There is a weatherman on one of the local networks here in Salt Lake City who is what can only be described as second generation "meteorologist". His father was a weatherman for two stations, spanning nearly four decades, in an era preceding cable television and long before the the advent of the internet that can now provide a person with weather information in their hip pocket, thereby relegating the talking heads of all meteorologists into the bin of obsolescence. Still, there are those that habitually tune in to watch this particular weatherman yammer on and on in his banal efforts to continually present his occupational standing as somehow relevant when the truth is that if it weren't for his father and his well deserved reputation of professionalism, this guy would have peaked hawking Sno Cones or perhaps even doing the lord's work; serving as a parking lot attendant or an insurance salesman. The sad fact is that when a son tries to follow his successful father into the same profession, the results are often meritless and pathetic. Sure, becoming a professional athlete or politician or even a dentist can work, perhaps even solidify a family business for a few generations. But there are far too many painfully grating examples of sons following too closely in their father's footsteps resulting in the proverbial "flat tire" effect usually caused by the toe of one shoe stepping on the heel of the other in a crowded hallway or stairwell landing.
Dan Fante is one scathing example of this discomforting phenomenon. His first in a series of books chronicling the life of the not-so-fictional character Bruno Dante, the son of a successful author and screenwriter, Chump Change tells the story of a shameless, and thoroughly unapologetic alcoholic as he travels to Los Angeles to visit his dying father who, as reflected in the narrative, didn't seem to give two shits about his family and was clearly unworthy of any half-assed effort on the part of his miserable eldest son, the self-proclaimed on-again, off-again writer and poet who possesses little or no discernible talent or social value. Equally unbearable and amoral to the nth degree, Fante's protagonist is thoroughly despicable at every turn and wholly undeserving of any sort of sympathy whatsoever. Fante's narrative is often explicit and sickening as he recounts episodes of black-out drunkenness that read less as painful confessional or admittance of wrongdoing than as boasting about his indifference to his surroundings, making the entire effort self-serving and at times, downright disgusting. One could argue that the mind of an alcoholic, or any addict for that matter can become so addled by self abuse that their affect would become flat and expressions emotionless, and that may be the case here. But even with that excuse at hand, Fante seems utterly disingenuous, making any effort to care about the character, or offer any sympathy or forgiveness or understanding an impossible river to ford. The offenses committed toward both family and bystanders alike elicit a rapid hatred of this evenly bankrupt individual in ways that even Charles Bukowski might have found reprehensible. Though equally vivid and honest, Bukowski's work had an air of self-loathing, delivered with the tone of someone who was hyperaware of the insurmountable flaws in his personality and had long ago thrown in the towel. But Fante's writing reflects that of someone who never cared much about anything at all, with the exception of his disinterested father, but hasn't yet given up because he loves himself too much and knows that there is someone, somewhere nearby whom he might take critical advantage and thereby live to love his miserable, narcissistic self for another revolting day, week, month or, if he really hits the jackpot, perhaps even a year.
Now I'm no stranger to iron-shinned hard-asses in both fiction and non-fiction, as there's nothing quite as realistic as a tough, yet fatally flawed character. But even the grittiest of subjects have an achilles heel where their vulnerability suddenly trumps anything and everything that they have grown to become. Fante shows us no such soft spot as even his efforts to care for his father's aging dog seem disengaged and forced and rob Bruno Dante of much needed humanity and overall believability. Perhaps this is the author's achilles heel, but I doubt it. Either way, outside of the context of the novel, the revelation is too little, too late for this reader.
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