Chump Change by Dan Fante Read Free Book Online Page B

blackened bedroom, not wanting to see myself in the mirror, fumbling into my clothes. In the smogless, clear Malibu night, the light from a big, powerful full moon surprised me with its brightness and caused me to walk to the window.
    Outside, I saw Rocco once again near the back porch steps. He was where I had left him hours before, still facing the door with the gopher body between his forelegs, waiting for the approval of a master who would never return.
    After taking a piss, I made my way down the hall toward the kitchen. The door to my father’s study was closed. I paused. Nobody ever entered except with the old man’spermission. Swinging the door to the dark room open, I waited for his demons to leap on me. None did, so I hit the lightswitch and let the incandescent light from his desk lamp assault the walls.
    The room was unchanged from the last time I’d entered it to talk with the old man—seven years before. The furniture was old, sturdy office stuff. Heavy dark oak and mahogany with fat, solid legs. Each piece had been picked from one of the used furniture stores on Western Avenue.
    On the far wall above a bookcase was a large, grainy, old framed photo of H. L. Mencken, his hair parted severely down the middle and his shirt collar heavily starched. The great iconoclast was scowling.
    The books on the shelf behind his writing table were the important ones. The sacred stuff. Unlike the other novels in the room, they never moved, except to get reread. There was all of Knut Hamsun, all of Sherwood Anderson, all of Jack London. In Dante’s house, only great literature, art, and great writers got talked about. Men of accomplishment, like himself. Men to be feared and reckoned with. Other discussions were unimportant.
    The rest of the books in the room that weren’t on shelves were in stacks on the floor. Most of them were by good writers, but Dante never actually read them. He was a skimmer, completely impatient, always unimpressed—he’d read a whole book that way—a few paragraphs at a time. He’d read the first sentence of each paragraph, then move on.
    From the bookcase behind his writing table, I pulled down a copy of Hunger by Knut Hamsun. This book, my father used to say, caused him to become a writer. I held it in my handand flipped through the old pages. Somewhere in the middle, I discovered a sheet of typing bond that had been folded in quarters. It looked to have been used as a bookmark. It was yellow from age at the top where it had been exposed to the air.
    I unfolded the make-shift bookmark and immediately recognized the handwriting as my father’s. But over and over, the signature written was Knut Hamsun. Knut Hamsun. Knut Hamsun. A paper was filled to the bottom of the page. The eccentricity jolted me because I’d done the same thing a hundred times, filling legal tablets with E. E. Cummings’ signatures. The old man and I had things in common after all.
    I refolded the paper and stuck it in my pocket, then put the book away. Leaving the room, I flipped the wall switch and returned everything to darkness.
    At around eight a.m., I sat on the back porch steps after more cups of coffee that were mostly scotch. I got an idea. Rocco was still guarding his rodent in the morning light when the thought fully formed; the dog had the right to say goodbye to Dante in the hospital. My father had been his master his whole life. Now his time had run out too. I was sorry for the Rocco’s situation. From now on, his life would only get worse.
    I walked to where he sat on the grass with his stiff gopher. Kneeling, I tentatively petted his head once or twice. He didn’t respond. I noticed that a few of the old dog’s teeth were gone or broken, and he’d developed a bald spot near the tail where his short white hair had fallen out. Happy fleas and ticks had been rollicking unmolested there for a decade. This animal had no friends left and he didn’t seem to want any. He reminded me of his master.
    When I