A Man Called “Tellahoe”
I hate to think the majority of people are born to lose. And I’m not inclined to debate the nature versus nurture narrative except to say I doubt anyone’s ever been pulled from the womb screaming racial epithets, wearing a MAGA hat. And it’s not my intention to get political in this column. I did that shit last week, and I’m coming to the conclusion I’m at my best when I remain cautiously apathetic.
This is just a quick story about I guy I know who was born to lose. I will say his mother didn’t do him any favors by naming him after a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle. And it wasn’t that he was named after a crime fighting turtle. I think maybe Donatello Donahoe was named after the wrong turtle.
Rumor has it he knew a brief, glorious respite during the fourth grade when his classmates referred to him affectionately as “Don Don.” Something changed the following year. The kids grew mean and vindictive. From then on, it was always “Tellahoe.”
He retreated into the safety (or further ostracization) of pop culture ephemeral, comic books, science fiction, and horror movies which eventually led him into my world. At the time, I was either at the peak of my existence or at the lowest point of my life depending on whether you were asking my wife or not. Anyway, I was working at the Amazing Fantasy comic book shop in Huntsville. It only really seemed sad to the people who took my age into consideration. I was forty-two years old and believed I was living the dream, slinging funny books and arguing the finer points of movies featuring a flying viking smiting the hell out of CGI robots and elves.
Tellahoe thought he differentiated himself from the maturity-stunted rabble by insisting on wearing Hawaiian shirts everyday while categorically denying the influence of Hunter S Thompson on his fashion ensemble though by all accounts it wasn’t until he watched “Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas” that he began considering magenta hibiscus and lime green pineapples as an acceptable pattern for a shirt. Also, you couldn’t converse with Tellahoe longer than a minute and a half before he managed to steer the conversation into the realm of the Green Lantern Corps. I hated Green Lantern. Even before that abysmal Ryan Reynolds movie. I didn’t care for DC comics altogether though I had to feign interest if I wanted to keep my job. I thought fanboys of Green Lantern lacked character.
“Besides,” I told Tellahoe. “Shouldn’t you be riding the cocks of that other green crime-fighting team?”
He raised a pretentious eyebrow with that “whatever do you mean” expression I found to be infuriating. Honestly, there was surprisingly little about the job I didn’t find at the very least exasperating. I bombed out of teaching high school because I despised teenagers. It looked as though I were going to retire early from the comic book shop because I didn’t like middle-aged guys who nattered relentlessly about Magic the Gathering cards.
“Don’t act like you don’t know what I’m talking about Tellahoe. We just gonna pretend like Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles don’t exist?”
He treated me to a withering gaze.
“I suppose my tastes veer toward the more sophisticated.”
“Yeah, I guess collecting Hot Toys rather than NECA lends one a bit of elegance.”
“Quite.”
Too many of our conversations followed that circuit.
Anyway, during a Tellahoe visit, he mentioned he was nearing completion of his debut novel and was fishing for a publisher. This piqued my interest for obvious reasons.
“You know,” I said, “I’m a bit of a writer, myself.”
“I don’t think anybody knows that.”
I thought that was an odd response since I was pretty sure I worked it into every conversation I ever had with everybody, especially strippers.
“Oh, yeah. You may be familiar with my collection of short stories, Kockblockers. It can be purchased wherever fine books are sold… online.”
“It’s not sold here, is it?”
“Well, no, this ain’t online, this is reality, I think. Ed said he won’t sell it here because no one who buys comic books are interested in reading fifteen stories about me snaking the puss all over the place because I’m so goddam pretty.”
“That’s pretty crazy to me Ed won’t sell it considering the store’s called Amazing Fantasy. Anyway, I’m sure Ed will want to sell my book. It’s called “Spurious Quasars.” Rather than the frontier of outer space, I decided to subject my characters to the intricacies of interdimensional conflict.”
“Well, how can you go wrong with that?”
“Right? I’m lining up a publisher, now. I just have to decide which tier I want to pay for. What tier did you go with?”
“I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”
“Dorrance Publishing. They have different tiers depending on how much money you want to spend.”
“Ah, shit. Vanity Press. You might as well take that manuscript. Whatcha call it? Startled Quisinarts? Take it and burn it in a bonfire, save yourself some of your comic book money. You’ll thank me later when you ain’t hooting and hollering about the latest Guy Gardener omnibus.”
“Dorrance Publishing has been around a hundred years. What do you know about anything?”
“How many short stories have you published, Tellahoe?”
“I see you’re just looking to be argumentative. I’ll have you know I was known for my Green Lantern fan fiction in college.”
“I bet you were. Look, man, I’m not saying it’s impossible, but it’s pretty fucking probable you’re not writing anything salable out of the gate. Why not give it time, keep writing, and when you’re craft is where it needs to be, try submitting to a real publisher that won’t obliterate your bank account.”
“How about you do things your way and I’ll do things my way, and we’ll see who be the first one to crack Amazon’s Hot 100. Dorrance Publishing is incredibly enthusiastic with what I sent them. They think it could be a best seller. I just have to decide how much I want to invest in marketing.”
“Jesus Christ…”
“Is our Lord and Savior. Don’t underestimate the literary value of reading your weight in comic books every week. Rather than looking at the pretty pictures.”
This was a knock against me, I was pretty sure since he caught me ogling a Red Sonja comic book. Every time he came in for like six weeks straight.
Anyway, I didn’t work at Amazing Fantasy very long. Minimum wage is not an albatross that hangs well off the neck of a middle-aged man. Before I knew it I was back in the factory. It kept more money in my pocket though I spent a lot less time debating the value of cinematic tales featuring irascible raccoons raising hell in space.
One day, I was meandering the aisles of Amazing Fantasy, and there in a dusty back corner, I found a forsaken volume of “Spurious Quasars Book One.”
I read the synopsis on the back cover.
In a world residing in a rift between two bordering dimensions, one ruled by an iron fisted tyrant, and the other a peaceful matriarchy pursuing peace about all else, a prince of war and a princess of peace have a star-crossed affair leading to the birth of Jordan Stewart. A man too ugly to feel at home in either world. Does he have the strength to unite both dimensions and find love with the ethereal beauty, Sun Rhea?
I shook my head and continued reading the bio.
When Donatello Donahoe was diagnosed with testicular cancer, he made it his life’s mission to make his mark on the world through literary endeavors. The son of an Irish Catholic father and a Choctaw mother, Donatello never felt at home in the world…
He didn’t feel at home in this world because he had a ridiculous name.
“Hey, Ed,” I hollered. “How much you want for this book?”
Ed peered from over his computer screen. “I think that’s twenty-five bucks.”
Pfft. I set the book back down. There was the new Department of Truth graphic novel I wanted to buy anyway.
“Hey, Ed, Tellahoe ever write the sequel. It says Book One.”
“Nah, he always said he wasn’t going to write the sequel until he made his money back on the first one.”
“Dumb bastard,” I muttered under my breath.
“Yeah, and then the cancer came back and then he died.”
“Oh…”
Damn, I thought. I guess it’s up to me to immortalize Donatello Donahoe in the annals of literature…
Karl Koweski is a displaced Region Rat now living in rural Alabama. He writes when his pen allows it. He’s a husband to a lovely wife and father to some fantastic kids. He collects pop culture ephemera. On most days he prefers Flash Gordon to Luke Skywalker and Neil Diamond to Elvis Presley.
THE POLISH HAMMER POETRY CORNER is a weekly column, posted each Tuesday morning.
