Mad diary of malcolm mal.., p.1
Mad Diary of Malcolm Malarkey, page 1
Praise for Mark Axelrod
“An innovative writer, with a postmodern inclination for exotic linguistic labyrinths of the mind into which he loves to encapsulate his own tormented fantasies.”
—World Literature Today
“A different voice in North American Writing … a very special, poignant sense of humor.”
—Luisa Valenzuela
“The Mad Diary of Malcolm Malarkey is a bizarre and unclassifiable novel that targets, and surpasses, the post-postmodern. An Irish character in the tradition of Beckett.”
—Claudio Magris
“When I read Axelrod, it means being caught in a whirlwind of extraordinary, brilliant and passionately ironic inventions and I cannot escape a deep feeling of joy: no one like him makes me travel inside the secrets of literature, in an exciting game of mirrors where I glimpse the shadows of the beloved Sterne, Borges, and Calvino.”
—Steven Conte
“With a carefree and eclectic attitude, Axelrod tears up the codes and traditions of American literary traditions and throws the reader into a mocking and learned journey that can only be born from a great love for European literature of past centuries. Malarkey is a character who belongs in the pantheon of eccentric literary characters”
—Dacia Maraini
Other Books By Mark Axelrod
CARDBOARD CASTLES, Old Lion Press, 2022.
UNTHEORIES OF FICTION: LITERARY ESSAYS FROM
DIDEROT TO DAVID MARKSON (Palgrave Macmillan)
NOTIONS OF OTHERNESS: LITERARY ESSAYS FROM
ABRAHAM CAHAN TO DACIA MARAINI Anthem Publishing
MADNESS IN FICTION: LITERARY ESSAYS FROM POE TO
FOWLES Palgrave Macmillan.
BALZAC’S COFFEE, DAVINCI’S RISTORANTE Verbivoracious
Press.
SUPERMAN IN AMERICA & OTHER ABSURD PLAYS Black
Scat Press.
POETICS OF PROSE: LITERARY ESSAYS FROM LERMONTOY
TO CALVINO Palgrave Macmillan.
DANTE’S FOIL & OTHER SPORTING TALES Black Scat Press.
MILAN PANIC: THE LITTLE IMMIGRANT FROM SERBIA,
AUTHORIZED BIOGRAPHY. Peter Lang Press.
NOTIONS OF THE FEMININE: LITERARY ESSAYS FROM
LAWRENCE TO LACAN, Palgrave Pivot.
NO SYMBOLS WHERE NONE INTENDED: LITERARY ESSAYS
FROM IBSEN TO BECKETT. Palgrave Pivot.
WAITING FOR GODEAU, (Translation of the Balzac play,
Mercadet, The Good Businessman) Black Scat Press.
CONSTRUCTING DIALOGUE: FROM CITIZEN KANE TO
MIDNIGHT IN PARIS. Continuum Press.
ANGELINA’S LIPS by Giuseppe Conte, Edited w/ Introduction
Guernica Publishing.
VIAJES BORGES, TALLERES HEMINGWAY Editorial Thule,
Barcelona, Spain.
I READ IT AT THE MOVIES Heinemann Publishing.
BORGES” TRAVEL, HEMINGWAY’S GARAGE
Fiction Collective 2
CHARACTER & CONFLICT: CORNERSTONES OF
SCREENWRITING Heinemann Publishing.
ASPECTS OF THE SCREENPLAY Heinemann Publishing.
CAPITAL CASTLES Pacific Writers Press.
THE POETICS OF NOVELS: Fiction & Its Execution Macmillan
Press.
CLOUD CASTLES Pacific Writers Press.
CARDBOARD CASTLES Pacific Writers Press.
BOMBAY CALIFORNIA; OR. HOLLYWOOD SOMEWHERE
WEST OF VINE Pacific Writers Press.
THE POLITICS OF STYLE IN THE FICTION OF BALZAC,
BECKETT & CORTÁZAR Macmillan Publishing.
THE MAD DIARY OF
MALCOLM
MALARKEY
D.LITT
By Mark Axelrod
Copyright © 2023 by Mark Axelrod
First edition
All rights reserved
Paperback: 978-1-62897-442-3
Ebook: 978-1-62897-469-0
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data: Available.
Cover design by Eric Chimenti
Cover art © Alejandro Biom
Interior design by Anuj Mathur
www.dalkeyarchive.com
Dallas / Dublin
Printed on permanent/durable acid-free paper.
For Aylan Kurdi, the saddest of sad lives torn asunder.
In memory of John O’Brien, a man of many letters, a
literary giant in his own right.
ACT ONE
IN THE BELLY OF
THE ACADEMY; OR,
AFTER MANY A
SEMESTER DIES THE
PROF
“No symbols where none intended.”
—Samuel Beckett
CHAPTER ONE
WHO I AM, WHY THE FUCK SHOULD YOU CARE & WHY IS THIS CHAPTER TITLE TYPED IN COURIER?*
My name is Malcolm Malarkey. My father was Leopold Bloom. My mother was Molly Bloom. (Metaphorically speaking.) I changed my name from Bloom to Malarkey because Bloom changed his name from Malarkey to Bloom and I didn’t want to be associated with my father. Couldn’t deal with his slovenliness. His eating with relish the inner organs of beasts and fowls. His keenness for thick giblet soup, nutty gizzards, a stuffed roast heart, liver slicesfried with crustcrumbs, fried hencods’ roes. Most of all he liked grilled mutton kidneys, which gave to his palate a fine tang of faintly scented urine. If the Reader gets the allusion, an “A” for you; if not, read on. Malarkey used to smoke too much, drink too much and fuck too much. Malarkey still doesn’t take vitamins, eats dollops of butter, extra slices of bread: three, four, maybe an entire baguette: right, and pisses in public if he has to, since it doesn’t make any difference anymore. You see, Malarkey suffers from that most fatal of all diseases: birth.
This mad diary begins on Carmel Beach just before sunset. If you can’t imagine Carmel Beach, just before sunset then google the fucking place. It’s one of the most beautiful places on earth and yet, to me, what is this quintessence of dust? Man delights not me; no, nor woman neither, well, maybe not women; though by your smiling, dear Reader, you seem to say so. Imagine that you see Malarkey from behind as he stares out to sea. The shot looks almost like a postcard with Malarkey standing as a lone figure on the deserted white Carmel sands as the sun slowly sets on the horizon. The only sound you can hear is that of the sea breaking onto the shore. Now imagine your eyes as if they were a camera lens that slowly approaches Malarkey and begins to circle him 180 degrees until you see him from the front: his gray shaggy hair cut closely to the scalp, his gray eyebrows, a scruffy gray beard; he’s dressed somewhat shabbily, carelessly, a faded-green corduroy sport coat with patched elbows, a fading blue work shirt, with missing buttons, faded jeans. He’s pondering whatever needs to be pondered. More than likely: Weltschmerz, but not necessarily. Weltschmerz can be confused with mere pondering and confusing the two can lead to world woe.
Let’s cut from the beach and now imagine the neo-classical Greek pediment of a college building that bears the name etched in peeling plaster: Citrus City College with the letters Cit-Ci dangling precariously before falling off leaving only the name: Rusty College. That’s where Malarkey works. It is early September at Citrus City College, and classes have begun a few weeks earlier. Now imagine a panoramic view of a bucolic, Southern California college campus beautifully and meticulously landscaped with dozens of Latino gardeners dressed in Armani suits and ties (furnished by the administration) pruning what always needs constant pruning in order to give students and/or potential parents of potential students the unmitigated perception that the campus is fraught with the diligence of beauty and perfection, a testament to the outrageous tuition that parents of future students or students of the future will have to pay. That is, about $250K for four years of privileged learning.
Imagine, too, dozens of students mingling on the campus green, tossing Frisbees as others ride penny skateboards who don’t care about avoiding hitting other students; still other students walk silently from class to class, heads bent, ear buds in place, attending to their mobile phones as they bump into each other, like dodgems, but without the slightest reaction: bump and move on, bump again, move more. Imagine too several professors lying prostrate on the pavement after being nailed by said students on penny skateboards. Some, unconscious, some, barely conscious, attempting to lift themselves before being pummeled to the ground once again by said penny skateboarders. Just a sign of the times.
Now imagine a classroom building sign that reads: Morbittity Hall named after one of the major college donors, Uriah Morbittity, who made his Orange County millions as an entrepreneur on the cutting edge of automatic urinal flushers (the Uriah Automatic Urinal Flusher) and then imagine that you slowly elevate from the ground floor of that white neo-classical building up to and stop at a second-floor window before peering into a class already in session. There you will see Professor Malcolm Malarkey standing, now without a scruffy beard, but still dressed somewhat shabbily, carelessly, in a green corduroy sport coat with patched elbows, fading blue work shirt, with missing buttons, jeans, and a pair of well-worn Boston Celtics’ green Converse basketball shoes. Imagine too that Malarkey speaks with an Irish accent, that he doesn’t suffer fools gladly and, after teaching for decades, that he rarely minces words. As Malarkey turns from a whiteboard to a lectern imagine that Malarkey is clearly agitated.
“Do any of you read? I’m sure you remember the drill. You start from the upper left-hand side of the page, move to the upper right-hand side of the page. When the
One nineteen-year-old student, named Matthew, Malarkey’s best student and if one were going to stereotype people could, by appearance and manner alone, be considered gay, raises his hand in answer to Malarkey’s query.
“Thank you, Matthew, I appreciate your help, but it was a rhetorical question.”
Matthew smiles and lowers his hand.
“Are you all so fucking lazy even a novella renders you hapless if not helpless? We’re studying Franny and Zoey for God’s sake, not Finnegans Wake or Giles Goat-Boy! Salinger couldn’t write anything more than Catcher in the fucking Rye and Franny and Zoey or that patently stupid ‘A Perfect Day for Bananafish’ whatever the fuck that is, so don’t make this superb creation of fiction out to be something more than it is!”
The students are bored, they appear to have heard it all before, and look anywhere, but at Malarkey. Some are enraptured with their cell phones, fondling them, rubbing them against their cheeks, thighs, nuzzling them, gazing wantonly at them as if they were a potential sexual partner; some are texting someone somewhere, perhaps someone in the same classroom with some life-sustaining message about an upcoming festival at Coachella or if they’ve tweeted recently or have they seen what Kim Kardashian was wearing on Instagram and whether there was a side-boob shot or not; one student picks his nose and looks at it as if it were a sculpture by Boccioni; another rearranges her halter top making sure her cleavage is appropriately exposed, but no one other than Matthew pays attention to Malarkey. Imagine, too, a muscular young man named Wilson wearing a too tight, Property of Citrus City College Football T-shirt, leaning back in his desk, arms behind his head flexing his bulging biceps as if in training for Mr. Olympia or attempting to impress the student with the halter-top making sure her cleavage is appropriately exposed.
“Why are you even here?” Malarkey asks.
Matthew again raises his hand.
“Thank you, Matthew; once again, it’s rhetorical.”
Matthew smiles and lowers his hand.
“Don’t waste your parents’ money. If you don’t want to be here, become plumbers, electricians, masons, even pimps, just be bloody good at whatever it is.”
Malarkey shakes his head and looks up at the clock, which reads 10:50, and at that precise moment, a bell rings.
“Class dismissed, go skateboard or whatever the fuck you do with your lives,” he mumbles to himself.
Malarkey turns back to the whiteboard on which something has been written, something that can’t quite be made out. He picks up an eraser as if to erase the board as the students file out in relative silence, some stifling a laugh, some making faces at him behind his back, as Too-Tight Wilson cockily approaches Malarkey with a rolled-up essay in hand slapping it on his fist almost as if an homage to John Wooden.
“Yo, prof,” Wilson begins.
Now Malarkey doesn’t acknowledge Wilson immediately, but cringes at the lack of respect. It’s another reminder that students are considered “customers” and faculty are “employees” and, as a former dean once admonished Malarkey, “The customer is always right.” But it’s better than the time a student screamed at him across campus, “Hey, Malarkey, how’s it hangin’!” as he grabbed his genitals. He glances over his shoulder with the slightest smirk on his face since he anticipates what’s to follow.
“Yes, Wilson. What can I do for you?”
“I was wondering why I got such a low grade.”
Wilson taps the paper on his fist again.
“Were you now?”
“Yes, I was wondering. Looked good to me.”
“Right. Well, let me clarify your wonder, Wilson. Your paper is, well, how can I put it succinctly and, in a way a post-Millennial will understand … it’s shit.Yes, that’s the word. It’s shit. Have I sufficiently satisfied your wonderment?” Malarkey smiles and raises his eyebrows.
“But …”
“There are no buts, Wilson! You don’t know the difference between a Pindaric ode and a nematode! Your grammar and syntax are deplorable, and your proofreading skills are abysmal! Even your dog wouldn’t eat that paper!”
Malarkey smiles and raises his eyebrows once again. Taken aback, his cockiness gone, Wilson storms out of the classroom noticeably angry. Malarkey starts to erase the whiteboard, stops again and looks directly into the eyes of you, the Reader.
“Right. You’re probably saying to yourself ‘what a horrible professor! Where’s his understanding? His compassion? His interest in his students’ welfare? What an unconscionable thing to say. These young adults are the hope of our future, the leaders of tomorrow, the intellects of a brighter Utopia.’ But that’s not the question you should be asking. No, the question you should be asking as a parent is this: What was I doing when my child learned how to be functionally illiterate and academically and socially irresponsible. And if you’re a student, you should be asking: Since when was there a plague on the art of reading? Milton may have been blind when he wrote, ‘A good book is the precious life blood of a master spirit,’ but he wasn’t demented.”
Malarkey raises his eyebrows, shrugs, turns back to the whiteboard to erase it, changes his mind and tosses the eraser on the floor as he leaves. On the white board one reads in bold caps:
“WHAT’S IT GOING TO BE THEN, EH?”
Coda
*The reason the chapter title is typed in Courier New is to let you, the Reader, know Malarkey is using the painfully old metonymical cliché that by using such a font, which is an old-fashioned typewriter font, it implies he’s a writer. Though Malarkey does use a typewriter, he also uses a computer, but since everyone likes to think writers don’t use computers, but still use typewriters, Malarkey typed the chapter title in Courier New to lead you to believe that it’s the only writerly tool he ever uses. That’s bullshit and it will not happen again except in the briefest of circumstances, so Malarkey begs for the Reader’s indulgence.
CHAPTER TWO
AND HERE’S TO YOU, CHANCELLOR JONES
Imagine now, that you’re standing outside the Chancellor’s office—since Malarkey wasn’t going to get away with what transpired in the previous chapter. The nameplate on the door reads, Chancellor J.E. Jones. Johnny Jones for those who know him best. Played basketball at Michigan State. You enter the office of the Chancellor to discover Malarkey slouching in a chair opposite the fifty-something, African-American Jones who’s fashionably dressed in what appears to be an Armani suit, white shirt, and tie, and Italian, black-framed glasses; he’s a somewhat robust man, salt-andpepper hair, with a salt-and-pepper beard and speaks in a soothing baritone voice not unlike Keith David.
“Malcolm, you can’t say that.”
“It’s the bloody truth. They don’t know a thing.”
At that point, Malarkey pretends he’s a student and changes the pitch of his voice an octave. “‘But Professor Malarkey, why is there so much ironing in Sophocles?’ Ironing? In Sophocles? Right, I almost forgot Sophocles had a dry-cleaning business: Alterations by Antigone, Embroidery by Electra, Overlays by Oedipus. What the fuck is that all about!”
“You may know that, and I may know that, Malcolm, but there’s a right way and a wrong way to go about telling that to students.”
“Don’t tell me. Was that the wrong way?” Malarkey feigns shock.
“It could be considered a micro-aggression,” says Jones.
“Wha? Micro-aggression? What the fuck is that? Is that aggression performed under a microscope?”
“No, Malcolm. Malcolm you’ve got to be more in control of your reactions.”
“My reactions.”
“Yes, you can go off in a New York second.”
“Minute.”
“What?” Jones furrows his forehead.
“It’s a New York minute. When was the last fucking time you were in New York?”
