Philip Cioffari, author of If Anyone Asks, Say I Died from the Heartbreaking Blues, writes of character and the way life and writing fuse to build a story.
The main character, Joey “Hunt” Hunter, in my coming-of-age novel, If Anyone Asks, Say I Died from the Heartbreaking Blues (Livingston Press, 2020), came into being over a period of many years. My earliest stories featured young boys in the 10-15 year-old range. These too, for the most part, were coming-of-age stories, usually involving a boy’s being thrust into a confrontation—sometimes at his own instigation and sometimes by the external forces of fate—with some aspect of the adult world. The emotional crux of these stories was the collision of innocence, naïveté, and curiosity with the harsher elements of human existence. By and large, these confrontations had negative consequences.
But I think these boys—in their openness to life, their unarticulated early hopes and desires—served as the basis for Hunt’s character. Though they suffered for their experiences, they came through them—if not unscathed, at least not destroyed. In short, they were survivors.
It has always been a curiosity to me why these early stories were as dark as they were. After all, my own childhood was what I would consider relatively normal. It did, however, contain some familiar obstacles—after-school bullying, feelings of self-doubt and inadequacy, perhaps a greater than normal sense of isolation from my peers—and maybe those things were at the heart of the darkness that I wasn’t conscious of, that is, until I started writing.
When the character of Hunt began making itself known to me, though, it came from a different consciousness. I wanted to take a lighter, more humorous look at the teenage experience. And I knew early on that Hunt would take me there. He possessed some of the same characteristics as my other youthful characters, in that he was basically good-hearted with a deeply-felt sense of compassion; he was full of hope and energy and curiosity and determination. What was different this time around was my attitude toward the experiences he struggles to find his way through.
Although he must deal with the loss of his younger brother, a loss that at the beginning of the novel he is not yet able to accept, his other struggles—with a girlfriend who dumps him, with his self-doubt and sense of inadequacy—I saw this time around in comic terms. It was as if my perspective had grown large enough to accommodate a more layered view of youthful pain. Yes, childhood had its dark side; but it also, if you took a step back, was pretty amusing too. And that, of course, is closer to the true nature of reality—its complexity and contradictions—than my original, unilateral view of it.
I guess I have age to thank for that, and because I’m a slow learner—slow developer might be a more accurate term—I’m more than a little embarrassed to acknowledge it took me so long to get to this point.
Nonetheless, I think I’ve arrived and as a consequence, the scenes involving Hunt’s awkwardness with girls and those involving his combative relationship to the neighborhood toughs, and even his battles with himself—his self-doubt—I tried to make as comic as they are heartbreaking.
EXCERPT
If Anyone Asks Say I Died from the Heartbreaking Blues
The Bronx. June 22nd, 1960
Joey Hunter, known in the neighborhood as Hunt, turned eighteen the day of his senior prom, the most hopeful day of his young life—or so he believed—because it would be his first date with Debby Ann Murphy.
That morning he waited in his Religion in Society class as Brother Aloysius James, blond hair ascending in waves from his soft pink forehead, clapped his hands to call them to attention. Forty boys, paired into reluctant couples, glared at Brother from either end of the St. Helena’s Boys’ Division basketball court, their faces in the gym’s unflattering light a mix of curiosity, amusement, resentment and outrage.
“Why we gotta do this?” from Kevin Flanagan, his face dominated by little red volcanoes.
“Why can’t we use real girls?” This time the question came from Hunt’s assigned partner, Sal Buccarelli, first string varsity linebacker, known on the gridiron as Sal the Butcher and, in the after-school hours, as leader of a local gang of would-be toughs called the Brandos.
Brother Aloysius turned to face Sal of the massive shoulders. “We want you to be ready for them, that’s why. Tonight at the prom we want you all to behave like the gentlemen we know you can be.” And not the hairy apes you so often are, his muttered aside so soft only Hunt caught it.
Brother flicked the switch on the turntable, set the needle delicately on the vinyl: the trombone sound of Moonlight Serenade filled the gym’s barren spaces. Never mind that the big band era had passed, that the boys before him were now dancing to Bill Haley and the Comets, this—Brother believed—was music with elegance and grace. He saw it as his duty to bring civilization to their imprisoned, barbarian hearts. “I need a volunteer,” he called out sharply.
Instinctively he turned to Hunt.
“Oh no, Brother. I’m always the girl. Sal never lets me be the guy.”
With relief, Hunt watched Brother re-direct his attention to Sal. Something about the over-sized, lumbering linebacker and self-proclaimed gang leader—with a face the texture of stucco and eyes the color of an overcast sky—being led around the gym in the feminine role seemed to tickle Brother’s fancy. “Sallie,” he said, using the nickname Sal detested.
“Nah, Brudda. Not me. Not me.”
But Brother Aloysius marched to him, bowed briefly and said in a loud clear voice, “May I have the honor of this dance?” He cupped his hand firmly around Sal’s waist. “Hand on her hip,” he instructed the class, “not where you’d like it to be, ha-ha. Your touch should be firm but gentle. Take her right hand, extend your arm and lead her, glide her, into the music. At the prom tonight, apply the moral standards we’ve discussed in class. Treat her with respect. Treat her like she was your sister.”
A collective groan rose around him.
Brother Aloysius, one eye on the less-than-graceful technique of the boys dancing under the back boards and along the foul lines, confided to Hunt later that waltzing with Sal Buccarelli was like pulling a two-ton truck though a muddy ditch. Hunt could empathize. Being shoved around the dance floor by Sal was like being rammed by a two-ton truck. Mid-song, Brother guided Sal back to Hunt, muttering before he turned away because he couldn’t help himself, “You big oaf.”
Sal directed his response to Hunt, as if he were the source of the insult. “I ain’t no loaf.”
“Oaf,” Hunt corrected him. “He called you a big oaf.”
And for that clarification, Hunt was rewarded with a bloody nose, compliments of Sal during lunch break, as soon as they were out of sight of Brother Aloysius who had cafeteria duty that day.
More bad luck soon followed.
PHILIP CIOFFARI grew up in the Bronx. He is the author of the novels: CATHOLIC BOYS; DARK ROAD, DEAD END; JESUSVILLE; THE BRONX KILL; and the story collection, A HISTORY OF THINGS LOST OR BROKEN, which won the Tartt First Fiction Prize, and the D.H. Lawrence Award. His stories have appeared widely in anthologies, literary journals and commercial magazines. He wrote and directed the independent feature film, LOVE IN THE AGE OF DION, which won a number of film festival awards, including Best Picture at the Long Island International Film Expo, and Best Director at the NY Film & Video Festival. He is professor of English at William Paterson University in New Jersey. Visit his website for more information on his publications and his events.