Nate Briggs's Blog
July 16, 2017
The Department of Conspiracy Department
A painful (but not terminal) conflict presents itself when we consider so-called “cozy” mysteries -- a fiction genre that’s inexorably spreading like an invasive plant species on the shelves of bookstores just about everywhere - moving murder out of the Urban and into the mostly pleasant Rural.
A typical plot goes like this: old Mrs Butterbottom – bravely widowed these ten years – finds a severed head when she’s digging up her radishes and the usual cast of characters (dithering vicar, village idiot, Chief Inspector worried about his weight, a few people suspiciously young, and many people unsuspiciously old) march through the ensuing pages as everyone suspects and speculates and pours tea.
Agatha Christie mastered the form as well as anyone. But the great advantage offered to Rookie Authors is that this is basically a “kit” for building a novel: off-the-shelf venue, off-the-shelf characters, off-the-shelf plot, off-the-shelf scenes, etc.
Just screw it all together using the bolts and the allen wrench provided in the package, and now you have a book.
Wasn't that easy?
What's missing is what we actually know about villages (this is the paradox mentioned above).
The number of distractions in small communities has increased – massively multi-player games, satellite TV, downloadable music. But small town and villages still remain unfriendly venues for conspiracy and unsolved crime.
Whodunit?
That’s just the point. Everybody knows “whodunit”. Everyone knows how they "dunit". And everyone knows “why”.
People living close together know things – and people who’ve lived close together all their lives tend to know a lot of things.
People who have nothing better to do than see things do see them – and they have no reason to keep them quiet. Gossip tends to bind isolated people together, and – in places like the American Bible Belt, with a strong Calvinist flavor – chatter about “who’s doing what” reinforces community standards: which tend to frown on killing a long-time enemy and burying the head in someone’s vegetables.
All the more reason to admire the members of The Last Wives Club: who execute their perfect crimes in full view of everyone – but with the skill of mature women who have aired dirty laundry about others most of their adult lives.
They know, as well as anyone, how stories get around town.
Conversely, they all know how to keep a secret.
A typical plot goes like this: old Mrs Butterbottom – bravely widowed these ten years – finds a severed head when she’s digging up her radishes and the usual cast of characters (dithering vicar, village idiot, Chief Inspector worried about his weight, a few people suspiciously young, and many people unsuspiciously old) march through the ensuing pages as everyone suspects and speculates and pours tea.
Agatha Christie mastered the form as well as anyone. But the great advantage offered to Rookie Authors is that this is basically a “kit” for building a novel: off-the-shelf venue, off-the-shelf characters, off-the-shelf plot, off-the-shelf scenes, etc.
Just screw it all together using the bolts and the allen wrench provided in the package, and now you have a book.
Wasn't that easy?
What's missing is what we actually know about villages (this is the paradox mentioned above).
The number of distractions in small communities has increased – massively multi-player games, satellite TV, downloadable music. But small town and villages still remain unfriendly venues for conspiracy and unsolved crime.
Whodunit?
That’s just the point. Everybody knows “whodunit”. Everyone knows how they "dunit". And everyone knows “why”.
People living close together know things – and people who’ve lived close together all their lives tend to know a lot of things.
People who have nothing better to do than see things do see them – and they have no reason to keep them quiet. Gossip tends to bind isolated people together, and – in places like the American Bible Belt, with a strong Calvinist flavor – chatter about “who’s doing what” reinforces community standards: which tend to frown on killing a long-time enemy and burying the head in someone’s vegetables.
All the more reason to admire the members of The Last Wives Club: who execute their perfect crimes in full view of everyone – but with the skill of mature women who have aired dirty laundry about others most of their adult lives.
They know, as well as anyone, how stories get around town.
Conversely, they all know how to keep a secret.
July 9, 2017
Whispered Imagination - Jul 9
And now a word about Trust – since lack of Trust is one of the reasons so many promising crimes don’t succeed in the world of crime fiction.
Imagine it's 1951 (for example) - imagine you are tennis star Guy Haines cornered during a routine train journey by a charming, but a little off-center, character named Bruno (hereafter referred to as Idea Man). An “idea man” obviously, since he has lots of ideas he’s willing to share with someone he's just met (maybe he should have been a writer).
One of his most exciting concepts involves the removal of Motive in murder. It’s commonly known that, after an incident of foul play, the police investigation moves out in concentric circles: similar to ripples from a stone falling into still water. They always begin with the spouse – or, in Guy’s case, the unhappy spouse - since Guy’s wife is now Officially Inconvenient.
Bruno’s father, as it happens, is also Officially Inconvenient, and Bruno (hereafter referred to as Mr Excitement) is inspired by the sudden inspiration of two men who can resolve these Inconveniences by just “trading murders”. Bruno refers to it as “criss-cross” – a mutually beneficial transaction.
It’s only natural to think that – if eminently practical plans like this were adopted more often – murders would be much harder to solve.
But the narrative arc of the story is how the plan comes to nothing – since tennis star Guy Haines has no inclination to Trust a stranger he's met on a train – even though Bruno (hereafter referred to as Killer A) seems to trust his companion on sight.
There’s “criss” – but not “cross” – and we end with a final startling scene (the least merry merry-go-round ever).
But – taking the theme a little further – what if there were Trust? What if the conspirators were not strangers, but women of mature and careful judgment who have known each other all their lives? What if there were not only means, but method, motivation, and leadership?
What then?
Imagine it's 1951 (for example) - imagine you are tennis star Guy Haines cornered during a routine train journey by a charming, but a little off-center, character named Bruno (hereafter referred to as Idea Man). An “idea man” obviously, since he has lots of ideas he’s willing to share with someone he's just met (maybe he should have been a writer).
One of his most exciting concepts involves the removal of Motive in murder. It’s commonly known that, after an incident of foul play, the police investigation moves out in concentric circles: similar to ripples from a stone falling into still water. They always begin with the spouse – or, in Guy’s case, the unhappy spouse - since Guy’s wife is now Officially Inconvenient.
Bruno’s father, as it happens, is also Officially Inconvenient, and Bruno (hereafter referred to as Mr Excitement) is inspired by the sudden inspiration of two men who can resolve these Inconveniences by just “trading murders”. Bruno refers to it as “criss-cross” – a mutually beneficial transaction.
It’s only natural to think that – if eminently practical plans like this were adopted more often – murders would be much harder to solve.
But the narrative arc of the story is how the plan comes to nothing – since tennis star Guy Haines has no inclination to Trust a stranger he's met on a train – even though Bruno (hereafter referred to as Killer A) seems to trust his companion on sight.
There’s “criss” – but not “cross” – and we end with a final startling scene (the least merry merry-go-round ever).
But – taking the theme a little further – what if there were Trust? What if the conspirators were not strangers, but women of mature and careful judgment who have known each other all their lives? What if there were not only means, but method, motivation, and leadership?
What then?
July 2, 2017
Whispered Imagination - Jul 2
And now a few words about Elsinore, Oklahoma – with a particular nod to our folks in the Major Media who only interrupt the in-flight move to gaze at the American Heartland from 30,000 feet.
Like Lake Wobegon, Yoknapatawpha County, or Brigadoon, you won’t find Elsinore on any map. No telephone directory shows it. No Google mapping cars have ever found it.
Not invented though. Stitched together. Quilting squares of memory from the tiny town where I grew up, the village where we were exiled for a time, the city where I went away to college, and fragments of so many people whose attitudes, and conversation, and schemes I remember.
Elsinore is proudly rural – which suggests a brief mention of what might be called our Two Americas Problem. Even though this issue gets some media attention, it doesn’t seem to be the right kind of attention. Because the split we are experiencing, the vehemence and barking we hear every day, is a matter of Time – Past versus Future. A matter of Age – Old versus Young. And a matter of Place – Rural versus Urban.
Within the last two days, I have heard the phrases “depopulated America” and “knuckledragger Amerca” used as equivalents. The good people who still reside in the Heartland might label themselves “ignored America”.
They didn’t want to be ignored before – and they don’t want to be ignored now. They don’t want their states to be thought of as natural grasslands where buffalo can be released to wander free again, now that so many people have gone.
The Heartland feels that America is losing its heart. Losing its way. Losing focus. Losing its heritage — and its priorities.
The Heartland was once very young. And now is becoming very old. It is not just the “brain drain” of the best and brightest. It is the absence of children, and grandchildren, as older people find themselves in the company of the Unworthy - the Worthy children having left, never to return. Small town America is filled with people who settled for what was there at home - and they're not a very inspiring bunch.
They are caught up, of course, in the epic movement of people all over the world – the inexorable movement from farms to the city. One of the foundational characteristics of the 21st Century: the countryside emptying out while the cities fill up. But rural people don’t really concern themselves about trends in global population. They would love to feel a little less left behind – a little less marginalized. At the same time, they’re not particularly interested in the challenges of Modern Times.
That’s part of the charm. Small Town America is not the site of challenges. Not the theatre of ambition. The operative phrase is "used to". Place where things used to happen. Where people used to live. (https://medium.com/@TheFurryMarxist/w...).
But even in the tiny sparks of light you can see from 30,000 feet there are people living, loving, working, hoping, and (sometimes) losing hope.
As much as any street in Brooklyn, any slum in Calcutta, any apartment house in Paris, Elsinore shows people living as they have always lived. My people of Elsinore might wonder if the Heartland will ever be relevant to the larger nation again, but – in the meantime – they have things to do.
Like figuring out how to gt their hands on their husbands' life insurance. (More on this later).
Like Lake Wobegon, Yoknapatawpha County, or Brigadoon, you won’t find Elsinore on any map. No telephone directory shows it. No Google mapping cars have ever found it.
Not invented though. Stitched together. Quilting squares of memory from the tiny town where I grew up, the village where we were exiled for a time, the city where I went away to college, and fragments of so many people whose attitudes, and conversation, and schemes I remember.
Elsinore is proudly rural – which suggests a brief mention of what might be called our Two Americas Problem. Even though this issue gets some media attention, it doesn’t seem to be the right kind of attention. Because the split we are experiencing, the vehemence and barking we hear every day, is a matter of Time – Past versus Future. A matter of Age – Old versus Young. And a matter of Place – Rural versus Urban.
Within the last two days, I have heard the phrases “depopulated America” and “knuckledragger Amerca” used as equivalents. The good people who still reside in the Heartland might label themselves “ignored America”.
They didn’t want to be ignored before – and they don’t want to be ignored now. They don’t want their states to be thought of as natural grasslands where buffalo can be released to wander free again, now that so many people have gone.
The Heartland feels that America is losing its heart. Losing its way. Losing focus. Losing its heritage — and its priorities.
The Heartland was once very young. And now is becoming very old. It is not just the “brain drain” of the best and brightest. It is the absence of children, and grandchildren, as older people find themselves in the company of the Unworthy - the Worthy children having left, never to return. Small town America is filled with people who settled for what was there at home - and they're not a very inspiring bunch.
They are caught up, of course, in the epic movement of people all over the world – the inexorable movement from farms to the city. One of the foundational characteristics of the 21st Century: the countryside emptying out while the cities fill up. But rural people don’t really concern themselves about trends in global population. They would love to feel a little less left behind – a little less marginalized. At the same time, they’re not particularly interested in the challenges of Modern Times.
That’s part of the charm. Small Town America is not the site of challenges. Not the theatre of ambition. The operative phrase is "used to". Place where things used to happen. Where people used to live. (https://medium.com/@TheFurryMarxist/w...).
But even in the tiny sparks of light you can see from 30,000 feet there are people living, loving, working, hoping, and (sometimes) losing hope.
As much as any street in Brooklyn, any slum in Calcutta, any apartment house in Paris, Elsinore shows people living as they have always lived. My people of Elsinore might wonder if the Heartland will ever be relevant to the larger nation again, but – in the meantime – they have things to do.
Like figuring out how to gt their hands on their husbands' life insurance. (More on this later).
June 4, 2017
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.
May 28, 2017
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."
May 21, 2017
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.
May 14, 2017
Sunday Literary Life - Science Fiction Smackdown!
Anyone acquainted with the self-publishing scene should be aware that there are literally hundreds of novels from hopeful authors which feature less-than-hopeful futures. The dystopian trend has been very strong for several years (for whatever reason) and I have joined the club a couple of times.
For one particular work, I was interested in how Class Struggle might play out in a dying planet – and wrote a one-act play called “The Last of the ‘51”. People who did me the favor of reading it universally dismissed the concept, however. “That would never happen”, was the most common reaction. “The Ultra-Rich aren’t angels. But they would never do something like that. Don’t be ridiculous.” (That play appears here: https://medium.com/@vagabondlover/sun...).
Now a more famous voice than mine – Lidia Yuknavitch – has offered a traditionally-published, and euphorically-reviewed novel which touches on several themes that I was discuss in the play.
In one sense discouraging: since that means “The Last of the ‘51” gets shoved into the archive. Producers will naturally think that my idea is borrowing from a better-known novel.
But encouraging, since the same ideas – when offered by a certified heavy hitter in the literary scene – gain credibility. Bottom line: I was not insane to think that this scenario could happen. At least one person agrees with me.
Speaking of agreement, let’s examine four areas of narrative similarity:
1) Do the Ultra-Rich bail on the rest of us? YES!
Accumulating a huge pile of money is not exactly a moral act: and both the novel, and the play, imagine the Robber Barons using their means to escape the surface of a ruined Earth – leaving the rest of us to die. In the novel, they take permanent refuge in a space station. In the play, the space station is just an interlude – since their final intended destination is Mars. (The recent chatter in the news about how “important” it is to get to Mars is not a coincidence. The Billionaires are looking for government funding for their escape).
2) Do the forces of Karma punish the Robber Barons for abandoning the human community? YES
In the novel, relentless radiation causes the space station residents to mutate into something like sexless babies. Their quality of life reduced to just survival, and no way to reproduce themselves. Unanticipated radiation is also a theme of the play: rendering the residents of the transitional space colony sterile, before killing them. The play ends as Axel, one of the leaders of the colony, watches his wife commit suicide by stepping out of an air lock. They’ve just finished the last bottle of the last vintage from Earth – 2051 – both knowing that the mission to Mars has failed – that ship totally destroyed. In both cases, there's a huge price to be paid for fundamental betrayal.
3) Does the Human Race survive on the Earth’s surface? YES
This is where the character featured in the title of the novel comes in. Joan is one of the human beings still living on the surface in very primitive conditions. Likewise, in the play humans survive the way they always have – but going back to subsistence agriculture and a strong prejudice against anyone having children, since the rising ocean levels and the wild changes in climate make the future very uncertain. An additional thread in the play: people on the Earth’s surface have heard rumors that the Billionaires in the space colony are dying. At the same time the survivors below can see the space colony – a gleaming star in the night sky – they understand that the Richest of the Rich are facing a gruesome end that they brought on themselves.
So: two independent minds, arriving at some very similar results. More evidence that great minds think alike? You be the judge.
For one particular work, I was interested in how Class Struggle might play out in a dying planet – and wrote a one-act play called “The Last of the ‘51”. People who did me the favor of reading it universally dismissed the concept, however. “That would never happen”, was the most common reaction. “The Ultra-Rich aren’t angels. But they would never do something like that. Don’t be ridiculous.” (That play appears here: https://medium.com/@vagabondlover/sun...).
Now a more famous voice than mine – Lidia Yuknavitch – has offered a traditionally-published, and euphorically-reviewed novel which touches on several themes that I was discuss in the play.
In one sense discouraging: since that means “The Last of the ‘51” gets shoved into the archive. Producers will naturally think that my idea is borrowing from a better-known novel.
But encouraging, since the same ideas – when offered by a certified heavy hitter in the literary scene – gain credibility. Bottom line: I was not insane to think that this scenario could happen. At least one person agrees with me.
Speaking of agreement, let’s examine four areas of narrative similarity:
1) Do the Ultra-Rich bail on the rest of us? YES!
Accumulating a huge pile of money is not exactly a moral act: and both the novel, and the play, imagine the Robber Barons using their means to escape the surface of a ruined Earth – leaving the rest of us to die. In the novel, they take permanent refuge in a space station. In the play, the space station is just an interlude – since their final intended destination is Mars. (The recent chatter in the news about how “important” it is to get to Mars is not a coincidence. The Billionaires are looking for government funding for their escape).
2) Do the forces of Karma punish the Robber Barons for abandoning the human community? YES
In the novel, relentless radiation causes the space station residents to mutate into something like sexless babies. Their quality of life reduced to just survival, and no way to reproduce themselves. Unanticipated radiation is also a theme of the play: rendering the residents of the transitional space colony sterile, before killing them. The play ends as Axel, one of the leaders of the colony, watches his wife commit suicide by stepping out of an air lock. They’ve just finished the last bottle of the last vintage from Earth – 2051 – both knowing that the mission to Mars has failed – that ship totally destroyed. In both cases, there's a huge price to be paid for fundamental betrayal.
3) Does the Human Race survive on the Earth’s surface? YES
This is where the character featured in the title of the novel comes in. Joan is one of the human beings still living on the surface in very primitive conditions. Likewise, in the play humans survive the way they always have – but going back to subsistence agriculture and a strong prejudice against anyone having children, since the rising ocean levels and the wild changes in climate make the future very uncertain. An additional thread in the play: people on the Earth’s surface have heard rumors that the Billionaires in the space colony are dying. At the same time the survivors below can see the space colony – a gleaming star in the night sky – they understand that the Richest of the Rich are facing a gruesome end that they brought on themselves.
So: two independent minds, arriving at some very similar results. More evidence that great minds think alike? You be the judge.
May 7, 2017
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!’”
April 30, 2017
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: 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!’
