Into The Pit

"It was as if everything he feared in the world had been put in this pit.  The idea of being put deep in the ground.  Irrational people for whom logic did not exist.  Rotting skulls on poles about the pit.  Living skulls attached to hunched-forward bodies that yelled for blood.  Snakes.  The stench of death--blood and shit.  And every white man's fear, racist or not--a big, black man with a lifetime of hatred in his eyes."--Joe R. Lansdale, "The Pit," BY BIZARRE HANDS.

Alright, as promised, I'm back.  I don't want to let too much time go between posts, because I know how I am with procrastination.  Today is my first day off from work in a little while--my day job is butchering meat at my local grocery store.  It's an alright job, but it can definitely siphon away my energy and much of my free time.  Couple that with raising a little boy with my beautiful lady, and well, let's just say that some days are harder than others.

Today's been a good day, though.  I got caught up on sleep, which I always seem to be lacking, and I spent my morning running errands and writing a book review for the Ginger Nuts of Horror website.  Hopefully it passes muster and I can toot my horn about it later on the blog.

Now...as promised: a breakdown of THE PIT, by the immortal, hilarious, terrifying Joe Lansdale.  I've been kicking around the idea lately of doing a series of blog posts about horror and crime fiction that changed my life, during my incarceration and beyond.  This blog's first post was the seed of that idea, and I'll continue to let it grow here from time to time.  Anyway, a bit of background on how I came to read what has become one of my favorite Lansdale shorts, and also generally one of my favorite short stories of all time:

I was almost at the end of the first year of my incarceration in PA's state prison system.  My mother, always the supportive saint, would write letters and regularly accept my phone calls.  She was one of the few people that I had in my life for those three long years.  During the weekly phone calls we shared, Mom would always end with the magic words-- "Would you like me to order you any books?"

See, I had grown to rely on books during the first year of lockup.  Thankfully, the prison system allows an inmate to receive books through the mail.  I LIVED on used books purchased and sent to my little cell from Amazon.  With each novel that arrived, I was quickly discovering a vast world of horror and crime fiction that went a heck of a lot deeper than Stephen King and Lee Child.

I don't remember how I came across Joe Lansdale's name.  It was probably mentioned in one of Stephen King's many works, somewhere, and I was intrigued.  Even then, I was always looking out for the next discovery to light the fires of imagination.  So, after a conversation with my mom, she ordered me BY BIZARRE HANDS.  (A small note here: it's one of my many idiosyncrasies, but when I discover a new author, I try to read one of their short story collections first.  Preferably the first one published.  It's served me pretty well as an introduction to many different authors and styles.  It's my personal opinion that some of an author's best work is found in the first collection.  Some of the stories are early, formative stuff where you can practically see the author growing as he/she stretches out across the page.)  So, with this strategy in mind, I eagerly passed the days waiting on the mail call that would deliver BY BIZARRE HANDS to my bizarre hands.

It finally came.  And oh, Jesus, was I completely unprepared for it.

This book fucking rocked, rolled, splattered, titillated, horrified, and disgusted me.  It was everything I've ever wanted in a short story collection.  It transported me from the mundane existence of prison, right into a goddamn black hole full of nightmares.  After blowing through the introduction, I jumped right into FISH NIGHT, which I have to confess, I didn't "get it" on the first read-through.  Then, I plunged into THE PIT.  That's where, as they say, the shoe dropped.

THE PIT is one of the grittiest pieces of writing I've ever had the pleasure of discovering.  The pulp here is so thick, you can't even chew it.  It contains raw, almost-psychedelic violence, with plenty of blood and gore.  The premise is simple enough.  Harry Joe Stinton is an average redneck family man.  His car breaks down outside of the small hamlet of Morganstown.  The townspeople capture him and force him into six months of training to fight another man, Big George "the n*gger."  Might I note here, that word pops up a lot, but it's used in the context of story.  Mr. Lansdale never shys from depicting the ugly truths of life.  Unfortunately, it makes sense that a group of people who capture strangers and force them to fight in a pit for entertainment, would also have no reservations about casually tossing around racial slurs.

Anyway, Harry and Big George actually strike up a friendship during their term of captivity.  Well, it's an uneasy friendship, because ultimately, these two men know they will be forced to fight to the death.  And when the time comes, down in the Pit, George tells Harry, "Ain't nothing personal, Harry my man, but when we get in that pit don't look to me for nothing besides pain, 'cause I got plenty of that to give you, a lifetime of it, and I'll just keep it coming."

He doesn't lie.  When it's on, and the main event kicks into gear, this is some of the finest violent action-writing you'll ever find.  I was reminded of Robert Howard's old boxing stories, to a point.  Lansdale makes no secret of his affinity for and practice of martial arts.  His own fighting experience translates very well to describing what's happening on the page.  Blood splatters, eyeballs get pulled from sockets, hell, Harry ends up besting Big George because he channels the thought of beating his unsatisfying wife into the ground.  It's not a story you'll pass around the bridge club, trust me.  And you know what?  This raw intensity resonated with the incarcerated-version of me.

The more I read it and re-read it, I saw THE PIT as an allegory for my own prison experiences.  The opening quote at the beginning of this post?  It perfectly captured my life at the time.  I saw the day-to-day of prison life as an endless slog, with long stretches of boredom broken only by episodes of swift and brutal violence around me.  I absorbed Lansdale's depiction of beasts fighting for their lives, and applied it to what I was living.  Another thing: the racial current running like a thread of greased lightning through this story.  Wow.  It put me in mind of the voluntary racial segregation that most prisons observe.  You just stick with your own kind.  Outsiders aren't meant to be trusted, and somebody who isn't your people will rip you off or beat you down in a heartbeat.

It's bullshit, of course.  A man is just as likely to be stolen from or beaten down by one of his own race, than by someone of a different color.  Prison is full of these outdated beliefs.  We live in 2018, in an increasingly-progressive world, and yet...it's a different world in there, folks.  The man who has your back in the chow line today, might be coming after you tomorrow for who you associate with and how you carry yourself.

I read this story again, right before I made parole and was ready to come back from the dead.  I made it through and was on the last few paragraphs, where Harry has bested his opponent and is being led from the pit.  He walks by the MC of the event, a snake-handling man known as Preacher.  The lines that stuck with me the most: "Harry looked at Preacher. [...] Sapphire was wrapped around his neck again.  They were still buddies.  The snake looked tired.  Harry no longer felt afraid of it.  He reached out and touched its head.  It did not try to bite him.  He felt its feathery tongue brush his bloody hand."

That bit of the story, right there, that was my pay-off.  The snake that Harry is no longer afraid of, well, that was all of my worries and fears about the world.  The pit was my prison, the furnace that forged a brand-new person.  No longer did I fear most of the stuff that I used to, before I went inside.  It couldn't bite me anymore, not after I made it out of...THE PIT.

Thanks again for taking the time to read the mess that falls out of my brain and onto the page.  You can find me on Twitter, @TheRealJohnBend, and also at the Ginger Nuts of Horror website.  Until next time!