Elmore Leonard on the rocks

When I was a child I would talk to rocks.
I have some vague memories -some images- of water colored, baseball sized rocks drying on a dock. Blue and red lines, faces, and pictures on gray stones. My parents, aunts, and uncles tell me how I used to carry on conversations with them. Everything, really. Rocks, trees, the mail chute. Name it.
When I was a child, the whole world had something to say. It still does. I just don't always make the time to hear it.
Anyway, it's funny how certain things just speak to you. There's no real reason for something as ordinary as rocks to appeal. When I was a kid they were just stones from a lake. Not even quartz crystals or petoskeys. There weren't embedded fossils or anything special. But we'd go on and on. Something about rocks just made sense. Years later, I even wrote a little story about it. Where Dogs Sweat, about a little boy learning about global warming. You'd like it. You should read it.
Now, if you don't mind something of an awkward transition...
I was first introduced to Elmore Leonard when I was fourteen. Right around the same time I was introduced to Tarantino. Pulp Fiction and Get Shorty were two of the biggest movies around that time, and still all time favorites. It's actually kind of an interesting side note that Get Shorty was at the time thought of as the next Pulp Fiction, despite being based off a book from 1990. But when Tarantino made Jackie Brown very few people recognized it as Leonard's work despite that he was a producer and credited for writing the script, as well as the story being based off his novel Rum Punch. 
For anybody curious as to why my fiction is generally first person and focuses heavily on dialogue, Quentin Tarantino and Elmore Leonard had a way of speaking to me. They were my rocks. 
Fans of Roadside Attraction, how could Gus and Millie have ever existed without those influences?
Anyway, Elmore Leonard was introduced to my brother, Josh, and I in 2012. He was a guest speaker at the War Memorial in Grosse Pointe, Michigan, which was broadcast on the local TV station. I believe he was eighty six years old. My brother worked at the TV station, so he filmed the event, as well as put a mic on Mr. Leonard. I sat with him in the production booth for the entire talk. It of course ended with a discussion on the success of Justified, and Leonard's latest book, Raylan. The last question from the audience was simply whether, at his age, he was going to continue writing or had any other books planned. He got quiet for a minute and then smiled. "I've already started one." To much applause, of course.
Afterwards I stood in line for half an hour or so just to meet the man and ask him to autograph a copy of Get Shorty that I'd been carrying around for years. An old, beat up, water damaged copy I liberated from the Grosse Pointe library during my senior year of high school to be specific. Keep in mind, prior to his talk, I'd purchased his 10 Rules of Writing and Josh gave me a copy of Raylan. Had I asked, he could've signed all three. I get funny about book signings though. An autograph should mean something and not feel like an assembly line. The woman ahead of me had ten books for the man to go through and had never read a word of his work. She just wanted the signatures for eBay. For myself, this was the book I'd read five times. This was the book that traveled across the state with me and I was certain to never let anybody borrow. Get Shorty was special, magical, and spoke to me. To ask him to sign it was as good as asking him to move heaven and Earth.



The whole time I was in line, I kept thinking of all the things I wanted to say.
"You were a huge influence on me."
"You're the reason I focus on dialogue and develop characters the way I do."
"I saw you interviewed once for a TV movie version of Pronto and although the movie itself, as you said in your talk just now, was pretty awful, the interview all those years ago stayed with me."
Well, true to form, any time I'm in a group of people or even the slightest bit nervous for any reason, I choke. Or go into function-only mode. My capacity to speak is pretty much lost. And in the event that I do speak, it comes off awkward and bizarre. When my turn finally arrived and I finally got to meet the man who was a major influence on my entire life, he looked at the old, beat up book with a degree of puzzlement. And when I should've said, "I've checked that book out twice and then just kept it. I've kept it close for half my life. You were a major influence on me and writing, and it all started with Get Shorty," I instead said something slightly less cunning like, "Um."
He looked at the book. He signed it.


My hands were shaking but I still managed to say, "Thank you, sir."
I left, telling myself that pussying out didn't matter. With all those books he signed, he probably wouldn't remember me anyway. I got share a space with the legend and he actually signed the book that I've kept sacred. Beaten up. Water damaged. I hardly open it anymore out of fear of destroying it. But Elmore Leonard signed it. I got to hear him discuss his career. All and all, not a bad night. 
He passed away the following year from a stroke. August 2013. And I remember when I found out I kept thinking about that talk he gave at the War Memorial. Somebody had asked if he was going to continue writing or had any other books planned. "I've already started one."
I'm still hoping he finished enough of a draft for somebody to publish it posthumously. As a writer it makes me wonder how much fiction I'm not going to leave behind some day. I wonder how many of the stories I have planned will actually get out there before my time is up.
That reminds me, I've got something around the corner. A story about a man posthumously fighting for sacred rocks. Or at least, a community of miners. That's all I'll tease for this entry. Well, that and the title. Whisper. Although it was nearly called Puppet. 
Anyway, I found out about an estate sale for Elmore Leonard going on over the next few days. I was deep in my work when I found out. Busy as all hell. Absolutely couldn't be interrupted except for occasional glance online. And on Facebook I see that all of Elmore Leonard's possessions are being sold in Bloomfield Hills.
It probably took about twenty seconds before I was out the door.
There's a few ways of viewing a celebrity's estate sale, and I think I experienced them all this afternoon. We'll start with the negative. The vultures and looters eager to eBay everything they can get their claws on. Then of course the admiring fans longing to hold a piece of personal history. To have something, some final hoorah from their hero can mean the world.
"I have an Italian painting of a grape that was owned by Elmore Leonard."
"I have Elmore Leonard's bathmat."
It's silly in some ways, but there's no wrong to it. To be a fan. We all have our pedestals and can't help but take pride in admiring the things we place on them.
Now, personally, had it been offered I'd have gladly accepted Mister Leonard's writing desk. If he even used a desk. I know I do most of my writing in bed or on the couch. But you have to understand, I'm a writer. A part time teacher. And I work in retail. Elmore Leonard's writing desk probably wouldn't be purchasable from my pockets. I'm not sure I could rightly afford Elmore Leonard's bic pen. The one he once made a grocery list with or whatever. So I hadn't gone with any intention of making a purchase. I just wanted to see where my hero lived. I wanted to stand in his home and... I don't know... respect him... maybe see if there was anything left to discover.
Driving out there, I had the dumbest little daydream of being on the news. Like, interviewed. "Indy author Keith Blenman pays respects to Elmore Leonard." Which in reality would be reported more like, "Chubby probable hobo was found wandering the home of famous author. Surprisingly not while eating a donut."
Yeah, my going out isn't exactly as noteworthy as when the Kardashians stay in.
So I was sad to see the entire street in Bloomfield Hills lined with cars. I don't know what I was expecting, but I was in something of a "going to a memorial" state of mind. It's not the sort of place you want to be all loud and busy. When you go to homage someone, you want to be able to take it all in and really absorb the feeling.


It felt more like watching a museum get eviscerated.
I'm not even saying it's bad thing. This man entertained so many countless people and told so many wonderful stories. For people to flock toward his house, all hoping to walk away with one last piece of him has a certain loveliness to it. It's easy to see the vultures, but even they wouldn't be there if he wasn't so revered. That in itself is testament to his legacy. You can't help but feel a sadness over his picked over bookshelves and almost empty record collection. The sign in his garage that read All Hoses: $5 perhaps lacked the linguistic artistry of the author who watered his lawn with said hoses. But on the other hand, it's an interesting send off to anybody who works to entertain others. He gave us all pieces of ourselves. Now that he's gone, we're all trying to preserve a part of him.


Nobody doubted the one thing of true value in that house passed away last August. But he did leave behind some pretty nice kitchenware. 
So I explored a bit. I took a few pictures. It was lovely home for having been ransacked by an adoring public. I scoped out the kitchen, the basement, and a few other rooms. I took some pictures, all the while imagining how he lived in those spaces. 



I sat down for a few minutes on a sofa in his living room. And from there I watched the people come and go. I saw them pick through his books and examine furniture. He had a Justified poster hanging over the fireplace, and I wondered how often he sat right where I was, taking in what's quite possibly the most celebrated achievement of his career. I imagined the sort of guests he'd have over. Or if he read on the couch often, or preferred some of the other furniture. I wondered if he used the fireplace all winter or seldom bothered with it.


There was some news reporter walking around, taking in sights and asking people questions, gathering his story. I started to imagine the things I'd say, but then realized I was still me and determined it would be better if I just avoided him. The last thing I need to see is myself on the news choking and saying, "Um."
"On tonight's broadcast, indy author Keith Blenman chokes and is edited out of the news. Along with both shreds of his self esteem."
Anyway, in exploring Elmore Leonard's estate, enjoying the Ozymandias of it all, I couldn't help but notice the man had a thing for decorative rocks. Several of the planters in the garage all had colored stones. In the basement there were multiple bags of aquarium gravel and assorted polished rocks.
Have you guys seen or read Out of Sight? Here's a few clips.





I recommend both the book and movie. For different reasons. But to give a major spoiler, there's this lucrative millionaire in the story who loves fish. He has them smuggled into prison. There's a tank in his office. There's one at home. And blended into the gravel of one tank is a couple million dollars in diamonds. Out of sight. Right where everyone can see it. And as I'm noticing all these decorative rocks around the house, I keep thinking back to that story. Nobody saw the value in the gravel. And both Leonard and I seem to have a thing for rocks.
You see where I'm going with this.
I had absolutely no intention of purchasing anything when I went to the estate sale. I just wanted a moment to rediscover my gratitude. But in the end I paid for bag of rocks.


"These are Elmore Leonard's aquarium rocks. They don't just make them anywhere you know. You have to loot a revered author's basement for those bad boys."
Lovely rocks. But, yes. Rocks.

Not that I have any fish. But for whatever reason, probably something obscure and going back to my childhood and sentimentality, out of everything and everybody in that house, the rocks are what spoke to me. The rocks were my connection. And yes, I transplanted several of them into my bamboo plant's vase. Now, mixed in with Maokai's gravel, are several decorative white stones. And whenever anybody else looks at them they'll say, "Nice gravel." And I'll always see something of a greater value, totally out of sight.


But why end on such a hammy note?
Remember how I mentioned the reporter? I did my best to avoid him. I really did. But for those of you who saw the local news this evening, you'll see my effort didn't entirely work out.
No, thankfully I wasn't interviewed. But I still saw myself on TV. Twice.

Note the highly attractive blue booties I was wearing so as not to leave shoe prints on the floor. Just to give you an idea as to how much traffic was going through that house: 

That's one side of the front hall. On the opposite side there was another box and a garbage bag full of them. When I showed up I asked the lady at the door which were the clean ones and she shrugged. "We gave up on sorting them hours ago." 
But back to the news. I love this:

Yep. That's me walking up to the table, nonchalantly setting down my purchase, just about to say, "One bag of rocks, please." and being awkwardly stared at by several people. Like, the people selling off Elmore Leonard's estate were totally thinking, "My god, the vultures are really coming out today." They had to have been. 

What a strange, strange, creepy man. 
So on the plus side, I was actually on the news, standing within Elmore Leonard's home. Not being interviewed. Not discussing how brilliant his dialogue and characters are. Not explaining how the man was a major influence on me and my chosen career (those who know me laugh whenever I use that word to describe my writing). Not even choking and saying, "Um." 
Nope. Nope. That's me buying a dead man's rocks.