“About a girl” is a short novel that begins with two strangers, a man and a woman, who meet at a bus-stop and go on an impromptu bar-crawl on a cool, winter day. Taking place in twelve hours it recounts the oddball, hardcore, characters they meet and their increasing emotional connection as they fall for each other almost immediately. Infused with sexual energy, pop-culture references, intellectual debate and literary allusions this is an unapologetic, uncensored look at our society through the eyes of the outsider. It is written in a free-flow, spontaneous style with long unhindered sentences that enable the reader’s eye to glide down the page as the story flows and moves to an urban beat of strippers, punk rockers and nightlife happenings.
About a Girl started off as an exercise to deal with writer's block...it was a novel called Emma Strunk i was working on...completely blocked, blurry vision, reaching down deep and finding nothing man, a nightmare, truly...so i started writing about this young woman i met at a bus-stop, just a purely arbitrary memory, and the damn thing took off on its own, all i could do was follow...it had me firmly by the throat, accelerated writing, slow easy days surrounded by that blue-dizzy smoke and the sound of ice cubes at the bottom of my Rye and 7, and two months later, there it was man, there it was...so enjoy this silent scream from the frozen city, and laugh loud and distant...Tony Nesca"There is a constant poetic tone and musical sense in About a Girl. There are also some shrewd observations of great penetration."..."Nesca brings a largely unpunctuated and lyric flow of observation and thought. There is no plot in the accepted sense of the term although there is a progression in the relationship of the narrator and the young woman who ends up in the narrator’s apartment. In place of plot we have a studiedly precise description of a gritty life-style. It is a sufficient answer to pretensions and falsity in the dominant culture, sick with its material glut and fast food ethics. Through the narrator’s reflections we accumulate an unusually exact understanding of his aims and character. His life is not pretty and he may waver and wobble but he is grounded in honesty. He waves illusion away and sees life with a directness and acceptance that is refreshing and, rightly apprehended, renewing."BOB WILLIAMS - THE COMPULSIVE READER -"...all senses are satisfied when reading this piece..."
Sara Calnek - The Projector
The Beautiful, Wandering Flow
"About a girl" is a book that will waft the stench of smoke and liquor right up your nostrils and leave you begging for more. It is so vivid, so real, that the true sense of a dingy downtown bar will invade your inner soul. "About a girl" will transport you into the world of a pub crawl that begins in the early afternoon and ends when the bouncer shoves you out the door.
The book is about two strangers, a man and a woman, who meet at a bus-stop. The story is told in the first person from a point of view of the man who describes their journey from one downtown Winnipeg bar to the next and all the fascinating characters they meet along the way. By the end, your heart bleeds rock-rhythim guitar and you feel an overwhelming urge to stop for a drink at the nearest bar. Written in spontaneous prose with sentences that go on for pages the book flows beautifully, free, rebellious and alive. The book reads like random thoughts - all thoughts, even the wicked - frantically scribbled onto the page, not one tiny detail overlooked. All of the senses are satisfied when reading this piece. This is a raunchy read, laced with profanities - exactly the language you would hear at any licensed establishment.
All in all, this book is an insightful view into a life of free spirits who live day-to-day and love every minute of it. It provides the reader with inspiring and uplifting thoughts combined with an urge to spark up a conversation with a stranger over a drink or two or three...
Sara Calnek - The ProjectorEXCERPT FROM ABOUT A GIRL:Winter day at bus-stop hands in pockets puffing smoke thinking ‘bout a bike I had as a kid in this very neighborhood, retarded boy named Ken used to challenge me to race wobbling from side to side as he rode making car sounds on that old fucking thing basket in front, “rooom roooom” “come on retard boy, that all you got?” racing down Garwood Avenue that crazy loon flying right by me up to corner then back and forth laughing like the world is all right and it’s there just for us my mother on front porch shaking her fist at me “beep beep” goes Ken, I’m thinking about this at bus-stop mid-day streets alive with furious wanton music, young woman shows up out of the darkness “hello” lights cigarette, winter day gray and shady,
“So who are you?” she says as the lights go wiry,
“Uh-huh, oh yeah”
“I turned 23 yesterday”
Old lady walks by well-scrubbed pink tragic like the sun she smiles at us young woman beside me we’re talking high-speed ‘bout local bands booze on her breath I should be going home on call for work security guard at downtown high-rise she’s smiling big black hair we’re on the bus going through little Italy restaurants bars cafes go by in a blur I’m telling her I used to play guitar in a band her green eyes light up “should have known” she says,
“Why, cuz I got long hair?”
“Yes”
She pulls a mickey out of her knapsack takes a swig hands it to me I decline, think about it, then I take a sip bus racing through The Osborne Village artsy part of town funky shops black clothes mohawk kids begging for money guy with glasses throws up on corner,
“Where you goin’?” she says
I explain the work thing gotta sit by the phone in case they need me, got an hour to kill she’s looking for CD’s, likes That Petrol Emotion and The Violent Femmes, going to that second-hand music place downtown lady on bus starts singing Old Man River I laugh alive in love, my friend beside me laughs too applies deep red lip-stick snow piled high on the boulevard cruising down The Osborne Bridge sweating in our winter jackets bus cramped and tired nippin’ vodka between the sheets my friend looking brave and thinking, she’s reciting a Black Flag song whistling in the wind, howling at the septic tank says she used to live in Toronto hates it grew up on Indian Reserve called Pukatawagan says Winnipeg really works for her, really like The Peg she says, guy snoring behind us, bus-driver taking crazy turns announcing each corner with lame-ass joke crowd laughing like derelicts my friend looks at me crosses her eyes sticks her tongue out I feel my ass-cheeks rumble, damn...
“Ever been to The Canadian Shield?” she says,
“Oh yeah”
Gust of wind gives Cocker Spaniel on corner a mouth full of snow few guys on bus start laughing shiny hair suburban nightmares my friend comments on them doesn’t like that type big fucking deal I say do you listen to Brave new Waves? Sure thing she says, new band called The White Stripes pretty good love that three chord unorthodox rock and roll...similar to what The Pixies did I say,
“No one’s as good as The Pixies” she says
Approaching downtown the drunks come out middle of the afternoon stumbling through parking lots and construction sites she digs it says life is about this takes another sip of vodka I join her people on the bus take notice driver looking at us in mirror let’s get off I say...heel-toe-express down the downtown streets chinese guy parking car reminds me of something I can’t remember my friend exactly same height as me short parka with hood tight blue jeans beautiful winter I’m thinking breath comes out in clouds we live one step at a time caught in the shit of things stick and move monkey man on high wind tears out brain things as usual he says, business guy walking fast briefcase dangling I point to a mall then past it to a small bar hungover mohawk-kid in front wrapping his jacket around him lighting cigarette,
“Let’s go there” I say,
“Juicy” she says
Crossing the street people lined up like tombstones woman laughing alone in storefront, car slides on ice tilting to one side then regains focus me and young friend skip by whistling some pirate idiocy she grabs my jacket from behind we do the alternative-rock-hurly-burly, I’m thinking of this young guy I used to know at University, young writer had a chapbook published we talked the writing talk during English lectures and over coffee, I think of his beautiful green eyes and vague suburban looks, you never had it buddy, that’s all there is to it, door opens into smoky room smell of beer and maybe a touch of urine on Fort Street middle of the day,
“Two drafts” I say to the bartender old drinker
VLT’s making sounds people gambling for that one last thing, long narrow bar booths hugging the walls place full of drinking laughing end-of-the-line types, my friend talking to one of them waving her hands one leg leaning forward my eyes follow the line of the thigh in those tight denims, the ass-cheeks reaching for the sky like a basketball in mid-motion, I reach her point to a booth we sit and smile drink and talk rebel and curse I’m looking at my watch thinking about work gotta get home soon my friend keeps talking,
“I remember this bar in Toronto where all the alternative bands played”
“What kind of bands?”
“Bourbon Tabernacle Choir, King Apparatus, Bob’s Your Uncle, New Duncan Imperials...”
“Seen them all here at The Spectrum”
“Love The Spectrum...rock and roll isn’t as dead as people think”
I think about that with a cigarette in one hand and a draft in the other looking around blue smoke curling to the ceiling at every table,
“Do you realize next week smoking in bars is gonna be banned?” she says,
“All the charm in the world disappearing one chunk at a time”
“Bars with no cigarettes...”
“Seems a bit insane, doesn’t it?”
Having this sit-down with young broad from bus-stop full of electricity and territorial rock and roll obsessions chain-smoking in the gray dimness of an afternoon bar jaunt comparing guitar riffs from different records arguing at every turn I get lost in those deep red headlights without being pretentious, without any specific desire or belief, adrift in the cigarette butts and punk-rock ashtrays young fellow with shaved head asks for smoke I give him one as he walks away,
“See?” she says “you see?”
Sanctimonious little wench I’m thinking ‘bout the space between the table and her crotch, huge black hair making shadows I have her undivided attention waving my hands distant crazy talking like the devil in chinos, one cigarette goes out another is lit she listens as well as she talks rare species this Indian beauty cutting me off describing Northern Manitoba living on The Rez wild immaculate,
“Wait” I say “wait”
“Your turn Ziggy”...
Long green carpet cigarette burns narrow place old bartender taking shots with the patrons fucking freezing outside misunderstood and hazy we order our second drink young goth types share a booth serious confused deep sorry amber reaching for drinks leather wristbands thinking sex and words and bullet holes...got no time or concern for the problems of the world, living pure and uncaring is what I want, not selfish but PURE, seemingly cold and distant but actually alive and understanding and unwilling to shut my eyes to true human nature, middle-aged waitress serving cheap draft in tall glasses gnarly fingers wrapped tight my friend slurping beer eyes laughing, says Elvis Costello is the real king of rock absolute expression on her face takes off parka wearing black turtleneck shows me a joint in her Du Maurier pack I nod she follows me out we’re in back alley fire-escapes and broken bottles sirens in the distance puffing on joint sweet fire down my throat she punches my arm lightly starts coughing up a lung, I kick a pile of snow sun starting to rear its head through dark clouds, she takes my hand we turn the corner, light a smoke, throat burning, thirsty eyes watering, open door walk inside, our booth with full ashtray, half empty draft glasses, sit down my queen, let’s continue...
“Don’t like this hip-hop bullshit” she says “it’s worse than that seventies shit”
“There was some good music in the seventies, if you can sift through that self-indulgent arena crap”
“Sorry but a twenty minute guitar solo with a violin bow doesn’t do it for me”
“Like I said, skip that bullshit, listen to Alex Harvey and Lou Reed, guitar solos or not”
“You wanna buy some pot?”
“You got some?”
“That’s what I do for a living, got a gram of black hash too”
Blast from the past comes up to me, tall black guy with dreads red eyes,
“Hey man!”
We do the street handshake, he takes a seat
“How goes it?” I say
“Just got in from Toronto...hate this fucking city”
“Why’d you come back?”
“Got caught with a gun...had to split”
“What’s your beef with The Peg?”
“It’s a fucking waste zone, nothing to do, no night-shit experience, no bitches here to fuck, no nothing”
I look at my friend no expression on her face guy continues,
“Was in the joint for awhile, no bullshit in there man, no bitches...”
“Still playing guitar?”
“Yeah, you?”
“Not professionally anymore, for fun”
“You should have never quit man, lotsa bitches in rock and roll...got any blow?”
“Don’t do that shit...”
“What do you do?”
“Just pot and booze”
“And bitches” says my female friend
Guy starts eyeing her up and down always was dangerous type of freak, he’s looking with x-ray gunshot eyes, she’s looking back not a hint of fear or shame bold pouty lips teeth clenched in laughter guy walks away all street and hustle macho confusion full-of-shit-motherfucker bus-stop-girl starts talking again like he was never here got boyfriend back in Toronto but,
“It’s not very good, not very good at all”
“It rarely is” I say “rarely under the sun and damn the laughter anyway”
“So where do you live?”
“By Central Park in a highrise”
“The one with the Mac’s store attached to it, or the other one?”
“The Mac’s store”
“Pretty rough neighborhood, got a girlfriend?”
“No, no, like I said, damn the laughter”
“I’m one hundred percent monogamous”
“That’s a bit conservative, isn’t it?”
“Conservative hell, how about you?”
“Maybe not one hundred percent, but monogamy really works for me...”
“Let’s have a shot of Sambuca, ya dig?”
Couple of freaks sipping on Sambuca and cheap draft is what we are and always will be old fuck tired drunk stumbles past us orders whiskey shot other guy playing sport- select greasy hair parted on side, my friend crosses her legs touches my foot under table wave of sexual tension up my spine cigarettes mix with afternoon derision while waitress in baggy pants waves a hand and smiles at native couple in the corner, Filipino plugging the jukebox, white-man pacing up and down looking wired and electric, far in the back musician tunes his six-string, jazz in smoky room cliched and alive waiting on the job ain’t no damn good, neither is sailing the seven seas sober and unhinged, she makes music singing without singing, doing without doing, wild day in the sunlight of afternoon barroom, she makes me crazy young beautiful left of normal, continue I say, continue,
“I don’t mind jazz but I need some rock and roll right now, got a loony?”
I flip her one she glides to the juke in slow motion easy vibration full of curves and attitude black boots sliding across the cigarette butts almost clumsy, almost perfect, chinaman hogs space she motions him aside they laugh and talk she makes her selection CCR shaking her hips back to our table I get up, rotate, sit back down, cigarette between my fingers beer in hand mind confident shifting from this to that wave of energy slices across the room she’s laughing loud and insane and wild and desperate and separate ideas with nowhere to go spin like death illusion strawberry vodka twist of ice Patty Smidtch down the turnstile,
“You’re much more than a security guard” she says,
“I don’t think so”
“Don’t give me this modest bullshit”
“You can go fuck yourself”
“I like fucking myself, want another draft?”
“Yeah, sorry about the fucking yourself remark...I’m a writer”
“Anything published?”
“A novel, a few chapbooks, strictly underground...more to come”
“Here’s to more to come”
“Cen’t anni”
We hit glasses like regular drinking fools around the world more native guys come through the door beautiful long black hair old woman with cane follows trailing mud and snow from outside cook in stained white apron serving cheeseburger and fries and coleslaw,
“I know that cook” I say “jammed with him a couple of times at parties”
“Let me guess...he’s a bass player”
“Drummer...”
“The hell with him”
www.myspace.com/tnescaABOUT A GIRL
PUBLISHED BY SCREAMIN' SKULL PRESS
COPYRIGHT 2004
FULL REVIEWS AND ALTERNATE ORDERING METHODS AVAILABLE AT:
www.www.myspace.com/tnesca ---
www.editred.com/nesca ---
www.lulu.com/nesca ---(TO ORDER BOTH HARD COPIES AND E-BOOKS) -
Books can also be ordered by cash or M.O. from Screamin' Skull Press
Contact stalekisses@hotmail.com
Tony Nesca was born in Torino, Italy in 1965 and moved to Canada at the age of three. He was raised in Winnipeg but relocated back to Italy several times until finally settling in Winnipeg in 1980. He taught himself how to play guitar and formed an original rock band playing the local bars for several years. At the age of twenty-seven he traded his guitar for a Commodore 64 and started writing seriously. He has published six chapbooks of stories and poems, five novels, two books of poetry and has been an active contributor to the underground lit scene for ten years, being published in innumerable magazines both online and in print. He resides in Winnipeg.
