Lost Author — David McCord
It was the early 1990’s and I was reading all the things I could find. I found a copy of The World Owes Me Lunch, by David McCord, in the collective bookshop in the Haight. A book of short stories, The World blew my mind in several ways.
This was my first experience with a very small press, and I had had no idea that such wild and subversive and raw stories were “allowed.” McCord’s heart and blood were on those pages. Many of the stories, if not all, were fictionalized autobiographies, which I did not know until later, and I felt reality blur as I read — it was confusing, it was exhilarating, it was magic.
David’s work was, as I said, raw. It was complete, but I could tell he was at the beginning of what -if there’s any justice in the world — would be a tremendous literary legacy. Now we have things like Cherry, by Nico Walker, detailing thinly-veiled experiences. Then, not so much outside of the Beats, and certainly none so honest as McCord.
There was an address (snail mail) at the end of the book inviting comments from readers. I wrote. He answered. After a few exchanges, we got together one day and went for a walk in the Oakland Cemetery with his girlfriend, L. He was very quiet-spoken, and she was lovely. They both seemed a bit disconnected, which I later found out was due to drug use and depression, which travel hand-in-hand far too often.
He had another book I’d read before we met, Exercising Demons. We were looking out over the city while sitting on the graveyard hill and he shyly asked, “Did you get it? Exercising demons. Not exorcising?” He laughed a little. I told him I did, and that it was clever. I got that, but I missed a lot.
At the time, I was pretty naive, but in retrospect there is so much I wish I’d caught. I don’t think things would have turned out differently for him if I had, but you never know.
We continued to communicate — letters, mostly, but sometimes by phone, and I ready all of his books. Each one showed an original mind, deep feelings, and huge compassion. But pain, so much pain. That he was able to write at all seemed a miracle. That he did was a blessing for those of us who got to read his work.
Then there was a phone call, but not from him. It was his father, who told my mother that David had died. They mailed me an obituary, but refused any further communication. I don’t know what we would have said to each other anyway.
They had had a plan, L and he. It was his plan more than hers. If he didn’t feel better by 30, they would die. He did, I won’t go into details. L did not, thank goodness, as she was scared of the noise involved. I hope she’s all right now.
There were some very strong demons involved.
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I spent years angry about all of this. Angry at him, angry for him. Angry for the stories we lost in losing him. Decades later my anger is mutated into sorrow, and, obviously, I still think of him.
I wonder at how many are lost. His stories-that-could-have-been haunt me, but I know there are so many who never even get to put out a book at all, are never heard from, who can’t write for reasons beyond their control but who have stories to tell and no one to hear.
https://suicidepreventionlifeline.org Or 1–800–273-TALK (8255)
https://www.nami.org/Home I can attest to their helpfulness and compassion.
Stick around to tell your story.
Please
Originally published at: https://gobackandread.wordpress.com/
