By
Gregg Podolski
Soon after they are joined by an old, skinny gentleman in glasses and a no-nonsense tough guy in a leather coat who looks more than a little like Mel Gibson. Or perhaps Jason Statham. Maybe even Mark Wahlberg. There are other patrons in the bar—it’s packed, actually—but those five voices stand out above the din. At least, they do to me.
I’m easy to miss in the crowd. See the bearded guy with long hair and a Dad-bod standing over in the corner, taking copious notes? That’s me. They don’t even know I’m here, but that’s no surprise, considering none of us are really here. The bar doesn’t even exist, except in my own head. Call it The Tavern of Inspiration. Or maybe something less on the nose. Either way, it’s a really cool place, and the five guys gathered around a table on this particular day have started a telling a story that has caught my ear. I have to pay close attention, though, because the story they’re telling isn’t for me, it’s for them. That’s the way it is for most artists, I think. Quentin Tarantino said it best: “I make the movies that I want to see. The audience is just invited to watch.”
Shane Black kicks things off. He’s a big personality, so this isn’t a surprise. He sets the tone, one that is similar to the action/comedy/modern-noir classics that make up his filmography as both a screenwriter and director. Lethal Weapon, Kiss Kiss Bang Bang, The Nice Guys. You know his work, even if you don’t know him.
“It’s gotta be funny but real,” he says to the others. “When the action hits, it can’t feel like a joke, even if the characters were joking right before it happened. And the violence has to mean something, so spread it out. People go numb if you just hop from one shootout to another.”
“Agreed,” says Lehane, “but who’s doing the shooting? Character matters more than plot. We can all agree on that, right?”
The rest nod in unison. Then Frasier Crane himself, Kelsey Grammer, speaks up.
“I played a guy in this action movie once,” he rumbles in his Shakesperean baritone. “His name was Bonaparte, and he helped the hero of the picture, Sly Stallone, recruit a bunch of new members for his mercenary team. Only had a few scenes, but I always thought that character was interesting. Would love to center an entire story around him.”
“I remember that movie,” the tough guy in the leather coat says. His name is Parker, but he’s got a slew of others. I first met him back in 1999 when he looked like Mel Gibson and went by Porter. He’s also been Walker, Macklin, Stone, McCain, and even a woman named Paula Nelson. In fact, he’s only been called Parker when he looked like Jason Statham, or in the pages of the books written about all the things he’s done. Completely understand why he uses so many aliases. He’s not a very nice guy, even if you somehow find yourself rooting for him.
“The Expendables 3, right?” he goes on. “Yeah, sure. The movie was shit, but you were good in it.”
“Thanks,” Kelsey says through a half smile as he lights a cigar.
“Can we rough the guy up a bit, though? He only searched for good guys to help other good guys. That’s kinda boring. Maybe we can flip that, have him recruit criminals for other criminals?”
“You know me,” Shane says, “the more flaws my protagonist has, the better. Can you work with that, Dennis?”
“Of course,” Lehane says in his trademark Boston accent. As good as Shane is with dialogue, Dennis is better. The words flow from his characters’ mouths as if you weren’t reading them on a page but listening in on their conversation. While they were gathered around a bar, for example. Each one distinct, so dialogue tags are almost unnecessary. My favorites remain the first two he ever created, the private eye team of Kenzie and Gennaro, but it doesn’t matter. If Dennis Lehane is in charge of what the characters say, they will absolutely sing.
In fact, the only one to ever do it better, in my humble opinion, is the skinny guy with glasses sitting next to him. He passed away, sadly, about ten years ago, but in this bar, that doesn’t matter. He’s as alive here as the hoodlums, thieves, crooked cops and shady assassins were in the string of novels he wrote for over sixty years. You’d be hard pressed to find anyone in this bar who didn’t acknowledge Elmore Leonard as the master of crime fiction. At the very least, he’s on its Mt. Rushmore.
But he’s not here to contribute dialogue. As good as his was, it can come off a little outdated. No, he’s here to trim the fat off this thing. Pacing is key for a good story, and no one has ever done more with less words than him.
“Just give it to me when you’re done,” he says, leaning back on his chair, sneaker pressed against the edge of the table. “I’ll make sure we get rid of all the parts the reader would skip anyway.”
I lean in, pencil poised over my notebook, ready to transcribe the tale they are about to tell. It’s one I can’t wait to hear. A guy who makes his living recruiting bad guys for other bad guys, one that’s got just the right blend of humor and action and real, honest dialogue, all kept moving at a pace that never slows down? I’m salivating over this.
But then, to my dismay, they just get up and leave. Their great story, the one seemingly created exclusively for me, evaporates in the smoky air left behind by Kelsey Grammer’s partially snubbed cigar.
Damn, I say to myself, I guess I’ll just have to write the thing.
So, that’s what I did. Other people in the bar added their contributions here and there. Some of them were other writers, like Stephen King, who passes by with a glass of club soda. I shoot him a finger gun salute, and he shoots one right back with a wink. Me and Stevie are cool like that.
My parents chime in too, though.
As does my wife.
And my kids.
My boss and colleagues in the recruitment firm where I work now and the jobs I’ve held before.
My friends.
Strangers I meet going about my day.
Anecdotes I’ve heard over the years slip in.
News stories I’ve read.
All of these leave their mark on the story I eventually write, but most of the fingerprints belong to those five men who sat down at that table and started spitballing an idea.
Well, that’s not entirely true. My fingerprints are the only ones you’ll see on it. But they’re different from the fingerprints the state of NJ has on file from that brief lapse in judgement when I decided to go for my insurance license.
No, the loops and swirls in these fingerprints are an amalgamation of everyone in that bar. And as patrons come and go, the loops and swirls of the fingerprints I leave on the next story I write will change along with them.
You know the coolest part, though? After my story comes out, I’ll get to walk into one of those bars, but not as the shy guy eavesdropping on the artists he admires. This time, I’ll get to sit down with some of those same artists and start spitballing while somebody else takes notes in the corner. I won’t say much at first—I haven’t yet earned that right—but I’ll be invited to the party.
And maybe, if I tell the kind of story my audience likes as much as I do, the person standing in the corner of that bar will write a story that has traces of my fingerprints on it, too.
Cheers.
Gregg Podolski lives in New Jersey with his wife and two children. When not writing, he works as an executive recruiter for a family-owned staffing firm. He loves Philly sports, the Jersey shore, and is one of the last people on the planet who still buys CDs. The Recruiter is his first novel. If you don’t like it, that’s cool. Just lie and say you do. Seriously, it will be our little secret.
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