“Appalachia is the right place for the grotesque. Don’t you think?”
How much you like and (or?) admire THE POISON FLOOD depends on how you choose to see it. It's a novel of crime, but not, in my view, a crime novel; it doesn't follow anything resembling a formula and is not chiefly concerned, in my opinion anyway, with the restoration of moral order. It's not a novel of plot, though there's plenty of plotty material in it, because everything that looks like a plot thread doesn't really weave into a whole unless you see the central character as the whole of the book, which I do (and more on that in a bit). It's not really a novel of theme as much as structure containing a grab bag of themes (crime, poverty, imbalances of power, systemic corruption, artistic inspiration and authenticity, religion and spirituality, love and lust, et cetera).
Tome, Jordan Farmer's novel is about a physically broken man who serves as a metaphor for all broken men in all ways (physical, spiritual, moral, aspirational, hopeful, etc.). And these perplexing and problematic times, there are a lot of broken men out there, and what distinguishes this is their desire to be seen and their interest in being borne witness to. We all have those things, but we don't all have the admit to admit it, and Hollis Bragg, hunchbacked preacher's son, estranged musician and self-pitying self-described "freak," is a first-rate window into this universal struggle: "I’ve watched enough audience reactions to know it’s an unpleasant truth. While the grotesque can create, they aren’t a welcome vessel for presentation," he says with sanguine bitterness as he tries to scratch out a living as a songwriter without every getting too close to the success of mainstream performance that he can't quite shake, if only subconsciously.
A lot of people drift in and out of Hollis's life, and it's interesting to see how each sees Hollis, and which ones will stay or walk on by (which Hollis all but begs them to do at times). There are the women: Caroline the enabler turned escapist; Rosita the exploiter turned enigma; Angela the collaborator turned turncoat. And there are the men: Russell the deranged son of a local industrialist whose machination flood the water supply of Coopersville, West Virginia with poison; Victor, his sidekick with a fan-crush man-crush on Hollis and an equally deranged and violent agenda; and, in the shadow of memory, Hollis's father, an obsessive and punishing fundamentalist preacher who seems to set aside his beliefs in the service of his own desires. All drive Hollis out of his capsule-sized comfort zone to various degrees, and some even seem to see something worthwhile in him that doesn't necessarily serve their most immediate interests. And in the process, a few bodies pile up.
Hollis wants to know them, and wants them to know him. Except when he doesn't. And especially when he can't see past what he imagines they see: a hideously malformed human, period. Which is what he seems to wish he could see himself as and call it a self-pitying day. Sometimes, that is. But his biggest frustration seems to be his biggest strength: his inability to give up on himself and check out in a opioid coma or something just as apropos to his time and place and circumstances. And when one of the others mirrors that interior monologue back to him while insisting on seeing him, it's especially heartbreaking. Says Russell: "Do you know how hard it is to see someone so talented get screwed out of their destiny? That music of yours is one of the only things I’ve ever loved, and you don’t get to share it just because you’re ugly."
His musings on this interior conflict are, for me, the best parts of the book. What middle-aged male trying to find his place on today's perpetually shifting ground cannot relate to ruminations like this? "Dependence, I’m realizing with advancing age, is more potent to some men than love. Love can leave. Love can tarnish with time or implode for unknown reasons. I’ve known better men than myself whose love ended not by one disastrous event, but a slow bleed. Death by a thousand cuts the lovers inflicted on each other." And: "I just didn’t want to lend my music to the Lord. He’d already taken up so much of my life, I’d decided that this one thing would be mine."
Those, and Hollis' reflections on the healing power of the kind of art he's still capable of creating: "The band plays a southern rock tune that gets the women out on the dance floor. The men slide close and grind. Even though the music is all wrong, the same sort of hoodoo that used to pump from Angela’s guitar is in the air. I can feel the power of it infecting the audience, whittling away the hard work week, the cousin in jail and the hollow pain inside all of us poor rednecks that whispers you’re nothing but country trash, that if there is such a thing as a soul, yours is made of dog s**t. Music was the only thing I ever found that could mute those voices for even an hour."
In there end, there's a lot of death. A lot of displacement. A lot of heartbreak. And a little bit of hope. As Hollis muses in THE POISON FLOOD's final chapters: “I wanted people to see even if they don’t want to look. Even if they don’t want to consider the possibility of it. I’ve done things. I made music. I was loved by a woman.”
Sounds like a pathway out of brokenness to me. And Jordan Farmer's design for it is a well-lit piece of Grit-Lit.