There’s something relatably transcendent and satisfying about seeing bottom dog, dark horse, longshot losers stand up for themselves in self-aware and snarky ways.
I was reading The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle on the bus on the way to work the other day and I came across an exchange by the lackluster, ennuitic protagonist and his brother-in-law which triggered a synaptical brain parallel between this and the opening scene of Happiness by Todd Solondz in which a doughloaf Jon Lovitz asserts himself after getting dumped.
The connection between these two underdoggy triumphs of self-defense is that they are encrusted in a literal sort of shit-talk. A pooey reminder that “No man is an island unto himself” via the John Donnes and Dolly Partons of this world.
(Happiness Exchange:)
You think I don’t appreciate art?
You think I don’t understand fashion?
You think I’m not hip?
You think I’m pathetic. A nerd. A lardass. Fatso.
You think I’m shit. But you’re wrong. Cause I’m champagne.
And you’re shit. Until the day you die.
You.
Not me.
Will always be shit.
———————————
(Wind-Up Bird exchange:)
“I’m sure you see my point,” he said. “Your wife sleeps with another man. She runs out on you. And then you try to pin the blame on someone else. I’ve never heard of something so stupid…”
When he had finished speaking, a deep silence settled over the table.
“Do you know the story of the monkeys of shitty island?” I asked him.
He shook his head, with no sign of interest. “Never heard of it.”
“Somewhere, far, far away, there’s a shitty island. An island without a name. An island not worth giving a name. A shitty island with a shitty shape. On this shitty island grow palm trees that also have shitty shapes. And the palm trees produce coconuts that give off a shitty smell. Shitty monkeys live in the trees, and the love to eat these shitty-smelling coconuts, after which they shit the world’s foulest shit. The shit falls on the ground and builds up shitty mounds, making the shitty palm trees that grow on them even shittier. It’s an endless cycle.”
I drank the rest of my coffee.
“As I sat here looking at you,” I continued, “I suddenly remembered the story of this shitty island. What I’m trying to say is this: A certain kind of shittiness, a certain kind of stagnation, a certain kind of darkness, goes on propagating itself with it’s own power in its own self-contained cycle. And once it passes a certain point, no one can stop it - even if the person himself wants to stop it.”
…
“Are you catching my drift, Mr. Wataya?” I went on. “I know exactly the sort of man you are. You say I’m like garbage or rocks. And you think you could smash me to bits anytime you felt like it. But things are not that simple. To you, with your values, I may well be nothing but garbage and rocks. But I’m not as stupid as you think I am. I know exactly what you’ve got under that smooth, made-for-TV mask of yours. I know your secret. (My wife) knows and I know: we both know what’s under there. If I wanted to, I could tell it to the world. I could bring it out in to the light. It might take time, but I could do it. I may be a nobody, but at least I’m not a sandbag. I’m a living, breathing human being. If somebody hits me, I hit back. Make sure you keep that in mind.”
