I doubt that the texture of Southern life is any more grotesque than that of the rest of the nation, but it does seem evident that the Southern writer is particularly adept at recognizing the grotesque.
-- Flannery O’Conner

For most people, Charles Portis will be forever associated with his novel, True Grit, which was turned into the 1969 movie of the same title. Portis went on the write a series of novels that are among the finest works in Southern literature. Unfortunately, none has acquired the popularity of True Grit. However, due to a growing interest in neglected Southern writers who demonstrate a healthy interest in the gothic and bizarre, Overlook Press has decided to reissue the works of Charles Portis. As a result, The Dog of the South (1979) has acquired an enthusiastic audience.

Bewildered and badly flawed anti-heroes have always confused much of the reading public in this country. Who wants to read about the erratic and apparently pointless wanderings of an Arkansas misfit who prattles on and on about his inability to hold a job or make friends as he drives in an ailing car from Little Rock through Mexico to Honduras? Who is interested in reading about his strange encounters and bewildering conversations with the legions of drunken, wasted eccentrics that the bars and slum hotels contain along the way? Well, me, for one! I love these people!

When Ray Midge’s wife, Norma, suddenly absconds with her first husband, Guy Dupree, taking Ray’s car and his .410 shotgun. (Ray knows his marriage is in trouble when Norma started talking about opening a craft shop and selling Native American jewelry!) Ray goes in pursuit (He is driving Dupree’s malfunctioning car). Ray, in turn, is followed by a bail bondsman who is determined to return the bail-jumping Dupree to Little Rock (among a number of bizarre acts, Dupree has threatened to kill the president). The resulting journey is a bewildering circuitous one, and along the way Ray talks to everyone who will listen. He asks questions, complains and pontificates. No one seems to listen but they respond in kind. Everyone talks -- lies, brags and blusters. No one likes Ray (he has gotten used to that), and he is subjected to endless betrayals and small humiliations.

The most fascinating character in Dog of the South is Dr. Rao Symes, a fast-talking quack who has sold everything from fake hearing aids to a zinc compound that turned his patients green. Paranoid and subject to nightmares, Symes is on his way to Honduras in the hope that he can take advantage of his aging mother, who runs an orphanage that specializes in showing Fritz the Cat cartoons and Tarzan movies. Then there is Christine, the hippie who lives in a Volkswagen with her delinquent son, a collection of socialists, anarchists and revolutionaries, used car dealers, corrupt policemen and sinister hotel managers.

Through it all, Ray carts his wife’s silverware and her pills for her lower back pains. Storms and hurricanes rage, floods and chance accidents strike, and Ray sometimes finds himself caught up in heroic efforts to aid others. Strangely enough, like a character in a Camus novel, it is at such times of crisis that Ray seems to be transformed into a decent and happy man -- when he is part of a concerted effort to do something meaningful, and when others accept him -- possibly because they have no choice.

In this entire novel, there does not seem to be a single character who is living a meaningful existence. Everyone blunders along, striving to appear “in control,” but all of these hapless characters are confused, lost and bewildered. Occasionally, someone will venture to ask, “What is going on?” or “What are we doing?” In every instance, other characters will bluster and give perverse advice. Ray meets an incredible number of people with eye infections, suggesting that some strange plague is sweeping through the slums, abandoned farms and seaside villages. It is likely that swollen and bandaged eyes symbolize a pervasive condition in The Dog of the South. No one can perceive the world around him clearly.

Despite the hopeless flailing of Portis’ characters, this is a hilarious book largely due to the dialogue. Everyone talks but they rarely listen. All talk is evasive. For example, when Ray asks Dr. Symes to loan him $20 so he can pay court to Christine, Dr. Symes replies that there are no red-headed people in insane asylums. Ray is confused ... but then, so is everyone else.

Betrayal becomes so commonplace, Ray comes to accept it and blunders on towards the abandoned farm where Dupree awaits. Civilization seems to withdraw, and the forest is filled with Aztec ruins. Ray wonders why he came this far to find a woman who apparently despises him. What will he do when he finds her? Ray hasn’t got a clue.

It probably takes a special kind of person to appreciate Charles Portis.

I guess I am one of them. When an author can combine images of a world that is both hostile and humorous, I’m hooked. I don’t think there is a message here, except ... perhaps ... that there are no red-headed people in insane asylums. At least, that is what Dr. Symes said.

(Gary Carden is a writer and storyteller who lives in Sylva. His book, Mason Jars in the Flood, is available at area bookstores. He can be reached at gcarden498@aol.com)

 

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