Nate Briggs's Blog - Posts Tagged "fiction"
Toward a Simple Structure of Character in Society
Christian theology has given us the idea of the Individual Soul - in relation to a concerned God - and, from that, we have leveraged Rugged Individualism: which is nothing more than the plain recognition that “I” am nothing like anyone else, and am unique in Human History: with no duplicate in the past, or the future.
All the same, it has struck me that people do fall into recognizable social categories—and those categories can be useful when you’re considering character dynamics. As usual, if you get too analytical about this, your friends will stop speaking to you, and your dog will think you’re a stranger. So...not something to be taken too seriously—but fun to apply to the work of other writers. In this case, I’m going to apply my General Categories to “The Great Gatsby”, still possibly the greatest novel written in English.
The Categories roughly follow the alphabet:
A — SuperAlpha, Hard Alpha, Soft Alpha. Everyone wants to be Alpha. That’s the state we all think about when we think about living a satisfying life.
D — Desperately Desiring. What do they Desire? They want to be Alpha. Most fiction is written about the ambitions of these people to get to a higher Category.
E — Expendable. The people whose dreams will never come true, because they’ve stopped having them. They contradict the Christian position of unique value in every human soul—but there are still millions of Expendable People. If you’re in a hotel, one of them made your bed this morning. One of them made the iPad you’re reading this on. They’re everywhere. Dickens knew a lot of them.
F — Forgotten. The men who built the pyramids...the soldiers of Genghis Khan...the servants of the Byzantine Emperors. Who were they? We don’t know...and we will never know.
So: when we look at “Gatsby”, here are the categories that suggest themselves:
Super Alpha — This Category describes someone with far-reaching power (Adolf Hitler, Simon Bolivar, Henry VIII, Ramses II). This is a “society” book and doesn’t include anyone like that.
Hard Alpha — Tom Buchanan. You write a lot of Hard Alpha if you’re writing for men because this is the kind of male character a lot of men are drawn to: decisiveness, possessive, unapologetic, unwilling to admit to positive emotions, but willing to embrace violence and deceit. Hard Alpha is scorched earth...“my way or the highway”...“no regrets”...“hands against the wall and spread’em!” Lots of cops are Hard Alpha, if you hadn’t noticed.
Soft Alpha — Nick, Daisy, Jordan. These are people with full spectrums of emotion, and yet are served by others. They are satisfied, in themselves, and ready to admit that “this is just the way life is”—so their emotions are more muted. They are generally happy with the way things are because they’re resting at the top of the heap.
Desiring — Jay Gatsby. The whole book is driven by his desire to be at the top: Desperately Desiring (like Scott Fitzgerald himself). He invents a personality...becomes a criminal...even changes the way he talks...trying to become the “something else” that will put him at the same level as Daisy. But it’s all for nothing. And we know, even at the beginning of the story, that it will be for nothing, because Hard Alpha generally wins. That's the heartache at the center of the book.
Expendable — Myrtle and George Wilson. All of Gatsby’s many servants (never named). The people Jordan plays golf with, the Buchanan servants, Nick's landlord, the jazz bands, the partygoers, everybody else. George Wilson has an important role, but everyone else just is seen, and then gone.
My apologies...this post obviously went on a lot longer than I thought it would. But I hope you find it useful.
Later....
All the same, it has struck me that people do fall into recognizable social categories—and those categories can be useful when you’re considering character dynamics. As usual, if you get too analytical about this, your friends will stop speaking to you, and your dog will think you’re a stranger. So...not something to be taken too seriously—but fun to apply to the work of other writers. In this case, I’m going to apply my General Categories to “The Great Gatsby”, still possibly the greatest novel written in English.
The Categories roughly follow the alphabet:
A — SuperAlpha, Hard Alpha, Soft Alpha. Everyone wants to be Alpha. That’s the state we all think about when we think about living a satisfying life.
D — Desperately Desiring. What do they Desire? They want to be Alpha. Most fiction is written about the ambitions of these people to get to a higher Category.
E — Expendable. The people whose dreams will never come true, because they’ve stopped having them. They contradict the Christian position of unique value in every human soul—but there are still millions of Expendable People. If you’re in a hotel, one of them made your bed this morning. One of them made the iPad you’re reading this on. They’re everywhere. Dickens knew a lot of them.
F — Forgotten. The men who built the pyramids...the soldiers of Genghis Khan...the servants of the Byzantine Emperors. Who were they? We don’t know...and we will never know.
So: when we look at “Gatsby”, here are the categories that suggest themselves:
Super Alpha — This Category describes someone with far-reaching power (Adolf Hitler, Simon Bolivar, Henry VIII, Ramses II). This is a “society” book and doesn’t include anyone like that.
Hard Alpha — Tom Buchanan. You write a lot of Hard Alpha if you’re writing for men because this is the kind of male character a lot of men are drawn to: decisiveness, possessive, unapologetic, unwilling to admit to positive emotions, but willing to embrace violence and deceit. Hard Alpha is scorched earth...“my way or the highway”...“no regrets”...“hands against the wall and spread’em!” Lots of cops are Hard Alpha, if you hadn’t noticed.
Soft Alpha — Nick, Daisy, Jordan. These are people with full spectrums of emotion, and yet are served by others. They are satisfied, in themselves, and ready to admit that “this is just the way life is”—so their emotions are more muted. They are generally happy with the way things are because they’re resting at the top of the heap.
Desiring — Jay Gatsby. The whole book is driven by his desire to be at the top: Desperately Desiring (like Scott Fitzgerald himself). He invents a personality...becomes a criminal...even changes the way he talks...trying to become the “something else” that will put him at the same level as Daisy. But it’s all for nothing. And we know, even at the beginning of the story, that it will be for nothing, because Hard Alpha generally wins. That's the heartache at the center of the book.
Expendable — Myrtle and George Wilson. All of Gatsby’s many servants (never named). The people Jordan plays golf with, the Buchanan servants, Nick's landlord, the jazz bands, the partygoers, everybody else. George Wilson has an important role, but everyone else just is seen, and then gone.
My apologies...this post obviously went on a lot longer than I thought it would. But I hope you find it useful.
Later....
Visions in Small Places
“Life is much more successfully looked at from a single window, after all....” - Fitzgerald
As our culture slides into its post-literate phase, the names of writers left behind will inevitably grow longer: authors of "difficult" books vehemently debated in graduate seminar...but nowhere else. Even Shakespeare gets farther and farther behind in the rear view mirror, for reasons explained in an essay of mine: https://medium.com/@T…/shakespeare-fu...…
When a woman told William Faulker that she’d read “The Bear” three times, and still didn’t know what it was about, Faulkner replied: “Then you should probably read it again....” — and that’s why I’m sure he'll be among the most easily dismissed of the difficult writers of the late 20th Century.
I don't agree with him that readers should serve an apprenticeship of comprehension.
But where we do meet (and shake hands) is the idea — summarized by Fitzgerald, above — that maybe it can be best to write about what’s close to you. Looking at one particular place long and hard...for a long time.
The American Nation is now divided along several major fault lines. But one of the least discussed is the gulf between Urban and Rural. New York is vastly overrepresented in our current media, and Middle America vastly underrepresented.
For most of his work, Faulkner used the people, the landscape, and the history of northern Mississippi in a place he invented: Yoknapatawpha County. Terminally rural. A place in the middle of nowhere, you might say. Unworthy of attention, according to majority opinion.
But, the longer he looked at it, the more interesting it got.
A strong sense of place gives fiction a useful depth: the “universe in a grain of sand”. John Cheever hardly ever strayed from Long Island, and Garrison Keillor has been living off Lake Wobegone for decades.
Why not the Great Plains, I thought? There is no poet laureate for the modern Bible Belt — that peculiar slice of nowhere. And so this series of posts will be introducing the not-quite-lost town of Elsinore — where you can pull off the Interstate if you want to (but most people don't want to) — where the weather is pretty awful about 300 days of the year — where the smart ones have left to make their fortunes, and the loyal ones stayed behind — where nothing much seems to happen and yet, where the whole human landscape is on display as much as anywhere else.
As usual, stay tuned....
As our culture slides into its post-literate phase, the names of writers left behind will inevitably grow longer: authors of "difficult" books vehemently debated in graduate seminar...but nowhere else. Even Shakespeare gets farther and farther behind in the rear view mirror, for reasons explained in an essay of mine: https://medium.com/@T…/shakespeare-fu...…
When a woman told William Faulker that she’d read “The Bear” three times, and still didn’t know what it was about, Faulkner replied: “Then you should probably read it again....” — and that’s why I’m sure he'll be among the most easily dismissed of the difficult writers of the late 20th Century.
I don't agree with him that readers should serve an apprenticeship of comprehension.
But where we do meet (and shake hands) is the idea — summarized by Fitzgerald, above — that maybe it can be best to write about what’s close to you. Looking at one particular place long and hard...for a long time.
The American Nation is now divided along several major fault lines. But one of the least discussed is the gulf between Urban and Rural. New York is vastly overrepresented in our current media, and Middle America vastly underrepresented.
For most of his work, Faulkner used the people, the landscape, and the history of northern Mississippi in a place he invented: Yoknapatawpha County. Terminally rural. A place in the middle of nowhere, you might say. Unworthy of attention, according to majority opinion.
But, the longer he looked at it, the more interesting it got.
A strong sense of place gives fiction a useful depth: the “universe in a grain of sand”. John Cheever hardly ever strayed from Long Island, and Garrison Keillor has been living off Lake Wobegone for decades.
Why not the Great Plains, I thought? There is no poet laureate for the modern Bible Belt — that peculiar slice of nowhere. And so this series of posts will be introducing the not-quite-lost town of Elsinore — where you can pull off the Interstate if you want to (but most people don't want to) — where the weather is pretty awful about 300 days of the year — where the smart ones have left to make their fortunes, and the loyal ones stayed behind — where nothing much seems to happen and yet, where the whole human landscape is on display as much as anywhere else.
As usual, stay tuned....
The Charm of a Small Place
So where is Elsinore exactly?
It's in the Department of Imagination - AKA Fiction - so it's exact location is suitably vague. Probably a couple of days drive from Lake Wobegon. And maybe a little less than that from the Simpson's home town of Springfield. And, even though winters in Oklahoma can be pretty miserable, Elsinore is well south of Frostbite Falls.
You can get there by bus. But they took the trains away in the 1960s. The tiny airport allows private planes, but most people arrive by car.
According to conversations I've heard from people who live there, Elsinore is about an hour from Will Rogers Airport in Oklahoma City - and a morning's drive from the Dallas-Fort Worth area, if you stay within the speed limit.
Nothing much has happened there, specifically, in terms of history. Its most traumatic connection is with the Dust Bowl. It was a starting point for Okies headed to California when times got bad. It's modern historical connection is with the iconic Route 66 - the "Mother Road" - even after Route 66 has been swallowed up by I-40. (The publicity still is from the old television drama "Route 66". I doubt that anyone would tune in to a series called "I-40".)
My own Elsinore - my own home town - was bypassed by the Interstate system: giving that place an intense feeling of isolation: being "out, and away". But I wanted Elsinore to be near a big road - because sometimes it's convenient to include that kind of river of commerce as part of certain stories.
Elsinore is within easy driving distance of some attractive lakes. Since most people own their own homes, apartments are generally shabby, and hard to find. The town is very walkable - but almost nobody walks. And, like so much of the Heartland, there are more seniors than children because young people with energy and talent go away to School...and never come back. (More on this later).
It is an ordinary, unexceptional place. A green sign along the divided highway. A sign that slides along the passenger side window, and then is left behind. Which means that Elsinore, OK, only offers only hundreds of stories of life and death - love and loss - happiness and unhappiness within its borders. Unlike a place like Brooklyn: where all the possible stories number in the millions.
The advantage Elsinore has is that I know it: right down to the ground. And, like all the rest of us, the time I have for storytelling is limited.
It's in the Department of Imagination - AKA Fiction - so it's exact location is suitably vague. Probably a couple of days drive from Lake Wobegon. And maybe a little less than that from the Simpson's home town of Springfield. And, even though winters in Oklahoma can be pretty miserable, Elsinore is well south of Frostbite Falls.
You can get there by bus. But they took the trains away in the 1960s. The tiny airport allows private planes, but most people arrive by car.
According to conversations I've heard from people who live there, Elsinore is about an hour from Will Rogers Airport in Oklahoma City - and a morning's drive from the Dallas-Fort Worth area, if you stay within the speed limit.
Nothing much has happened there, specifically, in terms of history. Its most traumatic connection is with the Dust Bowl. It was a starting point for Okies headed to California when times got bad. It's modern historical connection is with the iconic Route 66 - the "Mother Road" - even after Route 66 has been swallowed up by I-40. (The publicity still is from the old television drama "Route 66". I doubt that anyone would tune in to a series called "I-40".)
My own Elsinore - my own home town - was bypassed by the Interstate system: giving that place an intense feeling of isolation: being "out, and away". But I wanted Elsinore to be near a big road - because sometimes it's convenient to include that kind of river of commerce as part of certain stories.
Elsinore is within easy driving distance of some attractive lakes. Since most people own their own homes, apartments are generally shabby, and hard to find. The town is very walkable - but almost nobody walks. And, like so much of the Heartland, there are more seniors than children because young people with energy and talent go away to School...and never come back. (More on this later).
It is an ordinary, unexceptional place. A green sign along the divided highway. A sign that slides along the passenger side window, and then is left behind. Which means that Elsinore, OK, only offers only hundreds of stories of life and death - love and loss - happiness and unhappiness within its borders. Unlike a place like Brooklyn: where all the possible stories number in the millions.
The advantage Elsinore has is that I know it: right down to the ground. And, like all the rest of us, the time I have for storytelling is limited.
Sunday Literary Life: April 2
This month’s featured short novel is “Alfie” – subtitled “A Born Again Romance” because much of it discusses the tribal norms of Bible people inside a Bible church: referred to as “born again” because they are not considered to be "saved" until after full immersion baptism as children or young adults.
The easy inspiration for "Alfie" was the story of Rachel and Jacob in Genesis 29. A story which is the natural response of any Bible kid to the objection that the Old Testament is just bunches of people murdering each other.
These are verses of affection and fascination, and – in case you don’t have the Scriptures at hand – some of it goes like this (King James version of course...the only Bible I heard while I was growing up):
“And it came to pass, when Laban heard the tidings of Jacob his sister's son, that he ran to meet him, and embraced him, and kissed him, and brought him to his house...And Laban said unto Jacob, Because thou art my brother, shouldest thou therefore serve me for nought? tell me, what shall thy wages be?
"And Laban had two daughters: the name of the elder was Leah, and the name of the younger was Rachel. Leah was tender eyed; but Rachel was beautiful and well favoured. And Jacob loved Rachel; and said, I will serve thee seven years for Rachel thy younger daughter. And Laban said, It is better that I give her to thee, than that I should give her to another man: abide with me.
"And Jacob served seven years for Rachel; and they seemed unto him but a few days, for the love he had to her.
"And Jacob said unto Laban, Give me my wife, for my days are fulfilled, that I may go in unto her. And Laban gathered together all the men of the place, and made a feast. And it came to pass in the evening, that he took Leah his daughter, and brought her to him; and he went in unto her.
"And it came to pass, that in the morning, behold, it was Leah: and he said to Laban, What is this thou hast done unto me? did not I serve with thee for Rachel? wherefore then hast thou beguiled me?
And Laban said, It must not be so done in our country, to give the younger before the firstborn. Fulfill her week, and we will give thee this also for the service which thou shalt serve with me yet seven other years.
"And Jacob did so, and fulfilled her week: and he gave him Rachel his daughter to wife also.”
As we well know, the essence of Romance is obstacles: either before, during, or after. If absolutely nothing gets in the way of Unity and Reconciliation it is difficult to make any kind of argument for Romance. In this case, Jacob – an epic trickster himself – meets his match in his sly Uncle Laban: the victim of the first “bait and switch” in Bible history. Along with the first recorded example of a man crying before sex, instead of after.
Jacob was upset, getting stuck with the "tender-eyed" one. But it should be noted that he stayed on the job another seven years after getting Rachel – so he couldn’t have been too upset.
My Sunday School teachers offered little insight into what the phrase “tender eyed” might mean: some of them insisting it was the same as saying that Leah had a good personality. She was certainly a solid choice for a man promised descendants without number. She reeled off ten healthy sons in a row, and what is often lost the glow of Jacob'n’Rachel is news that the Almighty didn't like Rachel that much. He favored Leah: stepping in to balance the books in favor of the ill-favored.
Likewise, “Alfie” is a narrative about a love long delayed and blessings (whatever their source) being offered in a form which is very hard to recognize, at first. I picked an ill-starred Old Testament name for the hero of my story – Jonah – since almost nothing is expected of him, at first, bearing such a burden of innocence and misinformation.
Like Leah, he understands that the Romantic deck is stacked against him. Like Jacob, he sees no other option than the woman he is meant to have – and, of course, technically speaking this is a “comedy” since its final resolution – after years and years of discouragement and misdirection – is a marriage.
More literary notes on "Alfie" this month. I hope you stay tuned.
The easy inspiration for "Alfie" was the story of Rachel and Jacob in Genesis 29. A story which is the natural response of any Bible kid to the objection that the Old Testament is just bunches of people murdering each other.
These are verses of affection and fascination, and – in case you don’t have the Scriptures at hand – some of it goes like this (King James version of course...the only Bible I heard while I was growing up):
“And it came to pass, when Laban heard the tidings of Jacob his sister's son, that he ran to meet him, and embraced him, and kissed him, and brought him to his house...And Laban said unto Jacob, Because thou art my brother, shouldest thou therefore serve me for nought? tell me, what shall thy wages be?
"And Laban had two daughters: the name of the elder was Leah, and the name of the younger was Rachel. Leah was tender eyed; but Rachel was beautiful and well favoured. And Jacob loved Rachel; and said, I will serve thee seven years for Rachel thy younger daughter. And Laban said, It is better that I give her to thee, than that I should give her to another man: abide with me.
"And Jacob served seven years for Rachel; and they seemed unto him but a few days, for the love he had to her.
"And Jacob said unto Laban, Give me my wife, for my days are fulfilled, that I may go in unto her. And Laban gathered together all the men of the place, and made a feast. And it came to pass in the evening, that he took Leah his daughter, and brought her to him; and he went in unto her.
"And it came to pass, that in the morning, behold, it was Leah: and he said to Laban, What is this thou hast done unto me? did not I serve with thee for Rachel? wherefore then hast thou beguiled me?
And Laban said, It must not be so done in our country, to give the younger before the firstborn. Fulfill her week, and we will give thee this also for the service which thou shalt serve with me yet seven other years.
"And Jacob did so, and fulfilled her week: and he gave him Rachel his daughter to wife also.”
As we well know, the essence of Romance is obstacles: either before, during, or after. If absolutely nothing gets in the way of Unity and Reconciliation it is difficult to make any kind of argument for Romance. In this case, Jacob – an epic trickster himself – meets his match in his sly Uncle Laban: the victim of the first “bait and switch” in Bible history. Along with the first recorded example of a man crying before sex, instead of after.
Jacob was upset, getting stuck with the "tender-eyed" one. But it should be noted that he stayed on the job another seven years after getting Rachel – so he couldn’t have been too upset.
My Sunday School teachers offered little insight into what the phrase “tender eyed” might mean: some of them insisting it was the same as saying that Leah had a good personality. She was certainly a solid choice for a man promised descendants without number. She reeled off ten healthy sons in a row, and what is often lost the glow of Jacob'n’Rachel is news that the Almighty didn't like Rachel that much. He favored Leah: stepping in to balance the books in favor of the ill-favored.
Likewise, “Alfie” is a narrative about a love long delayed and blessings (whatever their source) being offered in a form which is very hard to recognize, at first. I picked an ill-starred Old Testament name for the hero of my story – Jonah – since almost nothing is expected of him, at first, bearing such a burden of innocence and misinformation.
Like Leah, he understands that the Romantic deck is stacked against him. Like Jacob, he sees no other option than the woman he is meant to have – and, of course, technically speaking this is a “comedy” since its final resolution – after years and years of discouragement and misdirection – is a marriage.
More literary notes on "Alfie" this month. I hope you stay tuned.
Sunday Literary Life: April 23
One of the big scenes I had in mind for Alfie was crisp, yet funny, yet emotionally charged conversation somewhere in a big discount store. Not Walmart, of course. Who could think about Romance in a place like that? It’s bright – it’s cutthroat – it’s penny pinching. It’s mildly disgusting. And you don’t find yourself among a good class of people.
Target seemed more of a contender. Lower lighting. Less acreage. More a sense that you’re shopping. And less a sense that you’re being turned upside and shaken to get all the money out of your pockets.
My inevitable conclusion was that my star-crossed lovers should have their decisive meeting at Target.
With that in mind, I decided to give my local store a call to get some valuable background*:
Her: ‘This is Target Customer Service, how may I direct your call?’
Me: ‘I wanted to ask about crying in your store.’
Her: ‘What? Excuse me?’
Me: ‘What happens if someone is crying in your store? I’m thinking in one of the changing rooms.’
Her: ‘You mean: someone is crying now? In this store? In the changing room?’
Me: ‘No. Just as a general policy. What if two people are in one of the changing rooms—’
Her: ‘We don’t really encourage—’
Me: ‘—a man and a woman—‘
Her: ‘—probably illegal—‘
Me: ‘—and one of them is crying. You know: really wailing away. Not so you can hear it all over the store. But let’s say half the store.’
Her: ‘What half of the store? What are you trying to tell me? Is there something going on in the store? Do they have a gun? Do you have a gun?’
Me: ‘No — there’s no crisis—’
Her: ‘Then why are you talking about this? Are you in our store?’
Me: ‘No — just calling from home.’
Her: ‘How do you know there’s someone crying in the store if you aren’t here?’
Me: ‘I don’t think there is anyone crying in the store. This is all hypothetical.’
Her: ‘So something to do with drugs?’
Me: ‘Not hypodermic. Just imagining. Just thinking about how that might happen.’
Her: ‘Why would that ever happen?’
Me: ‘Because someone would see someone and want to say something to them — and then the other person wouldn’t want to hear it — and so she would go into the dressing room—’
Her: ‘Why not run out of the store?’
Me: ‘She’s not thinking straight.’
Her: ‘Well…obviously. So they’re not having sex. Or are they?’
Me: ‘No — they’re just talking.’
Her: ‘And why is she crying?’
Me: ‘Just because.’
Her: ‘And he doesn’t have a gun?’
Me: ‘No. Nothing like that.’
Her: ‘And she doesn’t have a gun?’
Me: ‘Neither of them has a gun. He’s just come back to town to tell her that he’s always loved her, and he wants to marry her.’
Her: ‘And she’s crying about that?’
Me: ‘In the dressing room.’
Her: ‘They couldn’t go out to the parking lot, like normal people?’
Me: ‘The dressing room is where it’s happening, in my mind.
Her: ‘In your mind?
Me: ‘But would you let that happen?’
Her: ‘That’s the manager’s job. It’s not my job.’
Me: ‘But you wouldn’t call the cops?’
Her: ‘It takes them forever to get here. Probably not, if there weren’t any guns around.’
Me: ‘How long would you let them stay in there?’
Her: ‘The cops?’
Me: ‘The people talking.’
Her: ‘Not very long.’
Me: ‘How about if one of them gave you fifty bucks not to care that much?’
Her: ‘I could not care more for a hundred bucks?’
Me: ‘How much would you not care for a hundred bucks?’
Her: ‘Til they were done.’
Me: ‘OK. That’s helpful. Thanks for your time.’
Her: ‘Thank you for calling Target! But talk to someone else next time!’
Target seemed more of a contender. Lower lighting. Less acreage. More a sense that you’re shopping. And less a sense that you’re being turned upside and shaken to get all the money out of your pockets.
My inevitable conclusion was that my star-crossed lovers should have their decisive meeting at Target.
With that in mind, I decided to give my local store a call to get some valuable background*:
Her: ‘This is Target Customer Service, how may I direct your call?’
Me: ‘I wanted to ask about crying in your store.’
Her: ‘What? Excuse me?’
Me: ‘What happens if someone is crying in your store? I’m thinking in one of the changing rooms.’
Her: ‘You mean: someone is crying now? In this store? In the changing room?’
Me: ‘No. Just as a general policy. What if two people are in one of the changing rooms—’
Her: ‘We don’t really encourage—’
Me: ‘—a man and a woman—‘
Her: ‘—probably illegal—‘
Me: ‘—and one of them is crying. You know: really wailing away. Not so you can hear it all over the store. But let’s say half the store.’
Her: ‘What half of the store? What are you trying to tell me? Is there something going on in the store? Do they have a gun? Do you have a gun?’
Me: ‘No — there’s no crisis—’
Her: ‘Then why are you talking about this? Are you in our store?’
Me: ‘No — just calling from home.’
Her: ‘How do you know there’s someone crying in the store if you aren’t here?’
Me: ‘I don’t think there is anyone crying in the store. This is all hypothetical.’
Her: ‘So something to do with drugs?’
Me: ‘Not hypodermic. Just imagining. Just thinking about how that might happen.’
Her: ‘Why would that ever happen?’
Me: ‘Because someone would see someone and want to say something to them — and then the other person wouldn’t want to hear it — and so she would go into the dressing room—’
Her: ‘Why not run out of the store?’
Me: ‘She’s not thinking straight.’
Her: ‘Well…obviously. So they’re not having sex. Or are they?’
Me: ‘No — they’re just talking.’
Her: ‘And why is she crying?’
Me: ‘Just because.’
Her: ‘And he doesn’t have a gun?’
Me: ‘No. Nothing like that.’
Her: ‘And she doesn’t have a gun?’
Me: ‘Neither of them has a gun. He’s just come back to town to tell her that he’s always loved her, and he wants to marry her.’
Her: ‘And she’s crying about that?’
Me: ‘In the dressing room.’
Her: ‘They couldn’t go out to the parking lot, like normal people?’
Me: ‘The dressing room is where it’s happening, in my mind.
Her: ‘In your mind?
Me: ‘But would you let that happen?’
Her: ‘That’s the manager’s job. It’s not my job.’
Me: ‘But you wouldn’t call the cops?’
Her: ‘It takes them forever to get here. Probably not, if there weren’t any guns around.’
Me: ‘How long would you let them stay in there?’
Her: ‘The cops?’
Me: ‘The people talking.’
Her: ‘Not very long.’
Me: ‘How about if one of them gave you fifty bucks not to care that much?’
Her: ‘I could not care more for a hundred bucks?’
Me: ‘How much would you not care for a hundred bucks?’
Her: ‘Til they were done.’
Me: ‘OK. That’s helpful. Thanks for your time.’
Her: ‘Thank you for calling Target! But talk to someone else next time!’
Sunday Literary Life: April 30
Between one thing and another, it’s been a couple of weeks away. My apologies.
Most of my life has been spent in landscapes where water has been an urgent concern. Austere settings that not only agreed with the austere declarations of Full Bible theology — but which echoed the reported austerity of the Holy Land itself. The harsh roads that Jesus traveled as he offered his teachings to strangers he met along the way.
When something is scarce you tend to remember it. So water has marked out unique, significant places in my life. Understandable that bodies of water would start introducing themselves into different narratives — whether I’ve gone to the trouble of inviting them or not.
Out on the Plains, water is generally visible from a distance. One of my favorite fictional characters, Rebecca Weatherhead, remarks on one of her first impressions of the so-called Bible Belt:
“Trees (mostly cottonwoods) in that landscape follow the watercourses. But a group of tress to the right, or the left, of the road ahead almost always marks a town….”
Where I come from, trees mean a river. Trees mean a town. But trees can also mean a lake: usually man-made. Water backing up behind a dam. WPA possibly. Or CCC. Lakes established under Eisenhower, or Roosevelt: generally surrounded by trees — creating the kind of screen that Jonah finds convenient when he’s trying to think of a hidden place where he and Alfie can meet after their first sexual encounter in the Sunday School classroom at church.
Alfie wants to make sure that she's going to bear a child. She has to have a baby for her plan to make any sense. So: she needs another session. But, in a small town, amateur detectives are everywhere — not the least bit shy about starting rumors that then spread at the speed of light.
People who are doing what Jonah and Alfie are doing have to find a place to hide and there — not far from town — in a natural chalice of earth, is tiny Lake Lucy: almost abandoned by everyone because silt has brought the water level up to the point where power boating is more trouble than it’s worth. People with boats to show and water skiers to pull have migrated over to much larger, and deeper Lake Elsinore.
As I wrote along with this narrative, Lake Lucy pushed its way in to become almost a character. A hidden place: analogous to hidden emotions. A secret world resting in local geography: echoing the secret world of sexual intimacy. And — with its lavish setting of foliage and well-watered Nature — an echo of Eden itself for lovers steeped in the Bible, and the origin story of Adam and Eve.
When Jonah comes back to this place, after completing all the elements of his education at University, he’s overwhelmed at first:
“Jonah took her outstretched hand and they walked out on a deck that presented Lake Lucy as attractively as he’d ever seen any natural body of water: the small basin created by the irrigation dam filled to the brim with spring rain, all the trees around the perimeter of the lake in full leaf, a light wind brushing ripples across the water….”
He’s seeing an oasis. Not only of water. But of emotion. If a quiet pool of water is not restful and re-assuring, then I’m not sure why we go to the trouble of creating so many of them. We generally anticipate good things when we arrive at water out of the beige world of dust, dead grass, and dry earth. We anticipate relief. Freedom from care. And maybe some good news.
For Jonah, Lake Lucy is the place where life-changing things happen. Good and bad. A place where everything begins for him, you could say. So: only natural that the little island in the little lake would be both the end of the narrative — and the beginning of another one.
Most of my life has been spent in landscapes where water has been an urgent concern. Austere settings that not only agreed with the austere declarations of Full Bible theology — but which echoed the reported austerity of the Holy Land itself. The harsh roads that Jesus traveled as he offered his teachings to strangers he met along the way.
When something is scarce you tend to remember it. So water has marked out unique, significant places in my life. Understandable that bodies of water would start introducing themselves into different narratives — whether I’ve gone to the trouble of inviting them or not.
Out on the Plains, water is generally visible from a distance. One of my favorite fictional characters, Rebecca Weatherhead, remarks on one of her first impressions of the so-called Bible Belt:
“Trees (mostly cottonwoods) in that landscape follow the watercourses. But a group of tress to the right, or the left, of the road ahead almost always marks a town….”
Where I come from, trees mean a river. Trees mean a town. But trees can also mean a lake: usually man-made. Water backing up behind a dam. WPA possibly. Or CCC. Lakes established under Eisenhower, or Roosevelt: generally surrounded by trees — creating the kind of screen that Jonah finds convenient when he’s trying to think of a hidden place where he and Alfie can meet after their first sexual encounter in the Sunday School classroom at church.
Alfie wants to make sure that she's going to bear a child. She has to have a baby for her plan to make any sense. So: she needs another session. But, in a small town, amateur detectives are everywhere — not the least bit shy about starting rumors that then spread at the speed of light.
People who are doing what Jonah and Alfie are doing have to find a place to hide and there — not far from town — in a natural chalice of earth, is tiny Lake Lucy: almost abandoned by everyone because silt has brought the water level up to the point where power boating is more trouble than it’s worth. People with boats to show and water skiers to pull have migrated over to much larger, and deeper Lake Elsinore.
As I wrote along with this narrative, Lake Lucy pushed its way in to become almost a character. A hidden place: analogous to hidden emotions. A secret world resting in local geography: echoing the secret world of sexual intimacy. And — with its lavish setting of foliage and well-watered Nature — an echo of Eden itself for lovers steeped in the Bible, and the origin story of Adam and Eve.
When Jonah comes back to this place, after completing all the elements of his education at University, he’s overwhelmed at first:
“Jonah took her outstretched hand and they walked out on a deck that presented Lake Lucy as attractively as he’d ever seen any natural body of water: the small basin created by the irrigation dam filled to the brim with spring rain, all the trees around the perimeter of the lake in full leaf, a light wind brushing ripples across the water….”
He’s seeing an oasis. Not only of water. But of emotion. If a quiet pool of water is not restful and re-assuring, then I’m not sure why we go to the trouble of creating so many of them. We generally anticipate good things when we arrive at water out of the beige world of dust, dead grass, and dry earth. We anticipate relief. Freedom from care. And maybe some good news.
For Jonah, Lake Lucy is the place where life-changing things happen. Good and bad. A place where everything begins for him, you could say. So: only natural that the little island in the little lake would be both the end of the narrative — and the beginning of another one.
Sunday Literary Life: May 7
This month I am pleased to be shining some light on a new Amazon Single - “Right Sizing” - which is too short to be a novel, but too long to be a short story. Forty-something years working in the corporate bubble have given me lots of stories. But I wanted to start with this one: Duncan Duste - formerly shooting star of a Fortune 500 company - now using his expensive education in the Ivy League to guide him in making coffee at a corner Pump’n’Dump convenience store.
Duncan, sadly, committed the corporate sin of telling the truth in the wrong place at the wrong time. As described here:
“Bib’s TeamChat happened at the same time every week. Every week: three hours of incoherent rambling, mumbled self-pity, blatant character assassination and snide finger pointing. Sound and fury: reliably signifying nothing.
“Always three hours at least. Sometimes pushed out to three-and-a-half, or four.
“No one permitted to leave unless it was a medical emergency. Rumor had it that Bib had a bag strapped somewhere, and she could go indefinitely. But everyone else had a bladder, and — as soon as the meeting on this fateful day came to a close — Duncan and his friends had rushed straight for the men’s room: bursting through the swinging door with crisp enthusiasm.
“Later, the other two would argue that Duncan had only himself to blame for cutting corners. The first one to the porcelain, it had been his responsibility to do the groucho walk along the back stalls: checking for shoes visible under the doors.
“He was in there with friends. But you couldn’t assume everyone in the facility was friendly.
“Duncan had been working on his fresh, new one-liner all during the team meeting — and here was a big, echoing space to introduce it: ‘Now we have proof that turds rise to the top around here! How is that cunt keeping her job? Any other company: she’d be standing in the cafeteria line with a hairnet and a ladle. Here it’s an office with a view and six weeks’ vacation!’
“The expected chuckles of echoed appreciation didn’t come. Instead: sincere alarm.
“Duncan’s quip might be funny. Or it might not. Everything depended on who else heard him say it.
“Bracken Acker, who thought he might have a bladder infection, still took the time to go along the line of inscrutable stalls — bent almost double — walking as softly as he could.
“At the next to last, he hit pay dirt. Looking back at his friends, he’d waved his hands in the air, and screamed “Shit! Shit!” without making any noise at all.
“Patel and Acker recognized the crisis, and understood what Duncan had to do.
”Yet, even with long convenience store graveyards to think it over, Duncan wasn’t sure why he’d made no attempt at damage control. He may have wanted to be delightfully different from his friends. Maybe he’d been sick and tired of being one of Bib’s “little guys”. Maybe lazy. Or maybe believing too much in the charity of the Human Spirit.
“But Bracken Acker hadn’t shared any of those feelings. He’d rushed up, and put a coffee scented whisper in Duncan’s ear: ‘Say you were talking about someone else! Say it wasn’t about Bib!’
“‘Jesus! Who else would I be talking about?’
Acker had hissed through his teeth: ‘Anybody! Anybody! Quick!’”
Duncan, sadly, committed the corporate sin of telling the truth in the wrong place at the wrong time. As described here:
“Bib’s TeamChat happened at the same time every week. Every week: three hours of incoherent rambling, mumbled self-pity, blatant character assassination and snide finger pointing. Sound and fury: reliably signifying nothing.
“Always three hours at least. Sometimes pushed out to three-and-a-half, or four.
“No one permitted to leave unless it was a medical emergency. Rumor had it that Bib had a bag strapped somewhere, and she could go indefinitely. But everyone else had a bladder, and — as soon as the meeting on this fateful day came to a close — Duncan and his friends had rushed straight for the men’s room: bursting through the swinging door with crisp enthusiasm.
“Later, the other two would argue that Duncan had only himself to blame for cutting corners. The first one to the porcelain, it had been his responsibility to do the groucho walk along the back stalls: checking for shoes visible under the doors.
“He was in there with friends. But you couldn’t assume everyone in the facility was friendly.
“Duncan had been working on his fresh, new one-liner all during the team meeting — and here was a big, echoing space to introduce it: ‘Now we have proof that turds rise to the top around here! How is that cunt keeping her job? Any other company: she’d be standing in the cafeteria line with a hairnet and a ladle. Here it’s an office with a view and six weeks’ vacation!’
“The expected chuckles of echoed appreciation didn’t come. Instead: sincere alarm.
“Duncan’s quip might be funny. Or it might not. Everything depended on who else heard him say it.
“Bracken Acker, who thought he might have a bladder infection, still took the time to go along the line of inscrutable stalls — bent almost double — walking as softly as he could.
“At the next to last, he hit pay dirt. Looking back at his friends, he’d waved his hands in the air, and screamed “Shit! Shit!” without making any noise at all.
“Patel and Acker recognized the crisis, and understood what Duncan had to do.
”Yet, even with long convenience store graveyards to think it over, Duncan wasn’t sure why he’d made no attempt at damage control. He may have wanted to be delightfully different from his friends. Maybe he’d been sick and tired of being one of Bib’s “little guys”. Maybe lazy. Or maybe believing too much in the charity of the Human Spirit.
“But Bracken Acker hadn’t shared any of those feelings. He’d rushed up, and put a coffee scented whisper in Duncan’s ear: ‘Say you were talking about someone else! Say it wasn’t about Bib!’
“‘Jesus! Who else would I be talking about?’
Acker had hissed through his teeth: ‘Anybody! Anybody! Quick!’”
Sunday Literary Life: May 21
Sunday Literary Life: May 21
During my blue-collar life I had a colleague who gushed brightly about his time on the “graveyard” shift – in this case, 9PM-6AM: “So few people working that time of night, it’s almost like a family! And all that free time! You go home, sleep for a couple of hours, and then have almost the whole day!”
Perhaps a case of making lemonade out of lemons. When a day shift became available he snapped it right up: reminding all of us that the late-late shift had been destroying his social life.
So much for "family".
Returning this week to Duncan Duste, and his fall from grace after his initial success in a Fortune 500 job, he finds himself in the position of beginning again on the late-late shift. Described in this way:
“After six months of sending out beautifully crafted résumé packets that went into HR file cabinets, never to be seen again, Duncan had wearily accepted Patel’s offer of paid employment at the Pump’n’Dump. It was the graveyard shift, and Patel had been candid: ‘The rest of my family either can’t stay awake all night, or they’re scared shitless.’
“Duncan had spent the first few weeks both sleepy, and scared. But now he was used to it: the “simple life” he’d been thinking about when his life was more complicated.
“Don’t open the register.” “Don’t leave the counter.” “Keep an eye on the closed circuit monitors.” “Call 911 if there’s trouble...don’t be a hero.” “Keep track of anything you eat from stock...but coffee is free, help yourself.”
“The simple life.
“No question about that.
“As the official clock on the wall circled around toward two on the night of Bib Kornpest’s retirement, Duncan did walk away from the counter, momentarily, to observe a woman at one of the pumps. He knew there had to be a story behind her journey out into the night dressed in just a pink “baby doll” nightie and fuzzy slippers — her hair a rat’s nest of curls—and what he fervently hoped was an unlit cigarette in her mouth.
“Startled by seeing someone inside the store looking at her, the woman turned away self-consciously, and maybe didn’t buy as much fuel as she was planning. It was cold outside, she was cold, and showing a lot of skin. After just a couple of bucks, she crammed the nozzle back into the pump, and scampered back into the car.
“The nozzle fell out of the pump as she was leaving the driveway, and Duncan violated all of his basic instructions by trotting out to put it where it belonged.
“He hoped there wouldn’t be a lot of trouble about it. But he couldn’t just leave it lying there.
“Then he hurried back to the barstool near the cigarettes — the spot where he spent most of his time—where he noticed that Bib’s memoir was waiting for him.”
My own memories of the graveyard tend to support the strangeness of trying to be alert when everyone else is trying to be just the opposite. The dreamlike quality of that hollow silent part of the night – when eccentric things happen with so few people awake to see them happen.
During my blue-collar life I had a colleague who gushed brightly about his time on the “graveyard” shift – in this case, 9PM-6AM: “So few people working that time of night, it’s almost like a family! And all that free time! You go home, sleep for a couple of hours, and then have almost the whole day!”
Perhaps a case of making lemonade out of lemons. When a day shift became available he snapped it right up: reminding all of us that the late-late shift had been destroying his social life.
So much for "family".
Returning this week to Duncan Duste, and his fall from grace after his initial success in a Fortune 500 job, he finds himself in the position of beginning again on the late-late shift. Described in this way:
“After six months of sending out beautifully crafted résumé packets that went into HR file cabinets, never to be seen again, Duncan had wearily accepted Patel’s offer of paid employment at the Pump’n’Dump. It was the graveyard shift, and Patel had been candid: ‘The rest of my family either can’t stay awake all night, or they’re scared shitless.’
“Duncan had spent the first few weeks both sleepy, and scared. But now he was used to it: the “simple life” he’d been thinking about when his life was more complicated.
“Don’t open the register.” “Don’t leave the counter.” “Keep an eye on the closed circuit monitors.” “Call 911 if there’s trouble...don’t be a hero.” “Keep track of anything you eat from stock...but coffee is free, help yourself.”
“The simple life.
“No question about that.
“As the official clock on the wall circled around toward two on the night of Bib Kornpest’s retirement, Duncan did walk away from the counter, momentarily, to observe a woman at one of the pumps. He knew there had to be a story behind her journey out into the night dressed in just a pink “baby doll” nightie and fuzzy slippers — her hair a rat’s nest of curls—and what he fervently hoped was an unlit cigarette in her mouth.
“Startled by seeing someone inside the store looking at her, the woman turned away self-consciously, and maybe didn’t buy as much fuel as she was planning. It was cold outside, she was cold, and showing a lot of skin. After just a couple of bucks, she crammed the nozzle back into the pump, and scampered back into the car.
“The nozzle fell out of the pump as she was leaving the driveway, and Duncan violated all of his basic instructions by trotting out to put it where it belonged.
“He hoped there wouldn’t be a lot of trouble about it. But he couldn’t just leave it lying there.
“Then he hurried back to the barstool near the cigarettes — the spot where he spent most of his time—where he noticed that Bib’s memoir was waiting for him.”
My own memories of the graveyard tend to support the strangeness of trying to be alert when everyone else is trying to be just the opposite. The dreamlike quality of that hollow silent part of the night – when eccentric things happen with so few people awake to see them happen.
Sunday Literary Life: May 28
I made it a point to write this story about what others have termed "upwardly mobile failure" because you so often see examples of it in corporate life.
Things like this are not supposed to happen in a pure meritocracy - but the strange success of people with no visible intelligence and no visible job skills is often explained by the Art and Science of Fawning.
So vital to Agree - vital to know When the Agree - How to Agree - and, most important, Who to agree with.
And no one more Agreeable than Bib Kornpest. She'll do anything to get ahead. Except do jobs well.
Fresh from her assignment in Amsterdam - where she "right sized" an office out of existence (driving an employee to suicide) is put in "cold storage" at a branch office in Winnipeg: where, as usual, she makes a memorable impression:
"... just about anyone would guess that Senior Management would have been pleased if Bib increased profitability in that distant office. But Bib didn’t know how to make money. Duncan had noticed that in his first year working for her. He'd once seen her holding a spreadsheet upside down.
"As far as building a successful team in a new place: she had no idea how to do that, either. No idea how build, or create, or supplement, or profit, or encourage, or nurture. No understanding of value, or loyalty, or affection. No concept how to add anything to the lives of others.
"Her most well-honed skill — the one she depended on more than any other — was taking things away. She was an excellent punisher. And often punished in mean and spiteful ways.
"Winnipeg had been highly profitable under its previous manager...but Bib turned all that upside down. Old contracts expired. New contracts dried up. Winnipeg started taking on water, and — since there was little real work to do — staff had extra time to make up clever nicknames for a boss they came to loathe.
"Less Than Zero referred to how supply cupboards quickly went bare. Employees had to bring their own pencils, laptops, and toilet paper — and there were no software upgrades for two years.
"Miss Fun Pants started appearing after all staff travel (except hers) was denied forever — and all office parties cancelled before they happened. All coffee machines were ripped out, and the vending machines in the breakroom taken away....
"Once the Canadian winter got into full swing, new hand-lettered signs started appearing around the cubicles: 'Gulag 224'. The number referred to the street address of the building — and the rest of the reference more or less explained itself. Staff admitted that they weren’t being worked as hard as they would be in Siberia. But the climate was roughly the same. Thermostats in the office were set for 65F, and most everyone wore gloves indoors."
Things like this are not supposed to happen in a pure meritocracy - but the strange success of people with no visible intelligence and no visible job skills is often explained by the Art and Science of Fawning.
So vital to Agree - vital to know When the Agree - How to Agree - and, most important, Who to agree with.
And no one more Agreeable than Bib Kornpest. She'll do anything to get ahead. Except do jobs well.
Fresh from her assignment in Amsterdam - where she "right sized" an office out of existence (driving an employee to suicide) is put in "cold storage" at a branch office in Winnipeg: where, as usual, she makes a memorable impression:
"... just about anyone would guess that Senior Management would have been pleased if Bib increased profitability in that distant office. But Bib didn’t know how to make money. Duncan had noticed that in his first year working for her. He'd once seen her holding a spreadsheet upside down.
"As far as building a successful team in a new place: she had no idea how to do that, either. No idea how build, or create, or supplement, or profit, or encourage, or nurture. No understanding of value, or loyalty, or affection. No concept how to add anything to the lives of others.
"Her most well-honed skill — the one she depended on more than any other — was taking things away. She was an excellent punisher. And often punished in mean and spiteful ways.
"Winnipeg had been highly profitable under its previous manager...but Bib turned all that upside down. Old contracts expired. New contracts dried up. Winnipeg started taking on water, and — since there was little real work to do — staff had extra time to make up clever nicknames for a boss they came to loathe.
"Less Than Zero referred to how supply cupboards quickly went bare. Employees had to bring their own pencils, laptops, and toilet paper — and there were no software upgrades for two years.
"Miss Fun Pants started appearing after all staff travel (except hers) was denied forever — and all office parties cancelled before they happened. All coffee machines were ripped out, and the vending machines in the breakroom taken away....
"Once the Canadian winter got into full swing, new hand-lettered signs started appearing around the cubicles: 'Gulag 224'. The number referred to the street address of the building — and the rest of the reference more or less explained itself. Staff admitted that they weren’t being worked as hard as they would be in Siberia. But the climate was roughly the same. Thermostats in the office were set for 65F, and most everyone wore gloves indoors."
Sunday Literary Life: June 4
Knowing what I know now, it should have been beyond alarming when my father decided to sell a house almost paid for, in a town that was neither better nor worse than any other town, to move out to a small village: with no one but my father believing that our relocation was anything other than an epic error in judgment.
I spent over a year in that place – waiting for my very young life to be jump started by...something – experiencing the village in all kinds of weather. But the permanent picture I hold in my head is that of a low, Flanders sky in a late autumn day drained of all color – navigating the muddy unpaved streets - walking to the post office to get the mail. The pivot of my day for most of that time.
Naturally, that time – composed mostly of confused misery – was with me when I began this novel – "Relentless Angels" – putting the narrator of that book, Rebecca Weatherhead, in a very similar place. A village called Utopia. As she introduces it:
“After about 20 minutes, the telltale trees appeared, Uncle Danny slowed down to make the turn, and we knew by the crunch of the gravel under the tires that we were in town. A village home to 214 Caucasians, mostly of Scandinavian descent. With about the same number of dogs and cats. And vermin past counting.
“Even after so much time has passed between then and now, I think I’m safe in assuming that nothing there has changed. Utopia was, and always will be, a grid of four blocks to north-south and three blocks east-west. A tiny collection of unpaved streets lying right next to the highway. Twelve miles from Elsinore, the nearest town of any larger size. A short length of asphalt marks the “central business district”. Otherwise, only dirt. No sidewalks anywhere. No landscaping. No statues. No fountains. And no monuments to anyone.
“In the Central Business District the town halfheartedly supported a café and a general store: with that store being the nearest source of gasoline, diesel, and packaged beer. Those enterprises just limped along: trying to make ends meet. The truly prosperous part of Main Street was a tavern: the Six Shooter. Known to almost everyone locally as the “Shooter”.
“The other storefront — at the west end of the village — had closed down, due to lack of business, even though it had the best location: at the very edge of State Highway 98. The last visible stop for gasoline before Elsinore. At the time of my arrival, that building was unoccupied: weeds growing up through cracks in the pavement, the windows filled with plywood.
“I don’t mention this building lightly. It does become important later on.
“At the time they took me in, my Aunt and Uncle had been Utopian for seven years. In the fashion of a medieval farmer Uncle Danny lived right at the edge of the village, within sight of most of his land. And he rode out each day to meet the gods of agriculture while Aunt Billie ruled the household.
“Their residential arrangement soon struck me as absurd: since it gave them the disadvantages of both town and country life. There was something of the isolation of the farm about where they were. A house at the very end of the street, at the very edge of town, in a town remote from everything. But they also lived their lives under the constant, unblinking gaze of neighbors. Across the street. And right next door.
"Small town people — with nothing better to do than keep an eye on each other.”
To her credit, Rebecca responds to her unpromising situation with some energy and some humor. Less to her credit: Utopia is also where she begins her occasional practice as a stone-cold killer.
But more on this later, as "Relentless Angels" – the Great American Novel revisited - is our featured book for this month.
I spent over a year in that place – waiting for my very young life to be jump started by...something – experiencing the village in all kinds of weather. But the permanent picture I hold in my head is that of a low, Flanders sky in a late autumn day drained of all color – navigating the muddy unpaved streets - walking to the post office to get the mail. The pivot of my day for most of that time.
Naturally, that time – composed mostly of confused misery – was with me when I began this novel – "Relentless Angels" – putting the narrator of that book, Rebecca Weatherhead, in a very similar place. A village called Utopia. As she introduces it:
“After about 20 minutes, the telltale trees appeared, Uncle Danny slowed down to make the turn, and we knew by the crunch of the gravel under the tires that we were in town. A village home to 214 Caucasians, mostly of Scandinavian descent. With about the same number of dogs and cats. And vermin past counting.
“Even after so much time has passed between then and now, I think I’m safe in assuming that nothing there has changed. Utopia was, and always will be, a grid of four blocks to north-south and three blocks east-west. A tiny collection of unpaved streets lying right next to the highway. Twelve miles from Elsinore, the nearest town of any larger size. A short length of asphalt marks the “central business district”. Otherwise, only dirt. No sidewalks anywhere. No landscaping. No statues. No fountains. And no monuments to anyone.
“In the Central Business District the town halfheartedly supported a café and a general store: with that store being the nearest source of gasoline, diesel, and packaged beer. Those enterprises just limped along: trying to make ends meet. The truly prosperous part of Main Street was a tavern: the Six Shooter. Known to almost everyone locally as the “Shooter”.
“The other storefront — at the west end of the village — had closed down, due to lack of business, even though it had the best location: at the very edge of State Highway 98. The last visible stop for gasoline before Elsinore. At the time of my arrival, that building was unoccupied: weeds growing up through cracks in the pavement, the windows filled with plywood.
“I don’t mention this building lightly. It does become important later on.
“At the time they took me in, my Aunt and Uncle had been Utopian for seven years. In the fashion of a medieval farmer Uncle Danny lived right at the edge of the village, within sight of most of his land. And he rode out each day to meet the gods of agriculture while Aunt Billie ruled the household.
“Their residential arrangement soon struck me as absurd: since it gave them the disadvantages of both town and country life. There was something of the isolation of the farm about where they were. A house at the very end of the street, at the very edge of town, in a town remote from everything. But they also lived their lives under the constant, unblinking gaze of neighbors. Across the street. And right next door.
"Small town people — with nothing better to do than keep an eye on each other.”
To her credit, Rebecca responds to her unpromising situation with some energy and some humor. Less to her credit: Utopia is also where she begins her occasional practice as a stone-cold killer.
But more on this later, as "Relentless Angels" – the Great American Novel revisited - is our featured book for this month.
