I have a nagging curiosity about people who fail. I have a morbid interest in families that fly straight, take flak, break apart and crash. I like to read about their slow downward spiral and final auguring into dirt. It’s especially poignant for me if the family begins from a low- to middle-income bracket, where finance, demography, and position are initially—if not cautiously—secured. (Why no interest in a high-income death spiral Jason? Probably because I came from low- to middle-income and can best relate to that financial scenario; it’s real for me. What happens to the wealthy...I’ll never be able to fully relate. Plus there’s a sense that it’s entirely within a wealthy family’s means to cut power and pull out of a nosedive before contact with earth.) No, with middle income families, to me, it seems as if there are potent external factors that nose them into the ground, no matter how much they try to pull up. These stories are slow, painful, inevitable, and not without some kind of family gore. There is always scarring, ofttimes hatred, sometimes escape, but always scarring.
Model Home is a downward spiral from mid altitude. A nuclear family in 1985 California, the 5-person Ziller family is already on fire as we begin the novel. The father repeatedly makes major mistakes in his career—he’s basically a deadbeat, uninterested in full employment, and a little on the shady side. The mother is not good at her job—she gets passed over. The kids are kids; they merely tag along at stall speed. In combination, the family becomes insolvent and loses their home. And as these career missteps begin to accumulate, the family is caught in a major downdraft. Then a life-threatening accident, maiming, teenage sexual experimentation, peer pressure, alcohol, runaway, adultery, separation, down, down, down. Opportunities missed; lives minimized.
These are the right ingredients for me. Tumble, failure. Bring to a hard boil in chicken stock, and serve hot with fresh green onion. But wait! Something’s missing. The small things. The seasoning. Salt, garlic, turmeric, a dash of cumin, cayenne, maybe a couple bay leaves and some chili powder. Translation: Eric Puchner didn’t quite brew the characters together in a flavorful whole. The chapters follow individual characters, and despite some interaction, the family integration was forced and wasn’t very savory. Puchner wants to portray a broken family, and indeed he tried to accomplish that by exploring the jagged interactions inside a family, but ultimately the characters were drawn too closely to script. The father was lame, but too exactly lame. The teenage rebel was too perfectly rebellious. The angry son was too crisply angry. The college party was too party-riffic. The jettisoned neighborhood was too cleanly isolated and remote. In other words, the characters were a bit cardboard and seemed overly staged.
On the good side, Puchner writes an engaging story with some very small, but important, and highly realistic idiosyncrasies that occur to all of us in such small--but all too true--fashion of which we’re barely conscious in our own lives. He pays sedulous attention to these little nuggets of our past. For me, the example that really stands out is a scene of adolescent coitus where the girl holds on so tightly that she leaves bruises on the boy’s ribcage. And these bruises remind him for days and days and becomes forever a memory of her. Now who among us doesn’t remember those first sexual encounters that were rushed, vivid, experimental, and mostly botched? And then there were new and unexpected pains or muscles that were sore from their very first overuse. Remember that? It’s such a small piece of life, but brilliantly captured. Puchner also anchors us at 1985-86 with repeated references to cultural mile markers--songs, movies, idioms, consumer products. I’m not ready to say these references were forced, but I appreciate them from my adolescence, so much, that I can overlook how numerous they were.
Overall this book counts. 3.5 stars. It’s just good enough to remember, and for me to recommend. It’s a pleasant read inside and outside, during the day and late at night, green eggs and ham. When I eventually make an e-shelf that says ‘messed up families,’ this book will be there, with its smooth narrative style and lonely cover picture.