The Locusts Have No Cocktail

If misanthropy is contagious, Dawn Powell is the pathogen. Before their humanity is allowed to ooze, her characters are presented at their most contemptible. The reader thus slips directly from abhorrence to pity without ever being allowed the indulgence of compassion. But pitched against this darkness stands the other coast, Hammett’s characters lost in San Francisco’s fog, and the bleak heroism of solitude and renunciation.

But we who have abandoned main characters are not ensorcelled by this cruel Circe. Nor by embracing bit characters are we relegated to Dickens, whose Our Mutual Friend could well be the blueprint for Powell’s vitriol. No, we who find relief in the detail seek refuge in Wodehouse, and chuckle at what the G&T in the corner might have opined on these literary minds.

But if those who hate could be made to love, and find happiness in the frivolity they denigrate, and if these same could be placed within RubberLeg Square, shoulder to shoulder, hip to hip, hand to flask, and mouths opened wide, they would be quaffing this drink.

The RubberLeg, or The Four Companions

1 oz Allspice Dram
1 oz blanco tequila
1 oz Laphroaig (cask strength)
1 oz freshly squeezed white grapefruit juice

Shake furiously with ice until Aphrodite herself emerges from the foam. The drink should have the color of spun honey. Matching spirit to author is left as an exercise for the drinker.