Wally Wants a Story

All great writers (and, modesty aside, I feel compelled to include myself in this grouping) have had the experience of seeing a work in progress diverge and take a path quite different from that originally envisioned.

For example, literary scholars tell us Hamlet's original title was Gertrude. Gertrude was the queen and the mother of Hamlet, and her son originally was assigned a minor role as a snotty and neurotic kid. But as the story progressed, Hamlet kept getting the best lines, and ended up as the title character. Another example: The original title of Moby Dick was Ishmael, who was the protagonist in this classic book. After all, who ever heard of naming a novel after a fish? (OK, a cetacean.) But Moby Dick, the great white whale, was too overwhelming to relegate to second-banana status, so Herman Melville eventually made it the title character, even if the whale never did have much to say. In my writing, I produced a similar reversal of fortune for Dirty Wally. So outrageous in dress and demeanor, and seemingly everywhere, this tireless self-promoter and bearer of endless news and gossip (some of it true) became the dominant character in my early stories. Big Denny, on the other hand, originally was just another spear-carrier, too surly and thuggish to use with any regularity. However, after Denny took over the Barstow Card Casino, he kept getting into so many outlandish situations that I found myself writing about him more and more, even as Wally faded into the background. Wally then compounded the problem when he made the mistake of introducing me to his grandfather, Filthy Willy. I found his grandfather more colorful, and soon even Willy was getting more space than Wally.

As a result, I always look over my shoulder when in a casino, dreading the moment when Wally spots me and demands, in a hurt voice, "Hey, Max, how come you never write about me anymore?"

Patiently, I always try to explain that my stories, apart from some minor literary embellishments, are literal and factual, or at the very least based on plausible situations. "I can't just make something up simply to get your name in the column," I keep telling him.

Then, one day, he suggested that I ask readers to submit story ideas about his life. He nagged me to death and I finally agreed, just to get him off my back. I posted on rgp, the poker newsgroup, saying that if anyone submitted an outline that I used, I would split my writer's fee with him or her, payable in cash, check, or bus token.

I didn't expect anything would come of it, but the very next day I received a long manuscript that spun a yarn of how Wally capped his long and brilliant poker career by winning the World Series. The day after that brought another submission in the mail. This time it had Wally resuming his movie career (which was interrupted when talkies came in) and ending up winning three Academy Awards for best screenplay, direction, and acting in a film about … the life of Dirty Wally. That was followed by the story of his service in World War II on Guadalcanal island in the Pacific (or maybe it was Okinawa or Catalina, I forget). Anyway, it was a gripping tale of heroism that recounted how, though severely wounded after a 75-millimeter cannon shell passed clean through his body, he attacked a heavily fortified pillbox and single-handedly captured a Japanese regiment, thus securing the island and changing the course of the war. And yet another outline arrived the following day relating how Wally finally accepted a marriage proposal from Julia Roberts. Although each manuscript was signed with a different name, the handwriting in each was identical, and the postmarks were the same.

A few days later he spotted me and asked if I had received any story ideas.

"Not a one," I replied.

"That can't be," he protested. "I sent you … " then quickly caught himself.

"Look, Wally," I lectured him, "I know you sent in all those stories, and I can't use any of them."

"OK, then," he persisted, resorting to sheer bribery, "use one of those stories and I'll leave you my car in my will."

"You'll probably outlive me. And in any event, your car is leased."

"How about if I give you some of my cowboy hats?"

Guys from Brooklyn, I informed him, don't wear cowboy hats. Well, maybe one. You see, Oklahoma Johnny Hale, and please don't repeat this, happens to be from Brooklyn. Unfortunately, "Brooklyn Johnny Hale" just didn't have the right ring, so he tried out other names, such as "Rhode Island Johnny Hale," "North Dakota Johnny Hale," and "The Bronx Johnny Hale," none of which were much better. He finally seized on "Louisiana Johnny Hale," which rolled trippingly off the tongue, but he had to abandon that name as well because he couldn't master a believable Cajun or Creole accent. So, he settled for "Oklahoma Johnny Hale" and proceeded to concoct a fanciful biography about his marvelous endeavors and accomplishments in the Sooner state, even though in reality he has never even set foot in Oklahoma.

Now, you see what I mean by a story diverging? I started off writing about Dirty Wally and ended up writing about Brooklyn – I mean, Oklahoma – Johnny Hale. That guy will do anything to get his name in my column!

Anyway, if anyone out there does have a clever Dirty Wally story idea, please submit it. If I use it, you have a choice of a bus token or a copy of my book – autographed! The book, that is, not the bus token.