”

      “Pal . . . Pallana . . . Paholanuk? Huh. Sounds like one of them suit-o-nymphs. You know, fake names. Hey, you really think machine intelligence will be like it is in your book? By 2013, I mean?”

      “Yes, or close to, if they aren't already.” The conversation stalls as the sun and heat of the desert sap us of conversational energy. “You got a pet?” Deadwood asks.

      “Had a horse a few years back, but it died of thirst. You?"

      “Yes,' but he says no more. Maybe it's some kind of secret pet, I wonder. “You married?” Deadwood asks.

      “Nope. No time for a woman. Not in my business.”

      Deadwood gives me a strange look.

      “You?” I ask. He shows me his wedding band, and puts his hand back on the wheel.

      “Yes. With two sons, age 5 and 6.” He pauses. “Look at that,” he points out the windshield to the open stretches of scrub-brush and sand. “Yes, yes I do like this desert, Adam. You know it took a while for me to like it though. I spent a few years in northern Nevada, working in a gold mine and later for the local paper. The desert grows on you, it really does, there's something breathtaking about mountains that go forever without a blemish.” In the distance, the mountains are small and hard, but there's no denying it's a sight to see. We sit in silence for a bit longer, and he asks, “So where exactly are you going?”

      “West. The less you know about me, Deadwood, the better. No offense. How about you? Where will you be when the in, say, 24 hours?”

      “Somewhere. Writing, hopefully.”

      “How about 24 years?”

      “What?” asks Deadwood. I repeat. “Uh . . . in 24 years, hopefully, I am writing more.” He glances at me sidelong. “You know, that's a . . . strange question to ask someone.”

      “I know. I was in prison once. 24 years. Oh, don't get fretful. I was framed by the perp I was chasing. He asked me, 'What will you be doing in 24 hours?' I said, 'Waiting to get out. What will you be doing in 24 years?' And I just found out what he's doing.” I realize that I've sucked all the positive out of the conversation, and the truck itself. “Tell you what, Deadwood. Just pull over here and let me out. I'll walk the rest of the way.” He does so, and as I slam the door, I ask, “Tell me, Mr. Deadwood. What's your next book gonna be about?”

      He stares at me for a second. “It is called In the Shadow of the Broken Pyramid, about a debtors colony in the year 2025 on one of Saturn's moons. The colony is run by the Pyramid Police, a law enforcement arm of the nations banks as banks are allowed to apprehend those too deep in debt. I'll say no more for now.” I can't tell if he's afraid of me or telling me too much about his next book.

      “Sounds good. I'll keep an eye out.” His tires spin in the dust, kicking up a cloud. I place my hat back on my head and watch the truck drive into the wavering distance. I keep walking.

“I don't always think endings have to be neat and pretty and full of closure for the reader, the ending is supposed to be confusing, and I hope I didn't make it too confusing, I also left it open, just because.”

- Oscar Deadwood, September 2006

The editor would like to thank Oscar for answering Adam's questions and allowing him to read The Perfect Revolution. You can purchase the book at Amazon.com or Barnes & Noble, and of course, in any Rabies' Rusty Meatbooks & Literature Emporium.

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