Remembering John Fante

By: A collection of essays written by the Fante family | Photography from the Fante Estate | August 05, 2009 | Non Fiction

AN ESSAY |  BY YOUNGEST SON JIM FANTE

Thanks for the opportunity to talk about my dad and our relationship. I was the youngest and meekest of the four kids. I have no memories prior to living in Malibu, as I was 11 months old when we moved there. I was a very quiet child, almost autistic, who didn’t speak in school until half way through the second grade. I spent most of my time multiplying and dividing large numbers in my head. I had the brain of a calculator before ever being exposed to arithmetic. I spent most of my time alone.

Dad was in his 40s and slowing down a bit, or so I’m told, when I came along. He knew I was different. My older brothers were another generation and already too busy to be home much as I started school. It was me and my sister, my mom and dad — mostly the four of us. Dad was traditional with my sister though, and pretty much left her alone. So that left me.

It started with baseball. Dad would show me the box scores in the newspaper. To my amazement, every day they would recalculate all the batting averages. I would listen to the games with him and recalculate everybody’s average in my head when they came to bat. I kept the rolling numbers all in my mind. He was not only amazed, but equally fascinated with the numbers. We’d talk for hours about the pros and cons of various statistics. And then the pros and cons of various players and athletes in other sports and of the cities they represented — and of their race and creed. I was coming out of my shell. Our friendship was formed.

From there, for many years, and regularly, the two of us went to see the Dodgers, the Angels, the Rams, USC, UCLA, prize fights and dog shows. We traveled to Denver by train to see his relatives, old friends and the houses he had lived in. He talked of the bitter cold of Colorado and begging for day-old fruit and bread for his family, and how he was mistreated because he was Italian. We talked incessantly, exchanging views as friends, all the while willing to bare our souls, to expose our ignorance or to compare our wits. We seldom talked, though, about his role as a father or mine as his son, or what I should do with myself someday, or my brothers and sister, or even about my mom and almost never about his profession. Instead, we talked as friends about our world.

As the years went by and I read his books, I was aware of his talent. He was, too. The problem was he had been seduced by Hollywood, used up and spit out as a has-been. He became bitter. He kept writing script after unsold script, but he’d forgotten his roots as a novelist. The script-writing-for-hire he had done in the ’40s and ’50s had spoiled him. But now it was the ’60s and nobody knew of him anymore — neither his movies nor his books. He was simply forgotten.

Finally, when he began to write a novel again after many years of only screenplays, I saw the twinkle in his eyes come back. He knew the magic was still there, somewhere. Arturo Bandini was alive, but oh so rusty. So when 1933 Was A Bad Year was flatly rejected in the mid-’60s, he confided that he was deeply wounded. He felt he was equal to or better than any writer out there, but that nobody would ever know again. Only very late in his life did he ever get a sense that he would be recognized.

All the while, though, our friendship and support for one another was unwavering. I put up with his foul moods and he with my adolescence and young adulthood. We never skipped a beat, never a serious quarrel. He began to read me his work. It might be a paragraph from Ask the Dust or from a short story or what he was writing now. He’d read it aloud and look at me. “That’s pretty good, Dad,” I’d say. “You’re goddamn right it is,” he’d respond. And it wasn’t as a braggart; it was more to encourage himself, to remind himself of his forgotten genius.

And so our relationship went on to his death. I watched diabetes take his sight and his legs. I watched as he dictated his last book. He smiled for me as he heard my voice for the last time, as I commented on our beloved Dodgers. Our bond as friends had endured and will always endure. Not a father and son in the classic sense; he didn’t conform to any traditional standards as a father — or any traditional standards of anything. I will always accept that. He conformed only to being John Fante. There will forever only be one.

AN ESSAY |  BY DAUGHTER VICTORIA FANTE COHEN

My father, John Fante, the quintessential Los Angeles novelist, would have turned 100 years old this past April 8. His centennial was celebrated at the Hammer Museum in Westwood on April 7. David Kipen, director of literature for National Endowment for the Arts in Washington D.C., moderated the celebration. Other panelists were Stephen Cooper, my father’s biographer, KCRW’s Francis Anderton, Richard Schave of “Downtown City Walk” and “Esotouric” tours, my brother Jim and I. We enjoyed a crowded theater filled with people asking lively and spirited questions about John Fante and other past notable Los Angeles writers.

Dad’s actual birthday was celebrated with dozens of people at one of his former haunts that still exists, The King Edward Saloon, mentioned in my father’s book Ask The Dust. To my surprise the bar was full, some were locals, others were there to celebrate Dad’s birthday, watch the Dodgers beat the Padres and toast John Fante. Coinciding with the celebration was UCLA’s acquisition of The John Fante Literary Papers, including original manuscripts,correspondence, letters and memorabilia. This August in Torricella Peligna, Italy, the birthplace of my grandfather, there will be a festival in honor of my father.

Dad wrote, lived and loved his life in Malibu from 1951 until his death in 1983. My mother, Joyce Fante, continued to enjoy living in Malibu until her death in 2005.

We moved to Point Dume, then a remote community with unobstructed views from the house to the Pacific Coast Highway and ocean. Rancho Fante, as we called home, was large enough for a writer to work without too much distraction from his family. When dad was writing at home, I remember being told by mom to play silently and not to disturb him while he worked. Many days dad would spend time on the back lawn hitting golf balls, formulating his thoughts. Then he would come into the house and write. Afterwards, at our family dinner table, he would read us the pages he had written that day. We were excited to hear them and would listen intently. Although, there were periods in between when he had silent moody times that could last days. When this happened, you steered clear of him.

At our home we enjoyed the freedom of open space and through the years had an assortment of pets including horses, a goose and a donkey, dogs, cats, iguanas, parrots, tortoises, hamsters, etc. Dad had genuine compassion and tenderness for animals. My parents would make special trips to the grocery store to get meat and bones from the butcher to cook for the dogs. He had a special pot he used to boil bones to add flavor to the dogs’ food. I would often find him with my horse stroking or brushing her and giving her apples, carrots and handfuls of oats.

I was the third of four children, the only daughter. My dad, my hero, had been raised in a poor Italian-American home where girls were expected to spend time with their mothers and boys with their fathers. I really wanted to spend more time with him. However, I always felt loved and adored by him even though we rarely did things together. His love for me was apparent in his smile, the tone of his voice, his unwavering support and advice, the way he’d protect me from my older brothers when they picked on me.

When I was struggling in school, his encouraging words were, “Do your best. That’s all I ask of you.” He was there to be my cheerleader and coach when I let him. He would stand by the side of our pool and encourage me to swim laps and improve my technique. Frequently, he would give me gifts, anything from Italian candies to small pieces of jewelry, dolls, clothes, etc., and when I ate the candies, he would watch with delight as I enjoyed every bite. He made me feel special. I clearly remember a shopping event when I was about 10 years old, and Dad took me shopping for shoes in Santa Monica. The salesman had a horrible time finding shoes that I liked, but once he did my father said to him, “We’ll take them in every color.”

As a young teenager, engaging him in conversation was confusing and awkward for me. He could express himself so clearly, and I couldn’t. He understood my antics, was amused and rarely got mad at me. Looking for a common understanding for us, he encouraged me to read novels by Fitzgerald and Steinbeck, which we could discuss together. He would scoff when he found me reading contemporary paperback novels; it irritated him that so much money could be made writing what he thought was trash. I think he was angry that he couldn’t spend more time writing his own novels. Instead, he had to take jobs writing screenplays and TV shows to support our family.

At that time, my father would interact with our friends and get an especially big kick out of my girlfriends. He enjoyed teasing them, and they loved his silliness and charm. Most of my weekends were spent at Little Dume with friends surfing, swimming and sunbathing. Afterwards, we would come back to the Fante house and hangout, eating sandwiches, swimming in the pool and shooting pool. But many days, the highlight of the afternoon was a visit from my father. Sure, he was keeping an eye on us, but he was also enjoying conversations with my friends, and they loved his visits and stories. Years after I left home, many of my friends would continue to drop by the house to talk with Dad. His conversation and stories were charismatic, humorous and always current. He attracted them because he was open and aware to truthfully discuss contemporary issues.

In the late 1960s, I recall Mom and Dad called a meeting of some of my friends’ parents. The discussion was to warn them about their kids using drugs. The parents thought my mom and dad were alarmists and were only concerned that their kids were smoking cigarettes. Unfortunately, many of these parents later regretted not heeding the warnings. Some of their kids ended up using hardcore drugs and alcohol and ruining lives. Dad had an uncanny way of reading people and knowing what was going on.

In later years, diabetes ravaged his body and eyesight. He was always happy to know I was there but would quickly scurry me off saying, “It is a nice day outside. Why are you wasting your time in here with me? You should be out there enjoying life.” After my father died, my brother Jim told me he felt the saddest for me because he thought no man would ever be as sweet to me as dad.

 

EXCERPTS FROM INTERVIEW WITH ELDEST SON,
THE LATE NICK FANTE |  August 15, 1995 |  by Stephen Cooper

Contributions elsewhere in this feature by the other three Fante children demonstrate that their respective experiences of John Fante differed from one another. Missing until now has been the testimony of eldest son Nick, who died in 1997 of complications from alcoholism. When I interviewed Nick in 1995, he was sober, clear of mind and eager to talk about the relationship he shared with his father.
— S.C.

At the age of eight or nine he introduced me to Ask the Dust. I just fell in love with that book. We talked a lot about it. And then I read Wait Until Spring. He was working on Full of Life at the time. He showed me sections and let me read them, and he actually asked my opinion. I felt really honored by that, to be able to give him feedback. He did this a lot with the stuff he wrote. He showed me sections of The Brotherhood of the Grape and My Dog Stupid. I really appreciated that. I think he enjoyed my opinion because My Dog Stupid had a lot of stuff about me in it.

Dad fed me a lot of books to read. It wasn’t like, “Nick, you gotta do this.” He’d say, “I think you’ll like this.” He was pretty removed from what I did. He was interested a little bit, but not a lot. Dad was very much into himself and what he was up to, but he did care, and he did love me. He wanted me to appreciate literature and to read. So I did. I didn’t understand half of what I was reading, but it was great. I mean, The Brothers Karamazov … if I knew what the hell it was all about … didn’t matter. I just liked to read. Nietzsche, too. I was a teenager, 14, 15 years old, very rebellious and antagonistic, and he gave me Nietzsche to read. Then we kind of fell out with each other — years where we hardly communicated, into my early 30s, really. We didn’t get along at all. We didn’t hate each other, but we were not at all friendly.

Dad was disciplined about his work. Every day, for so many hours, he would work. He never violated that. He had his schedule, 9, 10 in the morning until 4 in the afternoon. And he was really diligent. You’ll hear stories about him playing golf and gambling and all that stuff. He played a lot of poker. He screwed around a lot. But he worked, too. He was really, really into his life’s work, and you didn’t mess with him when he was doing that.

He was not a take-me-out-to-the-ballgame kind of dad. He wasn’t into that at all. He sometimes had no time to even talk to you. He was very removed, very separate. Anything I would do that would disrupt his serenity would piss him off — and I think I tried to disrupt his serenity; I tried to get noticed. A kid wants his parent’s notice, and I was a loose cannon when I was a teenager and in my early 20s. And he was into his own thing, so we disconnected. He intimidated me with his talent. I mean, this guy could get off lines and sentences, paragraphs, pages that were astonishing. People would ask me, “Are you going to be a writer like your father?” No way I’m going to try to do something like that because that was not what I could do. So maybe that put me at loggerheads.

With my brother Jim, he did a lot more than he did with me. They went to Laker games and Dodger games and stuff. Steve, one of the things we want to talk about is Dad before he contracted diabetes and Dad after he contracted diabetes. Before, he was still drinking. I was 16 or 17 when he [was diagnosed], and then Jim became that age eight or 10 years after that.

He took me on Angel’s Flight several times. He took me to the streets in Los Angeles that were still brick. He took me on the Red Cars, and he taught me about the history of the town. Those were precious times.

Dad was horribly disappointed by the [movie] business. He wrote some wonderful stuff, great screenplays that never went anywhere. He was bitter about it, angry. He hated producers, actors, studio heads, the bean counters in the business — he hated that; he really did. I can’t remember him ever saying a kind word about an actor or a producer — ever.

He took me to see this Kurt Vonnegut movie in the early ’70s, Slaughterhouse Five. It was the only movie I remember where he didn’t get pissed off and walk out. He’d just say, “This is shit, and I’m leaving.” I remember he liked [this film]. We sat through the whole thing, and we talked about it on the way home. It was nice. It was when we had started getting back together as father and son.

His father deserted the family, and the thing that I’ve heard and that I love to believe is true, is that he finally found his father. He walked in on his father in a cheap hotel room with this woman he’d run off with, and he faced him and he said, “You’re coming home with mom again.” And he made him do it. I’ve heard this story from more than one family member, and it’s an attractive story to me — a great story. Dad never talked about it to me. He only said that at one time his family had been split up, and he had found his dad and got them back together. But the point of the story is that he refused to allow his family to break up.

Family loyalty is really important to our whole family. Dad was loyal to his kids and to his wife. He really believed in that stuff, and that came through to all of us. So this is a great story for me to hang onto. But I think it’s true. I do think it’s true.

He was very direct, very straightforward. He would never bullshit you. He’d hurt your feelings before he’d bullshit you — up to and including destroying some opportunities he had in Hollywood.

He was a very heavy drinker, a real carouser, until he got diabetes. He got so sick, it scared him to death, and so he stopped drinking and he quit smoking cigarettes.

Dreams from Bunker Hill was this wonderful window when he had this relief, and he could work and he wasn’t delusional. He was the writer again, dictating to Mom, who was taking it down and reading it back to him. I witnessed a couple of sessions when they were working, and that was a beautiful thing to see. As sick as he was, when he was working, he was a young man again. He was himself.

He was a tremendous reader of the lives of the saints, very fascinated by this purity and goodness in some people. He talked about that, about how the saints could be saints, how they could be so unselfish and do things utterly for love of God. He gave me Butler’s Lives of the Saints to read. He gave me Nietzsche. All the reading I ever did was what he gave me.

Dad was a force of no small measure — a difficult, powerful person who was incredibly intimidating to me during the time we fell out with each other. I was 13, 14 years old and starting to feel my own self, whatever it was, starting not to be whatever it was he wanted me to be — and I don’t know what that was. But then he became really hard to deal with. I guess I got hard to deal with. I don’t know. But there was no way I could argue with him. He was so good with words. He was so devastating when he was angry that you couldn’t win. There was just no way. So you stayed away — you clammed up and sealed up and abandoned the problem rather than be humiliated. And that happened to me. It was like this sense that you weren’t worthy. He never called you names. He never raised his arm. He was just so good at making you feel less than, and it was very hurtful. So that’s when we sort of split apart, but I never hated him. I don’t think he ever hated me. I just avoided him, and we stayed avoiding each other for a long time.

It was the whole evolution of me as a person and dad as a person. All of it had to happen. [We] had to go through this thing, you know? He was starting to get sick. I remember back in about ’73 or ’74, he got a cut on his leg and it didn’t heal, one of those open wounds that wouldn’t go away. I think we all knew then that something was going on. It wouldn’t scab up, and it was diabetes is what it was.

I had dreams about him when I was a little boy. Threatening dreams. I dreamed of him as a monstrous, horrible force. I think my dreams were not unusual when you have a strong father figure. Bad dreams. Frightening dreams. But when I grew up, those stopped.

 

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