PORTNOY'S COMPLAINT (THE NOVEL)

Picture this: It’s 1972. I’m living on a pleasant street in St. Charles, Missouri. A neighbor, whose home is across the street and several houses down, is having a garage sale. I am an 11 year old boy then and I head down, by myself, to the sale. Always checking out books and records at garage sales. What specifically catches my eye is a book called PORTNOY’S COMPLAINT by Philip Roth. I’d heard of this book because it was supposed to be vulgar, dirty and upsetting to the older generation. So, of course, I had to have it.

Did I get to read it then? No. Why? Well, as it turned out, this neighbor lady asked my Mom later if she enjoyed the book. “What book?”, Mom asked. “Portnoy’s Complaint”, came the reply. “We don’t have that book”, Mom countered. “Well, Mikey bought it the other day and I thought he was getting it for you!”. Yup, I was ratted out by the neighbor lady. Later that day, the paddling commenced.

That’s part 1 of this story. Here’s part 2:

1974. I’m 2 years older and none the wiser. I find PORTNOY’S COMPLAINT at the DeSoto, Missouri, Red Barn Flea Market. I buy it from some careless vendor for 25 cents. This time I smuggle it home and take it to the Hillsboro, Missouri, Junior High School where I will read it (or so I intended) during the day and leave it in my locker at night.

What happens is that I have it in Ms. Slachman’s class. She sees it and grabs it from me. I would never see that copy of the book again.

Great, I’m screwed outta reading it. Twice, no less. At least she didn’t call my home to tell anyone and as far as I can remember, no mention of it was made on my report card (other than perhaps to say that “he’s always somewhere else even though he’s sitting right there in class” – I used to get that a lot). However, Ms. Virginia Slachman was one of my younger school teachers and at one time talked about Jim Morrison masturbating on stage. Then she takes a book – essentially about the masturbatory habits of one young Jewish boy – away from me. Seemed like a double standard to me.

End Part 2. Begin Part 3:

I’m an adult now. Or as much of an adult as I’ll ever be.

Attending three-four book fairs a year, I am inundated with copies of PORTNOY’S COMPLAINT. So I pick a hardcover of it up for next to nothing.

Mike Madonna starts reading PORTNOY’S COMPLAINT, take 3.

Got through the book, uninterrupted this time. I didn’t get it. Looking around in the refrigerator for one’s next bedroom partner wouldn’t occur to a normal mind. Even a necrophiliac would have to agree that that’s sick. I’m mean I’ve screwed UP dinner before but have never screwed the dinner itself. Seems to me that foreplay would be a complete waste of time.

That’s really all I’ve got to say on PORTNOY’S COMPLAINT. I’ve never seen the movie, nor do I want to.

In parting, the only advice I would impart is this: NEVER accept an invitation to eat dinner at Philip Roth’s house. Capiche?