The Joppenbergh Jump
It took much convincing to get Zeitzer to don his hiking boots, dig out his metal detector, and accept the premise that there was a treasure trove stowed somewhere in the woods based on the word of a spook. He didn’t know it, but I intended to split the whole thing with him. He always had my back no matter what crazy shit I’d gotten him into. If it contained everything Kurt said, there would be more than enough to pay for Val’s college and for Margaret to visit her folks whenever she wanted to. Hell, we could even buy them a new house. We could even hire an ESL teacher for In-Su.
Zeitzer insisted on spraying us both down with a flea and tick concoction he’d made, what with Lyme Disease rampant up and down the valley. He wore a red wool sweater and carried a hiking stick. His backpack was full of egg salad sandwiches, some Trefoils—Girl Scout shortbread cookies (no chocolate)—and bottles of spring water. He’d even packed a small first aid kit, always the professional. He reminded me of the guy from The Sound of Music.
In all the years he’d lived here he’d never been up the mountain. He was a bit nervous having seen me come down from there so many times looking like I’d been mauled by a bear. And there are bears, but mostly of the shy kind.
“Coot, remember, I’m a pharmacist, not a mountaineer.”
“Don’t worry, Z. It won’t be anything like Jersey. I promise.”
“What if we get lost?”
“I practically live up here. I know every inch of it.”
“We’ll break for lunch, right?”
“Of course. This will be as civilized as a Viennese coffee house.”
He looked uncertain, but started following me up the access trail. We headed up the backside, past the ravine on the right where the wide cross-path opened up, a four corners. I always felt like I could hear colonists marching through this area.
“What’s that?” he asked.
“That’s a pile of old antennas and wood platforms they’ve been bringing down. Everyone used to get their TV reception from up there, but not anymore.”
Just then a small brown rabbit darted across the path a few feet in front of us followed fiercely by a careening red-tailed hawk with a wingspan of about sixty inches, a serious contender. We could feel the wind shear coming off the bird’s body. It dug its talons into the creature and flew vertically up with it. Dinner on the wing.
“It’s wild up here.” He didn’t know how wild it could get up here. What was it Doe had said about the mountain? It’s as magical, strange, and haunted as any pre-revolutionary site in the country. Z was visibly shaken. We watched the red-tail transport its prey to the upper branches of a distant sycamore tree where there were probably three or four chicks waiting for dinner to be ripped apart and served. “Really wild,” he added, nervously.
We continued climbing up, avoiding ruts, stepping over polished stones that had sat on the bottom of a stream at one time. Through the trees off to the left was a great flat wall of stone which looked like the side of a surreal apartment building without windows and a roof top garden of trees. The power lines followed the massive poles high above us. The path was steep now and the wind picked up as we ascended. I could hear him breathing hard behind me. I stopped to let him catch his breath. “How much further?”
“Not far. We turn in at the horse farm and honey bee sign.”
“Honey bees? I didn’t know they were here.”
“It’s just a sign to scare trespassers.”
“We’re going to trespass?”
“It’s the only way in, don’t worry.”
“Really, Coot, this is not my cup of tea.”
I didn’t mean to laugh but his anachronistic saying cracked me up. After about fifteen minutes of a steep climb we reached the entrance. He hesitated at first, looked back down the trail and then followed me in. I knew he didn’t want to go back alone. We walked for a while until we reached the pile of tires and jump rails. I led us west along the far ledge of the mountain well above Binnewater Road. He stopped.
“Lunchtime.”
“OK, Z.” I was anxious to press on and see if we could find it, but he was ready for lunch. We ate our sandwiches and cookies and talked about some of the dumb-ass, lame adventures we’d shared. All we needed was a jug, a harmonica, and a pipe. I wouldn’t have minded a couple of hits off some Bo-Bo I’d stashed in my pocket. But I couldn’t do it in front of Z. Somehow I’d earned his good opinion and I wouldn’t do anything to screw that up.
A chill moved in across the terrain and we both felt it. “Let’s proceed,” I said calmly. It got more rocky from there and thorny. We were sort of bushwhacking sideways and up. We had a clear view way out to the majestic Shawangunks. The sun’s driver had whipped up the horses and the chariot was moving quickly west and would soon set. And, of course, I was starting to feel engaged, my word for weird-as-shit. Not good. “Is that thing on?” I asked him.
He fiddled with the controls and it beeped. “It’s working, I think.” Then it started going off like crazy. Of course, I thought, there’s probably metal debris all over the mountain. How would we know pieces of piping, boiler parts, bolts and nails, from a metal box containing a fortune in treasure? He was scanning over the rocks and thorn bushes when the disk caught between two stones, wedged in tight, and catapulted him over it on to his face.
“Shit. Z, are you OK?”
“Oh, Christ. It’s my ankle. My ankle and my knee.” A wave of panic cut through as I clamped my hands around his ankle and felt it. There was a bump there. His knee seemed alright, but he said he could feel it up to his knee. That was, I thought, because his friggin’ ankle was broken. And it was my fault. Holy shit!
It would be dark pretty soon and I had to do something. “Let me use your cell.” I’d forgotten mine. I reached into his pocket under him and pulled it out; the case was completely smashed in as it had landed on a rock. It was either broken or there was no service. We were already too far on the west side of the mountain to go back the easy way. There was no easy way now. “I fucked up, Z. I’m sorry.”
“It’s all right, Coot.” Even in pain and a whole world of trouble coming down on us he was more of a man than I’ll ever be. “Can you find my glasses?”
“Sure.” I crawled around looking for them. I saw something glinting in a thorn bush. I reached in and got them. My hand came out scratched and bleeding. The left lens was gone. Shit. “Z, a lens is missing. I’m sorry.” Shadows were spreading over the landscape, painting us into a disquieting scene. I did a quick scan with my flashlight. Nothing. I got him to sit up and he bent the twisted frame to fit over his nose and ears. I noticed a gash on his forehead and reached for the First Aid Kit. He blinked, adjusting to the distorted image it must have made.
“I’ll keep one eye on you, Coot.”
“I’ve got to get you out of here.” I took off my shirt and cut strips out of it with my knife. When I had enough I wrapped them snug around his ankle. “Let’s see if you can stand on it.” I eased him up into a standing position. “Can you take a step?” He did and groaned.
“How far do we have to go?”
“A ways…some ways, Z.” I had to at least try to get him to the Ruined Cottage. We’d have four walls there and I could make a fire. There was no way we were getting back down tonight. I put his arm over my shoulder and we took four steps. He collapsed under me groaning in pain. Fear, bad fear can feel like a blade ripping up the inside of your guts right into your mouth and split your tongue like a snake. Fear and acknowledgement. I felt like I was being closed in by a warehouse elevator door without a sensor, relentless. I knew what I had to do.
“Coot, head back down and get some help. I’ll be fine.”
“That’s not happening.” I knew how cold it gets up here at night, not a good spot for waiting. I looked around, pulled out my pocket ax and started chopping. I made a sturdy hiking pole. Just one; I had Zeitzer’s hiking stick as a second. I rolled out a piece of rope and cut it. Then I sat him up and strapped my backpack onto his back. I got on all fours. “Get on my back and put your arms over my shoulders.”
“I’m not doing that. You can’t carry me.” I was starting to feel more engaged; an episode was definitely looming. I reasoned that this plan was as good as any, as we were already screwed.
I had never raised my voice to him before. But I did. “Do it!” I shouted. I waited, bracing myself until I felt him struggle and then get on. “Pull yourself up higher.” He did and I tied his arms and wrists, snug but not too tight around me. Holding both sticks in my left hand I held on to a tree and shimmed myself up with an effort that left me sweating with my forehead against the bark. I took several slow, deep breaths and started heading up. We had to get to the top and then start down to reach the shelter. The next half hour or whatever it was could be compared to Mel Gibson’s The Passion of the Christ, except a demented, flashbacking, atheist veteran carries a Jew on his back to the top of an iconic Catskill landmark. No lack of irony there. And Mel, the crazy bastard.
Somehow I made it to the top, vomiting on the moss and ferns. I untied the ropes I’d used to secure Z, then collapsed on the flat surface overlooking the trestle. I knew that I couldn’t carry him down to the shelter. Desperate I ran some Plan B scenarios through my head, which were preceded by an oncoming episode. My head felt like a dryer with hot confetti flying around inside it. I leaned on my side, my back drenched from Z’s weight on me. I unsheathed my knife because it was pressing into my leg. “Coot, what are you doing?”
“What do you mean?”
“The knife, I thought…nothing.”
What did he think I was going to do? I’d never hurt him. I’d sacrifice my life for a guy like that. I rolled over. He handed me a water bottle; I poured it over my face and I lay there staring up at the stars, which had it going on. A number bloomed in my head: thirty-five degrees north latitude, the same as Albuquerque, but not—the difference being the lack of light pollution. It was sweet home Afghanistan. Holy fuck! It came back fast. There was Orion and his retinue of bright winter stars. The brightest one, Sirius, sporting a bluish tinge. And Canopus, the yellowish-white one. And a million in the back up chorus.
Somehow I felt at home, but at the time I would have done anything to get out of there. I blinked to see if the stars would still be there. They were, but so was a beautiful young woman in a lavender perahan and Punjabi trousers. She kneeled and placed my head in her lap and held a cup to my lips. Sheer Chai. I remembered it from the villages and cafés, when it was possible to visit one without an insurgent hiding under the table. She smiled. I gazed at her, something awakening in me. Slowly her face came into focus. It was the little girl, now a woman, who I’d almost died with in the desert on the way back from the bastards who’d abused her. “Abessa?”
© Mark Morganstern 2020
This is an excerpt from the novel The Joppenbergh Jump by Mark Morganstern, Recital Publishing 2020.
It took much convincing to get Zeitzer to don his hiking boots, dig out his metal detector, and accept the premise that there was a treasure trove stowed somewhere in the woods based on the word of a spook. He didn’t know it, but I intended to split the whole thing with him. He always had my back no matter what crazy shit I’d gotten him into. If it contained everything Kurt said, there would be more than enough to pay for Val’s college and for Margaret to visit her folks whenever she wanted to. Hell, we could even buy them a new house. We could even hire an ESL teacher for In-Su.
Zeitzer insisted on spraying us both down with a flea and tick concoction he’d made, what with Lyme Disease rampant up and down the valley. He wore a red wool sweater and carried a hiking stick. His backpack was full of egg salad sandwiches, some Trefoils—Girl Scout shortbread cookies (no chocolate)—and bottles of spring water. He’d even packed a small first aid kit, always the professional. He reminded me of the guy from The Sound of Music.
In all the years he’d lived here he’d never been up the mountain. He was a bit nervous having seen me come down from there so many times looking like I’d been mauled by a bear. And there are bears, but mostly of the shy kind.
“Coot, remember, I’m a pharmacist, not a mountaineer.”
“Don’t worry, Z. It won’t be anything like Jersey. I promise.”
“What if we get lost?”
“I practically live up here. I know every inch of it.”
“We’ll break for lunch, right?”
“Of course. This will be as civilized as a Viennese coffee house.”
He looked uncertain, but started following me up the access trail. We headed up the backside, past the ravine on the right where the wide cross-path opened up, a four corners. I always felt like I could hear colonists marching through this area.
“What’s that?” he asked.
“That’s a pile of old antennas and wood platforms they’ve been bringing down. Everyone used to get their TV reception from up there, but not anymore.”
Just then a small brown rabbit darted across the path a few feet in front of us followed fiercely by a careening red-tailed hawk with a wingspan of about sixty inches, a serious contender. We could feel the wind shear coming off the bird’s body. It dug its talons into the creature and flew vertically up with it. Dinner on the wing.
“It’s wild up here.” He didn’t know how wild it could get up here. What was it Doe had said about the mountain? It’s as magical, strange, and haunted as any pre-revolutionary site in the country. Z was visibly shaken. We watched the red-tail transport its prey to the upper branches of a distant sycamore tree where there were probably three or four chicks waiting for dinner to be ripped apart and served. “Really wild,” he added, nervously.
We continued climbing up, avoiding ruts, stepping over polished stones that had sat on the bottom of a stream at one time. Through the trees off to the left was a great flat wall of stone which looked like the side of a surreal apartment building without windows and a roof top garden of trees. The power lines followed the massive poles high above us. The path was steep now and the wind picked up as we ascended. I could hear him breathing hard behind me. I stopped to let him catch his breath. “How much further?”
“Not far. We turn in at the horse farm and honey bee sign.”
“Honey bees? I didn’t know they were here.”
“It’s just a sign to scare trespassers.”
“We’re going to trespass?”
“It’s the only way in, don’t worry.”
“Really, Coot, this is not my cup of tea.”
I didn’t mean to laugh but his anachronistic saying cracked me up. After about fifteen minutes of a steep climb we reached the entrance. He hesitated at first, looked back down the trail and then followed me in. I knew he didn’t want to go back alone. We walked for a while until we reached the pile of tires and jump rails. I led us west along the far ledge of the mountain well above Binnewater Road. He stopped.
“Lunchtime.”
“OK, Z.” I was anxious to press on and see if we could find it, but he was ready for lunch. We ate our sandwiches and cookies and talked about some of the dumb-ass, lame adventures we’d shared. All we needed was a jug, a harmonica, and a pipe. I wouldn’t have minded a couple of hits off some Bo-Bo I’d stashed in my pocket. But I couldn’t do it in front of Z. Somehow I’d earned his good opinion and I wouldn’t do anything to screw that up.
A chill moved in across the terrain and we both felt it. “Let’s proceed,” I said calmly. It got more rocky from there and thorny. We were sort of bushwhacking sideways and up. We had a clear view way out to the majestic Shawangunks. The sun’s driver had whipped up the horses and the chariot was moving quickly west and would soon set. And, of course, I was starting to feel engaged, my word for weird-as-shit. Not good. “Is that thing on?” I asked him.
He fiddled with the controls and it beeped. “It’s working, I think.” Then it started going off like crazy. Of course, I thought, there’s probably metal debris all over the mountain. How would we know pieces of piping, boiler parts, bolts and nails, from a metal box containing a fortune in treasure? He was scanning over the rocks and thorn bushes when the disk caught between two stones, wedged in tight, and catapulted him over it on to his face.
“Shit. Z, are you OK?”
“Oh, Christ. It’s my ankle. My ankle and my knee.” A wave of panic cut through as I clamped my hands around his ankle and felt it. There was a bump there. His knee seemed alright, but he said he could feel it up to his knee. That was, I thought, because his friggin’ ankle was broken. And it was my fault. Holy shit!
It would be dark pretty soon and I had to do something. “Let me use your cell.” I’d forgotten mine. I reached into his pocket under him and pulled it out; the case was completely smashed in as it had landed on a rock. It was either broken or there was no service. We were already too far on the west side of the mountain to go back the easy way. There was no easy way now. “I fucked up, Z. I’m sorry.”
“It’s all right, Coot.” Even in pain and a whole world of trouble coming down on us he was more of a man than I’ll ever be. “Can you find my glasses?”
“Sure.” I crawled around looking for them. I saw something glinting in a thorn bush. I reached in and got them. My hand came out scratched and bleeding. The left lens was gone. Shit. “Z, a lens is missing. I’m sorry.” Shadows were spreading over the landscape, painting us into a disquieting scene. I did a quick scan with my flashlight. Nothing. I got him to sit up and he bent the twisted frame to fit over his nose and ears. I noticed a gash on his forehead and reached for the First Aid Kit. He blinked, adjusting to the distorted image it must have made.
“I’ll keep one eye on you, Coot.”
“I’ve got to get you out of here.” I took off my shirt and cut strips out of it with my knife. When I had enough I wrapped them snug around his ankle. “Let’s see if you can stand on it.” I eased him up into a standing position. “Can you take a step?” He did and groaned.
“How far do we have to go?”
“A ways…some ways, Z.” I had to at least try to get him to the Ruined Cottage. We’d have four walls there and I could make a fire. There was no way we were getting back down tonight. I put his arm over my shoulder and we took four steps. He collapsed under me groaning in pain. Fear, bad fear can feel like a blade ripping up the inside of your guts right into your mouth and split your tongue like a snake. Fear and acknowledgement. I felt like I was being closed in by a warehouse elevator door without a sensor, relentless. I knew what I had to do.
“Coot, head back down and get some help. I’ll be fine.”
“That’s not happening.” I knew how cold it gets up here at night, not a good spot for waiting. I looked around, pulled out my pocket ax and started chopping. I made a sturdy hiking pole. Just one; I had Zeitzer’s hiking stick as a second. I rolled out a piece of rope and cut it. Then I sat him up and strapped my backpack onto his back. I got on all fours. “Get on my back and put your arms over my shoulders.”
“I’m not doing that. You can’t carry me.” I was starting to feel more engaged; an episode was definitely looming. I reasoned that this plan was as good as any, as we were already screwed.
I had never raised my voice to him before. But I did. “Do it!” I shouted. I waited, bracing myself until I felt him struggle and then get on. “Pull yourself up higher.” He did and I tied his arms and wrists, snug but not too tight around me. Holding both sticks in my left hand I held on to a tree and shimmed myself up with an effort that left me sweating with my forehead against the bark. I took several slow, deep breaths and started heading up. We had to get to the top and then start down to reach the shelter. The next half hour or whatever it was could be compared to Mel Gibson’s The Passion of the Christ, except a demented, flashbacking, atheist veteran carries a Jew on his back to the top of an iconic Catskill landmark. No lack of irony there. And Mel, the crazy bastard.
Somehow I made it to the top, vomiting on the moss and ferns. I untied the ropes I’d used to secure Z, then collapsed on the flat surface overlooking the trestle. I knew that I couldn’t carry him down to the shelter. Desperate I ran some Plan B scenarios through my head, which were preceded by an oncoming episode. My head felt like a dryer with hot confetti flying around inside it. I leaned on my side, my back drenched from Z’s weight on me. I unsheathed my knife because it was pressing into my leg. “Coot, what are you doing?”
“What do you mean?”
“The knife, I thought…nothing.”
What did he think I was going to do? I’d never hurt him. I’d sacrifice my life for a guy like that. I rolled over. He handed me a water bottle; I poured it over my face and I lay there staring up at the stars, which had it going on. A number bloomed in my head: thirty-five degrees north latitude, the same as Albuquerque, but not—the difference being the lack of light pollution. It was sweet home Afghanistan. Holy fuck! It came back fast. There was Orion and his retinue of bright winter stars. The brightest one, Sirius, sporting a bluish tinge. And Canopus, the yellowish-white one. And a million in the back up chorus.
Somehow I felt at home, but at the time I would have done anything to get out of there. I blinked to see if the stars would still be there. They were, but so was a beautiful young woman in a lavender perahan and Punjabi trousers. She kneeled and placed my head in her lap and held a cup to my lips. Sheer Chai. I remembered it from the villages and cafés, when it was possible to visit one without an insurgent hiding under the table. She smiled. I gazed at her, something awakening in me. Slowly her face came into focus. It was the little girl, now a woman, who I’d almost died with in the desert on the way back from the bastards who’d abused her. “Abessa?”
© Mark Morganstern 2020
This is an excerpt from the novel The Joppenbergh Jump by Mark Morganstern, Recital Publishing 2020.
Narrated by Mark Morganstern.
Narrated by Mark Morganstern.
POST RECITAL
TALK
BR: Hi Mark. It’s been difficult in the midst of this pandemic to arrange for a recording session. But with all necessary precautions, finally, here we are.
MM: It’s good to see you guys again. I’m glad it worked out.
TN: Me too, Mark. It’s a rare pleasure. Now Recital Publishing brought out your novel, The Joppenbergh Jump, in May. It’s now August. How has the restricted book launch experience been so far?
MM: It’s been much better than I thought it would be. Graciously, there have been several reviews. My publisher, Recital Publishing has done a lot of good work for me and I am very grateful.
BR: In the excerpt you just read, we hear the first-person narrative voice that drives the whole book. So, tell us about who that guy is and what’s the basic story he’s telling.
MM: Well, it’s a composite of the character I invented, Coot Friedman—we do that as writers, we create a character that we… follow them around and hope they speak with us, and there’s a good portion of my subconscious in there as well.
BR: And just kind of give us a quick summary of the basic plot of the story.
MM: Well, the guy comes home from the war. He’s messed up. He struggles to find his place back in the world he’s in then, and it’s a real struggle and he has visions, and flashbacks but he has a supportive group of friends who kind of help get him through.
TN: So, in this section, Coot and Zeitzer are going treasure hunting on Joppenbergh Mountain. What’s the treasure they’re seeking?
MM: Well, supposedly Jacobus Rutsen the founder of the town, left a treasure trove hidden on the mountain and it supposedly contains colonial gold coins and buttons, and pieces of collectible silver—a treasure trove.
BR: At the end of this excerpt, Coot is going into a hallucinatory episode, having a vision of the young Afghan woman, Abessa. So without giving away too much, tell us a little about her.
MM: She is literally thrust upon him. He goes AWOL from the base, because he heard he could pick up some hooch from some traders out in the desert, and he gets out there and he makes the mistake of making a few comments on their mistreatment of women, which results in him not getting his whisky. They beat the hell out of him and then they throw this girl on top of him, whom they have no use for.
TN: The story has a lot of characters in it, some painted quite positively and others definitely not. It’s all captured in a humorous tone, perhaps a good-natured parody more than realism. Is this a carefully crafted effect, or is it more like the natural lens through which you see reality?
MM: That’s a tough question. There are a lot of good people, and I know a lot of good people but there are people who aren’t so good and a lot of them are living in The White House right now.
BR: Well I’m interested in the part of that question about whether you craft that humorous tone, or is it just natural?
MM: I’m going to say that it’s natural. It’s the way the words came. It’s the way the book happened. I just allowed that voice to take over, as I allowed Coot to do things that I would never do and could never do.
BR: Yeah okay. Well your book has gotten a lot of very good press regionally—favorable reviews, a lot of praise. But there’s also been a lot of focus on the local nature of the story. The town of Rosendale is never named but to area residents the location is obvious. I’d like to get away from that aspect of the book and talk more about its universal qualities. What would you say are the reasons why the exact locale of the story doesn't really matter?
MM: When I started the book I set a challenge for myself, as writers often do and both of you would know this very well. I decided at no time would I use the name of the town and then as I wrote the book I realized it could take place anywhere else in the world. In a small town, in a village—I’m thinking of Shangri-La, Our Town—places like that. Wherever there are people there are situations and behavior.
TN: What does the title mean?
MM: The Joppenbergh Jump literally means that at one time there was an Olympic ski jump up on the mountain, where people practiced for the Olympics. That’s part of it. The Jump itself, as you might know—you Brent, being a jazz aficionado—is a jazz form that was very popular in the 1940s. So the Jump itself gives the improvisational feeling of some of the writing.
BR: Ah cool. Well Coot’s struggles, I’ve noticed, have a certain mythic quality, but I can’t quite put my finger on what ancient myth might be the closest analog to this story. Do you have any thoughts about that?
MM: A couple. He performs some heroic acts unlike the author and he might be compared to Sisyphus, who keeps having to roll that giant boulder up the hill—up the mountain everyday and at one point he gets a little lucky and gets it up there, and it stays in place.
BR: Alright.
TN: I think it’s important to mention that after all the wild experiences and hallucinations and funny comments, the book has a core of optimism and warm-hearted humanism. You know my grandfather came out of World War I maintaining his belief that people were basically good. Are you too a believer in that basic goodness of humanity?
MM: I try to be. I want to be. Many people are but there’s so much evidence to the contrary.
BR: Yes there is. Well The Joppenbergh Jump is available in either paperback or e-book versions, through various online booksellers and in some of the local bookstores. Interested listeners should visit Recital Publishing dot com. So what’s your next writing project, Mark?
MM: I recently finished a novella, which brings me back to my hometown and it’s placed in the 1940s. And it’s currently in the competent hands of a very fine editor.
TN: Well our time is now up. Thank you Mark for summoning the courage to be with us today.
BR: Yes, thank you!
MM: Thank you. It’s my pleasure.
BR: Hey Tom, if nobody’s found that treasure up on Joppenbergh Mountain, maybe I should buy a metal detector, and you and I should undertake an expedition. It would probably net us at least as much profit as doing this podcast.
TN: You don’t have to buy one, you know. I have one already.
BR: Ah.
TN: Yeah… Though I don’t think we’ll need it. We’re getting rich enough here. Rich in friendships and good will. And literary adventure.
BR: Oh, right. Those are a sort of treasure. Labor of love and all that. But you know, this sounds positively un-American.
TN: Exactly…
BR: Hi Mark. It’s been difficult in the midst of this pandemic to arrange for a recording session. But with all necessary precautions, finally, here we are.
MM: It’s good to see you guys again. I’m glad it worked out.
TN: Me too, Mark. It’s a rare pleasure. Now Recital Publishing brought out your novel, The Joppenbergh Jump, in May. It’s now August. How has the restricted book launch experience been so far?
MM: It’s been much better than I thought it would be. Graciously, there have been several reviews. My publisher, Recital Publishing has done a lot of good work for me and I am very grateful.
BR: In the excerpt you just read, we hear the first-person narrative voice that drives the whole book. So, tell us about who that guy is and what’s the basic story he’s telling.
MM: Well, it’s a composite of the character I invented, Coot Friedman—we do that as writers, we create a character that we… follow them around and hope they speak with us, and there’s a good portion of my subconscious in there as well.
BR: And just kind of give us a quick summary of the basic plot of the story.
MM: Well, the guy comes home from the war. He’s messed up. He struggles to find his place back in the world he’s in then, and it’s a real struggle and he has visions, and flashbacks but he has a supportive group of friends who kind of help get him through.
TN: So, in this section, Coot and Zeitzer are going treasure hunting on Joppenbergh Mountain. What’s the treasure they’re seeking?
MM: Well, supposedly Jacobus Rutsen the founder of the town, left a treasure trove hidden on the mountain and it supposedly contains colonial gold coins and buttons, and pieces of collectible silver—a treasure trove.
BR: At the end of this excerpt, Coot is going into a hallucinatory episode, having a vision of the young Afghan woman, Abessa. So without giving away too much, tell us a little about her.
MM: She is literally thrust upon him. He goes AWOL from the base, because he heard he could pick up some hooch from some traders out in the desert, and he gets out there and he makes the mistake of making a few comments on their mistreatment of women, which results in him not getting his whisky. They beat the hell out of him and then they throw this girl on top of him, whom they have no use for.
TN: The story has a lot of characters in it, some painted quite positively and others definitely not. It’s all captured in a humorous tone, perhaps a good-natured parody more than realism. Is this a carefully crafted effect, or is it more like the natural lens through which you see reality?
MM: That’s a tough question. There are a lot of good people, and I know a lot of good people but there are people who aren’t so good and a lot of them are living in The White House right now.
BR: Well I’m interested in the part of that question about whether you craft that humorous tone, or is it just natural?
MM: I’m going to say that it’s natural. It’s the way the words came. It’s the way the book happened. I just allowed that voice to take over, as I allowed Coot to do things that I would never do and could never do.
BR: Yeah okay. Well your book has gotten a lot of very good press regionally—favorable reviews, a lot of praise. But there’s also been a lot of focus on the local nature of the story. The town of Rosendale is never named but to area residents the location is obvious. I’d like to get away from that aspect of the book and talk more about its universal qualities. What would you say are the reasons why the exact locale of the story doesn't really matter?
MM: When I started the book I set a challenge for myself, as writers often do and both of you would know this very well. I decided at no time would I use the name of the town and then as I wrote the book I realized it could take place anywhere else in the world. In a small town, in a village—I’m thinking of Shangri-La, Our Town—places like that. Wherever there are people there are situations and behavior.
TN: What does the title mean?
MM: The Joppenbergh Jump literally means that at one time there was an Olympic ski jump up on the mountain, where people practiced for the Olympics. That’s part of it. The Jump itself, as you might know—you Brent, being a jazz aficionado—is a jazz form that was very popular in the 1940s. So the Jump itself gives the improvisational feeling of some of the writing.
BR: Ah cool. Well Coot’s struggles, I’ve noticed, have a certain mythic quality, but I can’t quite put my finger on what ancient myth might be the closest analog to this story. Do you have any thoughts about that?
MM: A couple. He performs some heroic acts unlike the author and he might be compared to Sisyphus, who keeps having to roll that giant boulder up the hill—up the mountain everyday and at one point he gets a little lucky and gets it up there, and it stays in place.
BR: Alright.
TN: I think it’s important to mention that after all the wild experiences and hallucinations and funny comments, the book has a core of optimism and warm-hearted humanism. You know my grandfather came out of World War I maintaining his belief that people were basically good. Are you too a believer in that basic goodness of humanity?
MM: I try to be. I want to be. Many people are but there’s so much evidence to the contrary.
BR: Yes there is. Well The Joppenbergh Jump is available in either paperback or e-book versions, through various online booksellers and in some of the local bookstores. Interested listeners should visit Recital Publishing dot com. So what’s your next writing project, Mark?
MM: I recently finished a novella, which brings me back to my hometown and it’s placed in the 1940s. And it’s currently in the competent hands of a very fine editor.
TN: Well our time is now up. Thank you Mark for summoning the courage to be with us today.
BR: Yes, thank you!
MM: Thank you. It’s my pleasure.
BR: Hey Tom, if nobody’s found that treasure up on Joppenbergh Mountain, maybe I should buy a metal detector, and you and I should undertake an expedition. It would probably net us at least as much profit as doing this podcast.
TN: You don’t have to buy one, you know. I have one already.
BR: Ah.
TN: Yeah… Though I don’t think we’ll need it. We’re getting rich enough here. Rich in friendships and good will. And literary adventure.
BR: Oh, right. Those are a sort of treasure. Labor of love and all that. But you know, this sounds positively un-American.
TN: Exactly…
Music on this episode:
Caravan by Duke Ellington and his Orchestra
License PD
Sound Effects used under license:
Marching by Webb Films UK
License CC BY 3.0
Bird Takeoff, wings flapping by Yle Arkisto
License CC BY 3.0
Detector Weeou by Sebastien Lund
License CC BY 3.0
First Aid by Kwamah
License CC BY 3.0
Knife cutting T-shirt cloth by qubdup
License CC BY 3.0
Chopping wood with a hatchet by D Heming
License CC BY 3.0
