My office had a staff meeting a while back. It was a very busy time, and the organization was going through some changes, and morale was getting a little low. The head of our department had everyone take two post-it notes and asked us all to sum up in one word how we felt in our work life, and how we felt in our home life, and write them on each post it. The work results were unsurprising – words like busy, challenging, stressful, etc. were ubiquitous. But the home descriptions were shocking to me. Words like ‘lonely’ and ‘sad’ and ‘mess’ were shockingly common. Overwhelmingly the results of the home life situations were bleak. The point of the exercise was to show that although we’re all busy and there is a lot of transition going on at work, let’s not forget how much is going on off the books in our personal life, and be cognizant of that in our work lives. I walked away shocked at just how sad my co-worker’s lives sounded, wondering exactly what was going on in each of them that they apparently kept buried beneath the surface in our daily interactions.
My co-worker’s sad private lives is what Tom Perotta writes about, and he does it astonishing depth and insight. Each story in ‘Nine Inches’ details the quiet desperation of American lives that Thoreau referred to, and do so in ways unexpected and understated. Perotta in general is such an understated writer. His stories always feel so real, so lived-in, but they never take the obvious route. It’s not so much that he zigs when you expect him to zag, it’s more that he looks the obvious route in the eye, shrugs, and slowly meanders down the other path, before stopping and going home. That sounds like a criticism, but it’s not. In a way, it’s refreshingly truthful. The world is such a big place, and we’re all so insignificant in it, despite our relentless solipsism. In his stories (and novels), Perotta highlights both of these facts—that everything we do feels so important, so meaningful, when, at the end of the day, it’s just another person doing another thing.
I can’t do his writing justice in a review. He just evokes a certain tone, certain feelings, that are everywhere around you, but you can’t put your finger on it. Each of the stories in this book conjures a certain kind of sadness, the kind that my co-workers apparently feel regularly, but don’t express between nine and five. But Perotta does so in a way that feels very natural. It’s not showy, it’s just perfect.