The New Yorker 5/8/2015 By John Kenney
“Look Who’s Back,” a satirical novel by the German author Timur Vermes, imagines Adolf Hitler waking up, Rip Van Winkle-style, on the streets of Berlin in 2011. He’s mistaken for an actor and becomes a talk-show host and a YouTube phenomenon. Since it first appeared in Germany in 2012, the book has sold two million copies in that country.
—the Times
Dear Sally,
How funny is Pol Pot? I’d wager he’s funnier than a lot of people think. So imagine this idea for a novel: it’s present-day Los Angeles. Santa Monica, say. On a park bench, a man wakes up. It’s Pol Pot. Except, because it’s Santa Monica, there are a lot of guys asleep on benches, and on the bench next to Pol Pot is Lon Nol. (Except, for some reason I haven’t figured out yet, neither recognizes the other.) They become friends when they figure out they’re both from Cambodia. Turns out they both love the weather in L.A. and don’t miss the humidity of Cambodia at all. At first, no one recognizes them, because (a) it’s Los Angeles and (b) neither is very recognizable. They get jobs at a Starbucks and, eventually, customers start thinking they look familiar, but, because it’s Los Angeles, everyone just assumes that they’re character actors or extras on “The Good Wife.” Problem is, every time someone orders a cappuccino, Pol and Lon think the person is saying “Kampuchea,” and it triggers something, and they kill the person. Maybe not literally, though. Maybe they just shout “Kampuchea!” and it becomes a hilarious new thing that people say, and it goes viral, and they have a show on Amazon Prime about two guys trying to make it and not kill anyone in L.A., “Togetherness,” but with a cast capable of killing everyone in Los Feliz. I think it could be funny but also serious, with a message, though at present I have no idea what that message might be. Let’s talk.
***
Hey, Sally,
Haven’t heard from you since I sent that Pol Pot idea, which you probably guessed I wasn’t serious about (unless you liked it, and then I very much was). But I’ve been thinking a lot about mass murderers and how funny they are in a satirical-but-with-a-deeper-meaning way. So. It’s present-day Moscow. On a park bench, almost frozen to death, is Josef Stalin. Why is he not dead in the Kremlin Wall Necropolis? No idea. But there he is, alive, in a swanky neighborhood, near the Patriarshiye Ponds. He’s in a bad mood because (a) he’s freezing to death and (b) the neighborhood now has an H&M and a Panera Bread, and he’s wondering why there’s so much “stuff” on the shelves. People recognize him, of course, but assume he’s an actor. Somehow, he gets a job at a TV station. He works the night shift. The station shows reruns of “Magnum, P.I.,” and Stalin becomes obsessed with Tom Selleck because they have identical moustaches and thick, wavy hair. He loves T. C. and Rick, but finds Higgins deeply annoying, and decides that, when he meets Magnum, he will have Higgins purged. Eventually, Stalin finds his way back to power, but Russians don’t notice any difference from Putin and assume Putin has grown a beautiful moustache and gotten hair plugs, which no one wants to mention.
***
Hi, Sally,
Left you a bunch of messages but haven’t heard back. Your assistant said you guys are no longer representing me? She’s funny. Anyway. What about this? Just one word: Pinochet. Followed by more words. It’s present-day Williamsburg. General Pinochet wakes up on a park bench, outside a cold-press coffee shop. He’s in full-dress uniform. No one thinks this is odd. In fact, people ask where he got the marvelous epaulets. He enters the coffee shop and is surrounded by men with beards and women with tattoos. He assumes he has wandered into anti-establishment headquarters. He mentions this to the barista. The barista says, “No, man. This is the establishment.” He is heartened by this. A Rihanna song is on the radio. Pinochet likes it. Near him sit two hip-hop record producers. They notice that Pinochet has jotted down, Dat ain’t cold, dat’s Chile. They sign him to a record deal that instant. On the flight to Los Angeles to record the song, Pinochet throws them both from the plane. He’s soon recognized for who he really is and takes a job at Goldman Sachs, where he becomes the head of fixed income within six months and, for some reason, earns the nickname Chet the Pants Man.
***
Hey there, Sally,
I’m actually outside your office. It’s raining. And I really need to use the toilet. Can you guys buzz me up? I know you have one of those security cameras and can see me. Haha. In the meantime, I have what I think is a very exciting idea for you: he was funny. He was funny-looking. He was Heinrich Himmler. Head of the S.S. His middle name was Luitpold. How great is that? It’s present-day Scarsdale. Himmler wakes up on a bench. Three members of the boys’ varsity lacrosse team happen to be walking by, and Himmler says, “Stop. Are you Jews?” Well, this is a mistake, as one of the boys is Mike Schneider, a six feet four all-Westchester defenseman, who got in early decision to Duke and will most likely start on the team in the spring. Mike can bench-press four hundred pounds and picks Himmler up by the larynx. Before blacking out, Himmler wonders why there are no S.S. guards to be seen, just fit women in yoga pants. Mike, who’s a sweet kid, feels bad for hurting the old guy. He buys Himmler a Coke. After practice, which Himmler watches excitedly, rooting for Mike but also occasionally shouting anti-Semitic slurs, which Mike gently corrects by saying, “Dude, seriously, you can’t say that stuff,” Mike shares some of his music with Himmler. They listen to the Indigo Girls song “Watershed,” off the “Nomads Indians Saints” album. Himmler asks to hear the song over and over and is deeply moved, saying, in an awed whisper, “Not even Leni Riefenstahl could sing like this.” Himmler undergoes an immediate change of personality and later helps Mike take second prize in his oral-presentation class, with a speech titled, “What Hitler Was Really Like—And It Wasn’t Good.” At a party for Mike’s graduation, the family dog, a German shepherd, chases Himmler into the street, where Himmler is struck and killed by a truck. The truck is carrying kosher food. The dog’s name is Luitpold.
http://www.newyorker.com/humor/daily-shouts/to-my-literary-agent-re-look-whos-back?mbid=social_facebook