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1 Burnside Literature- A to Z

This title in other editions



Cruddy Cover

ISBN13: 9780684838465
ISBN10: 068483846x
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Chapter Four

And now a word from our sponsor. You should know about Vicky Talluso. In fact, if you are tired of your life, if you want your life to turn instantly amazing, you should KNOW Vicky Talluso. Things happen around Vicky Talluso. Incredible things. Meeting incredible people. Having revelations. Running from the cops.

I met her at school on the day of my fifth-year anniversary of the Lucky Chief Motel Massacre. Public interest had finally laid down with its arms crossed like a vampire in a coffin. No one cared anymore who did it. No one cared if I ever told the story or not. It was what I had been waiting for, but when it finally came it was slightly a disappointment. On every other anniversary someone had always called us, someone from the Las Vegas paper, some reporter asking the mother, "Has she remembered yet? Has she talked yet?" And the mother got her chance at publicity, which is something she dearly loves. But this year the phone did not ring and the mother started looking at me with a little more squint to her eyes, like she was deciding something.

I was expecting to feel relieved when the story died. I was expecting to feel proud. The father always talked about the value of being able to really keep your mouth shut when it mattered. I kept mine shut for five years. It took five years for the parade of interest to finally pass. I thought I was going to feel happy when it did. I didn't expect the empty street it left behind. I didn't expect the old faded trash swirling in devil-cones around me.

They didn't find him. They didn't find his body, but I was thinking it was still there. I was thinking that if I really wanted to, I could take the money I have hidden and I could buy myself a Trailways ticket and I could go check on him. See if he is petrified like the shiny beef jerky man called Sylvester at Ye Olde Curiosity Shoppe who is on display beside actual shrunken heads with sewn-up eyes and lips. Or maybe he is all skeleton now, picked clean and bleached out like the displayed bone with WHALE PENIS written underneath it. Ye Olde Curiosity Shoppe is a good place to go when you are left wondering what finally became of the person you stabbed and then left in the sun.

On the anniversary of the fifth year I was thinking, What was the point? If it could all end with such a nothing feeling. If it could end with a nothing but the mother's squint, what was the point of getting away with it? The father would have called me an idiot for asking that question. He would have said, "Clyde, sometimes I'm not entirely sure you are my son."

Clyde is what he called me. He wanted a son to pass his wisdom to. Me being born a girl was just a technicality. The world spun a lot smoother once you understood what you were bound to live by and what you weren't. "Clyde," he said. "Your average man thinks he needs to grab the world by the balls. That's why your average man will never get ahead. He grabs at what only wants a tickle and a kiss. Hell. Try it on a bull sometime. See for yourself."

The father came from meat people. Generations of them that could be traced all the way back to the time of the monkey. "The monkey with the most meat wins," said the father.

I said, "I thought they just ate fruit."

He said, "Oh no, hell no. Look at their teeth. Fangs like that? If one bit you, you'd know it. Meat people run things, Clyde. Always have and always will."

It's in my blood. I know it is. Meat person. I am hell with a knife and there is nothing I can really do about it but try and keep my mouth shut and try not to let it show.

Vicky Talluso came toward me across the empty track field and she was walking too fast. I didn't really know her but she was in one of my classes and I had seen her around in the halls. It was hard not to notice Vicky. She had extravagant ways, too much makeup and very bright clothes and sort of a burnt-rubber smell she tried to cover-up with Chantilly. People automatically turned away from her. No one could really stand to look. In the Navy they call it dazzle camouflage. It was the Navy that figured out you could paint something with confusions so horror-bright that the eyeballs would get upset to where they refused to see. Battleships were painted this way and the bomber planes just passed them by. Dazzle camouflage is Navy. The father was Navy too. "Navy all the way, Clyde. Every goddamned inch right down to the end of my pecker."

It was lunch, and I was sitting in my usual place up in the weeds on the embankment near the track field. Passing time there. Some people would call it hiding there. My school is a violent place. People need people to knock over or sock in the gut. I stand out to them for some reason.

During my first days in the weeds I was not disturbed or even noticed by anyone. And then Vicky Talluso came walking right toward me, staring straight at me, wearing shocking-yellow crinkle-vinyl knee boots with super-stacked heels and twisted purple stockings and a pink and orange psychedelic shirtdress with a lime green collar. Her long hair was swinging and she was wearing a kind of hat called a tam, a tam made out of hypnotizing red velvet and she was moving so confidently and so fast and she was flipping me out completely, freaking me extremely. I could not think of one reason why a person like her would be walking so rapidly toward a person like me. Because I am her opposite in every single way. I am about as detailed as a shadow.

I nervously started yanking up grass and weeds and made a pile out of them and when she was very close I started staring at the pile very seriously like it was a science project I was working on, but her face had already been flash-burned into my vision. She had slightly bulged-out eyes with a lot of violet eye shadow and globbed-on mascara and she had a long nose that humped up in the middle and white frosted lipstick coated thick on very chapped lips and her lips protruded forward because her twisted eyeteeth bucked-out, a defect that was weirdly alluring. One of her many weirdly alluring defects.

I smelled the Chantilly and then burning rubber and I wondered about it. What could make a person smell like that. I later found out it was from the hair-removing cream she constantly used because she is a very hairy person. Quite naturally hairy all over, her eyelashes were incredibly long but so were her arm hairs. And the eyebrow hairs of her right eyebrow. The other one was completely missing. I noticed it right away. She was very bald above her left eye. The skin there was crusted.

"Hey," she said. I didn't say anything back. "Hey, deaf," she said. "You. I got your message." She sat down too close to me and started yanking up grass and throwing it on my pile. "I received your message this morning and the answer is yes."

I said, "Message?"

"You're Roberta, right?"


"Yesssssssss," she said, imitating my habit way of saying the word. The mother went insane if me or Julie said "yeah," because only idiots said "yeah." She wanted us to say "yes" very clearly. Make the "s" very clear. She did not want to be known as the mother of two idiots.

"Yesssssssss," said Vicky Talluso. "That's so sick. Yessssss."

She was yanking up the grass vigorously, yanking up roots and dirt clods and I noticed her hands were very small and wide and her fingernails were also small and wide with silver nail polish caked up in chipped layers.

She said, "You have ESP, right?"

I squinted.

"You have ESP and you have contact with an Unfortunate Being, right? You were doing the Ouija board this morning."

I shook my head. She saw me staring at her missing eyebrow. It was inflamed looking. Slightly scabby. I was thinking of the mange creature Demodex. I said, "Do you got a dog?"

"It's 'have,'" she said. "Not that it matters. But it's 'have.' You called me this morning on the Ouija board and said to meet you here because you have something you need to give me.

Only you don't know what it is. You said you needed for me to come to you and tell you what it is you are supposed to give me."

I shook my head no.

She said, "Yessssss." She said, "Do you have any cigs?"

I shook my head again and she yanked up a clump of grass with a huge root clod attached and threw it. She said, "I hate this place. I hate this school. I hate this world. I hate this universe. Do you have any cigs or not?"


"And you weren't trying to contact me this morning?"


"Liar. Not that it matters, but liar."

From her purse she pulled out a flat chipped metal case that made a spronging sound when she opened it. Inside behind a filigree bar were three cigarettes.

"My last ones. Do you smoke?"


"Yesssssssss. That is so sick. Do you care if I steal it? Yesssssssss. That is how I'm going to say it from now on. Yessssss. Yessssss." She offered me a cig. I took it. I took it because the father said that when anyone offers you something, including a new identity, you should always take it and see what it leads you to. Once he found a nudist camp that way.

She pulled out a lighter with usn engraved on it. Big and silver-colored. Special issue. Made for people in windy conditions. You could not blow it out. I said, "Your father Navy?"

She snorted. "My father? Not hardly."

We sat in the weeds awhile blowing stale Newport smoke into the air. I felt a weird electrification from being beside her. Partly it made me want to leave and partly it was what made me stay when the first bell rang and neither of us acted like we noticed it. Lunch was over. We had five minutes to get to fifth period.

"You don't need to lie to me," she said. Blue smoke came out of her nostrils.

"OK," I said. It was the Navy thing to say. The thing the father told me to do. Agree and agree. See what the person has in mind.

"So you did contact me."



Five years is a long time to go around obeying and not talking and having a boring life. Maybe I did contact her. Or maybe my Unfortunate Being did, whatever that was. Maybe it was time to finally tell the story and maybe Vicky Talluso was the perfect person to tell it to.

The second bell rang. Vicky was chewing on grass, grinding down with her front teeth and then actually chewing the grass into a wad. She said, "Roberta. Roberta. Hey." I looked up and her mouth opened and her tongue shelfed out and there was a two-inch wet black ball of grass on it.

I said, "Dag, Vicky!"

She said, "What?"

She saw me looking freaked. Possibly she was more Navy than I was. She said, "Know what is so amazing about that? About chewed-up grass?"

I shook my head.

"Milk is made of only that. Of chewed grass and nothing else. Grass is the milk's Unfortunate Being. Get it? We're skipping fifth, right? You're skipping with me." She picked up her purse and stood up. Some clouds behind her were doing that thing of suddenly looking all shadowed with white glowing edges. She said, "Roberta."


She showed me the grass wad again.

Was it me or Clyde who jumped up and followed her when she took off running?

Was Clyde the Unfortunate Being she was talking about? Or was it actually me?

Copyright c 1999 by Lynda Barry

What Our Readers Are Saying

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Average customer rating based on 5 comments:

PrincessJaylia, June 7, 2011 (view all comments by PrincessJaylia)
A truly unique book with a great voice. I had difficulty putting it down.
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(1 of 2 readers found this comment helpful)
LilyRose, March 1, 2010 (view all comments by LilyRose)
It is an excellent book, but I had to stop reading it late at night. It was giving me nightmares, and I am not sure why - maybe because everything was just so darn cruddy.
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(2 of 3 readers found this comment helpful)
Anthony Hudson, January 5, 2010 (view all comments by Anthony Hudson)
While the story may venture into bleak and terrifying places, "Cruddy" is absolutely beautiful. Set in the '60's and '70's it charts two separate adventures of a girl named either Roberta or Clyde in a world of drugs, insanity, negligence, filth, and a wannabe-bully named Vicky Talluso. It's as if Lynda Barry put "Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas," "Tideland," and Neil Young into a blender and made the resulting mixture an extra 100% hilarious.
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(4 of 5 readers found this comment helpful)
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Product Details

Barry, Lynda
Simon & Schuster
New York
Problem families
Diary fiction
General Fiction
Graphic Novels - General
General Fiction
Literature-A to Z
Edition Description:
Series Volume:
Publication Date:
October 2000
Grade Level:
b/w illustrations throughout
8 x 5.25 in 9.66 oz

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Related Subjects

Arts and Entertainment » Humor » General
Fiction and Poetry » Graphic Novels » General
Fiction and Poetry » Literature » A to Z
History and Social Science » American Studies » Popular Culture

Cruddy Used Trade Paper
0 stars - 0 reviews
$7.98 In Stock
Product details 320 pages Scribner Book Company - English 9780684838465 Reviews:
"Staff Pick" by ,

Cartoonist Lynda Barry proves to be a formidable writer with this novel of teen alienation. Shocking, outlandish violence is balanced by lyrical, insightful prose. Cruddy is a homicidal road story, a coming-of-age tale, and a meditation on adolescence and uncertainty.

"Review" by , "Barry is an expert in the too-often neglected vernacular of working-class childhood in urban America, and Roberta, with her haunting and often jubilant voice, is a typical Barry kid, screwed by circumstance but still searching for integrity. Cruddy adds to Barry's already impressive body of work another fine novel that is tender, goofy, scary and thrilling."
"Review" by , "Cutting across two narratives, Roberta's story is an engrossing voyage through trash America and the bleak futures native to it....Cruddy is a superbly executed book with turns that surprise and thrill, and with an ambiguous ending that leaves equal room for hope and despair.
"Synopsis" by , Roberta Rohbeson begins her book in 1971, in what starts out as a drug-fueled teenage rant that gradually fades into the story of two cross-country trips she made with her father five years earlier — a story she has kept to herself since she was found wandering the desert covered with blood. Illustrations.
"Synopsis" by , On a September night in 1971, a few days after getting busted for dropping acid, a sixteen-year-old curls up in the corner of her ratty bedroom and begins to write. andlt;BRandgt; andlt;Iandgt;Now the truth can finally be revealed about the mysterious day long ago when the authorities found a child, calmly walking in the boiling desert, covered with blood.andlt;/Iandgt; andlt;BRandgt; The girl is Roberta Rohbeson, and her rant against a world bounded by "the cruddy top bedroom of a cruddy rental house on a very cruddy mud road" soon becomes a detailed account of another story, one that she has kept silent since she was eleven. andlt;BRandgt; Darkly funny and resonant with humanity, andlt;Iandgt;Cruddy,andlt;/Iandgt; masterfully intertwines Roberta's stories — part andlt;Iandgt;Easy Riderandlt;/Iandgt; and part bipolar andlt;Iandgt;Wizard of Oz.andlt;/Iandgt; These stories, the backbone of Roberta's short life, include a one-way trip across America fueled by revenge and greed and a vivid cast of characters, starring Roberta's dangerous father, the owners of the Knocking Hammer Bar-cum-slaughterhouse, and runaway adolescents. With a teenager's eye for freakish detail and a nervous ability to make the most horrible scenes seem hilarious, andlt;Iandgt;Cruddyandlt;/Iandgt; is a stunning achievement.
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