Cocktails and Tall Tales: Neat and Tidy

Please enjoy “Neat and Tidy” by Dave!  He was an overachieving author and wrote two stories for our party.  He read the other one, but I like this one better.  Gotta love stream-of-conciousness! (See this post for an explanation of the story thing.) 

*  *  *

I pull my rubber rain boots out of the dishwasher and put them on and they burn my ankles but not too bad. I like things to be neat and tidy and that’s why I wash my boots in the dishwasher, to make them extra clean, and the rubber’s still hot today when I put them on and I walk outside where there’s a thin layer of fresh white snow on the street and it glows like a giant ghost under the lamplights and the ghost melts when I step on it with my steaming boots. When I get to work it’s really late and dark and I almost open the door that says Raj Carruthers: Importer/Exporter but then I open the right door the one that says Samford & Sons Funeral and Embalming there’s the familiar rush of hot air that smells like dead stuff and chemicals and I know Jimmy’s already there because the lights are on and I can hear Guns n’ Roses. Jimmy’s in the prep room doing the makeup on a real old lady with white permed hair and a flower-print dress and she has liver spots on her face and Jimmy’s covering them up with too much rouge and Pokey the cat is sitting curled in the corner on a pink pillow. Jimmy shouts over the music and says he has a real stiffy here, a real hard one all rigid just the way I like them. I tell him it’s not funny and I unpack my bag real tidy because I like things all neat and orderly: the floss, the tiny bottle of bleach, the spearmint-fluoride paste, the polisher, the soft-bristle reach around brush. Jimmy laughs and tells me I can give him the reach around anytime but I don’t see what’s so funny because he doesn’t even need a toothbrush to put makeup on the dead people, I need the toothbrush because I’m the dental hygienist and its my job to clean the teeth and make them sparkly so when the family comes to the wake they see grandma with a pretty white smile and not tobacco stains and they think of sunny tea parties and not emphysema. I tell Jimmy to move over and I twist the floss tight around my fingers and go to work on granny’s molars and I tell Jimmy that these are some real fine white pearlies for an old lady, none of those fake plastic ones and Jimmy asks if there’s anything fake and plastic about me and I tell him to go fuck himself and I mean it. Next comes the brushing, which is grossest because the toothpaste foams up and I have to hold the mouth open wide to brush the teeth way in the back and the foam gets on my hands and even though I’m wearing gloves there’s no way to keep things neat and tidy. I finish the brushing and grab my polisher and I’m loading the polisher with pina colada powdered polish and then Jimmy starts smearing ruby-red lipstick on granny’s lips and the lipstick smears and gets on her pearly whites and makes them all blood-red and next thing something clicks and I grab hold of the mortician’s four-inch scalpel and swing it in neat wide arcs and the blood-red is not just on granny’s teeth but everywhere and flying through the air and it looks like kool-aid in the fluorescent light and lands on the mint green walls in fat splatters and there’s screaming and then I have the aspirator in my hand and I flip the red switch and shove it in Jimmy’s big fat mouth that he never could keep shut and then I shove it farther and farther and there’s a slurpy gargling sound and then there’s no more screaming except Axl Rose screaming on the radio. Everything cleans up good with some bleach from the janitor’s closet and Pokey even helps out a bit with her pink-tongue licking and Jimmy isn’t too big but still sort of heavy when I lift him up towards the square steel lid of the incinerator and push the big red button and the fires flash real angry and it smells like burning and then Jimmy’s just ashes and I clean the ruby lipstick off granny’s teeth and finish her off with a good polish and then everything’s neat and tidy so I pack up my things and walk back outside where the sun is just rising and the ghosts on the street don’t melt anymore when I step on them they just crunch and shift a little and turn muddy, mostly brown but with faint little streaks of red.

Cocktails and Tall Tales: The Art of Conversation

Please enjoy “The Art of Conversaton” by Sarah!  (See this post for an explanation.)

*  *  *

Raj surveyed the array of last year’s magazines spread out on the glass coffee table. Good Housekeeping; Southern Living; People. Chock full of ads and frivolous articles on aging celebrities or how to make a low-calorie strawberry daiquiri. He couldn’t have found anything even remotely relevant to his life amid that fluff. Maybe if there was an article “Facing both the void of despair and one’s own mortality in the false cheeriness of the dentist’s waiting room.” Why do they try and make these places feel like someone’s living room? he thinks. Stuffed chairs and potted plants, bad art that must all come from the same Ugly Waiting Room Art catalog. All of this supposedly home-y decor has exactly the opposite effect. It makes him painfully aware that he is in a cold and sterile place, about to undergo a routine but unpleasant teeth cleaning. Was it just six months ago he was here last?

‘Mr. Carruthers?” a perky blond woman in scrubs summons him. This is a practice for adults only, but rather than wearing solid color scrubs, these women wear garish patterns of childish cartoon characters – bears, balloons, flowers. And always women, these technicians. A bevy of females orbiting the alpha male dentist, who sweeps in at the very end of the appointment. Dismounting his noble steed, he leans over the emasculated patient, who is blinded by the light and probably still drooling fluoride. No dirty work for Herr Dentist. Just open up, quick poke around, jolly wink to the adoring hygienist in the corner. Dental harems.

“Hi, I’m Kathleen. Kathy for short. But never Katie, oh the horror,” Kathy (not Katie) ejects in a quick stream as Raj follows her through the corridor to his new home for the next 30 to 45 minutes. She is young, probably just 2 or 3 years out of dental hygiene school, and with the requisite set of pearly whites meant to make you feel like a lowly serf in the empire of good teeth. “Should I call you Raj or Mr. Carruthers? Raj, short for Roger maybe? What an interesting nick name – I love it.”

Raj has neither the opportunity nor the desire to respond, but Kathy doesn’t seem to notice. Actually, it’s Sanskrit for “king,” Raj thinks to himself. It’s a bit depressing to think of the noble origins of his name, when his adult life is so lacking in notable achievement. He turns 50 tomorrow and spends 10 hours a day working in the import/export business. Even he does not really know what this means. He feels things coming and going in his life, sensing them in the shadows, but he is too tired and heavy-lidded to see them clearly. He has the gnawing feeling that love and happiness both belong in the export category, having already fallen into someone else’s hands. For him the imports into his world are malaise and quiet and, for the moment, Kathy.

“Just have a seat right here and hand me your glasses, won’t you?” Kathy continues as she gestures to the reclining dentist chair. Raj hates the way his pants pucker up as he lies down, hates the way he can never get his neck at a comfortable angle in these things. Kathy launches right into the cleaning, scraping and prying into his mouth with a violence that clashes with her cheery tone and constant stream of one-sided conversation.

“So, Raj, what is it that you do? When you’re not visiting us, that is,” she titters with laughter. “Obviously not flossing or brushing with a proper circular motion; remind me to do a demo for you before you leave,” she tacks on with an admonishing tone.

There is no way Raj could respond with the heap of dental machinery in his mouth, so he just kind of grunts.

 ”Oh, that sounds lovely. You must get a lot of fulfillment out of that. Do you have a wife, children?”

 Raj nods slightly, easier than launching into the explanation of how he got divorced 3 years ago and has a daughter about to graduate from college who never calls him. Her mother, during their infrequent and strained conversations, tells him he needs to join Facebook – that’s the only way he can talk to her now. He refuses to even ask what that means. Another export, gone.

“I don’t have any children of my own,” a shadow passes through Kathy’s sunny sky as she continues, “but I like to think I am enough of a child at heart to make up for it. In fact, I was thinking just the other day of my imaginary childhood friend, Pokey. Some days Pokey was a dog or some days a clown – really just whatever I needed or wanted him to be. If only I could find a boyfriend like that!” Kathy laughs.

She probably wants to date the dentist, Raj thinks.

“But it’s not like I still think Pokey is real, of course,” Kathy is quick to clarify. “I guess you could say he’s an unemployed imaginary friend! But I still like to talk about him, sometimes. In fact, the girls here call me ‘Pokey’ for fun – just because I’m so thorough in my oral examination.” Raj silently agrees. Thorough bordering on sadistic.

Fifteen minutes later Raj is giving his credit card to the receptionist, paying the copay and scheduling his next appointment. Six more months, in which he can fathom nothing changing. At random he picks up a magazine from the table on his way out and hides it inside his jacket. Maybe he will learn how to make a daiquiri. It could be a whole new beginning. Or maybe he will just recycle it.

Cocktails and Tall Tales: Pokey Will Pay

Please enjoy “Pokey Will Pay” by Tasersedge!  (See this post for an explanation.)

* * *

Raj Carruthers paced up and down the space dock in front of his ship.  He was angry.  And he wondered if he should just head down to the slave district and buy a couple Striplonians to kill himself into a more peaceful state.  But on the other hand, right now his rage was so pure that he just had to savor the taste of bile at the base of his three tongues.  He had waited for his first officer to interrogate the crew one by one.  One of the men had finally given up the unlucky Pokey, an unemployed stowaway who had eaten the star-skunk (yes, eaten it somehow, fur, fangs, and all, disgusting creature that Pokey himself was).  Pokey would know the kind of importer/exporter he had messed with by the time he had experienced how razor-thin was the line between life and death, especially when the latest technology could make that line semi-permeable for weeks on end.

Back on Aldebar Alarus, Raj had placed one endangered star-skunk in his ship’s hold.  Personally.  He had braved hell for that star-skunk, and he knew it was one of only twelve living.  Why?  The hunting started centuries ago because the fur was so nice.  Even when stripped from its original owner, the pelt would provide its wearer’s attackers with a nice electric jolt.  Actually, a deadly electric jolt.  That’s what was so nice about it.  There was never any question that the fur coat had acted in self-defense.

But that was centuries ago, and now there were plenty of ways to clone the same effect, and in more fashionable colors that could be worn year-round in any climate.  No, the real reason people went after the space-skunk these days was that in the year 38,017 p.A. (post-Armageddon), the most ancient and revered school of Dental Hygiene in the known universe had discovered—no one was quite sure what made them think of trying it—that the plaque which could be scraped off the base of the fangs of a star-skunk was a powerful hallucinogen when rubbed on the surface of one’s eyes.  Its effect was to literally make dreams come true.

This had been outlawed almost immediately.  Not that the Galactic Council cared about recreational drugs—they themselves monopolized the Luniumite market—but this drug was dangerous to the Council and its interests, dangerous to existence itself.  The effects of the drug were life long.  At first users dreamed of the usual things—meeting celebrities, making money, better (and often stranger) sex lives.  But they quickly learned that the drug’s effects continued working even when they were asleep.  At their best, the results were surreal events.  At their worst, nightmares walked the streets, planets were swallowed whole, suns exploded without warning.  And the first nightmares made real begat even worse nightmares from other users.  The same intergalactic edict that banned the drug was an execution order for every person who had ever tried the stuff, as death was the only known cure.  Despite how effectively users were tracked down and killed, however, the drug grew in popularity until the star-skunk was nearly wiped out.  That was really what had ended the chaos.

There had always been rumors that the Guild of Dental Hygienists was incensed that their prized discovery had been taken away, and that they were quietly working at a way to reclaim the drug, and to somehow make it safer.  But there are lots of rumors on the trade routes, and Raj had not believed them until he was approached by Kathleen Colors, one of the guild’s agents, at a backwater bar one of the Carnal planets.  He had known the Guild’s power, but had not realized their wealth until he was offered enough money to buy and terraform his own planet in exchange for a living star-skunk.

Raj had planned for the next three decades how he might accomplish such a feat, had trained and equipped his crew well, had found the locations of twelve government outposts, each one of which holding a single star-skunk under ridiculous security.  He was thinking now that he had decimated his life savings in pursuit of this one furry creature which would have launched him into quadrillionaire status, but which had now ruined him.  Yes indeed, he thought, Pokey will pay.

Cocktails and Tall Tales: Molars, Manatees, Mayhem

Please enjoy ”Molars, Manatees, Mayhem” by yours truly, me.  (See this post for an explanation.)

* * *

Kathleen Colors just wanted to die.  “Ugghh…I just want to die,” she moaned, vaguely addressing the canister of toothbrushes on the counter as she thrashed around on the fully reclined chair in the Molar Room at Dr. John’s Friendly Smiles Dental Clinic.  She yanked off her rubber gloves one at a time and flung them in the direction of the tooth-shaped trash can.  Missed.  Missed again.  Typical.  Why couldn’t she just die already?  She fumbled in the direction of the tool tray behind her, hoping an instrument with life-taking qualities was within reach.  Nothing but the mouth mirror.  Typical. 

 It was lunchtime and, as it was Dr. John’s birthday, the clinic was closed for two hours as everybody went out for a celebratory lunch.  Since Kathleen just wanted to die, she was not interested in a celebratory lunch, and had hid in the supply closet until everybody had left.  Once she heard the lock click on the clinic’s front door, it was all Kathleen could do to stumble from the closet and across the hall to the Molar Room before collapsing in the chair and punching the recline button repeatedly, as if it were her own stupid face. 

 Last night had not been good.  She’d invited her girlfriends over to her apartment to drink and talk shit about their exes, but after several wine coolers, they’d convinced her it was a good idea to put on that tight shirt that showed off her cleavage and take a cab to the bar.  Where, of course, she ran into her ex, who, in his drunken stupor, had completely ignored her cleavage and instead poked his finger into her muffin-top and laughed hysterically.  And then, as Kathleen was making a humiliated dash to the bathroom stall (where she planned to die), she ran into her ex’s new girl, wearing the exact same shirt, with just as much cleavage but absolutely no muffin-top.  “Urgh…” Kathleen thrashed again in the dental chair, sticking out her neck toward the sink, sure she was going to throw up at the memory.  Instead, she burped lamely.  Tasted like the Dorito binge that had followed the bar episode.  Typical.

 When Kathleen had woken up that morning, she considered just staying in bed and dying there, but she decided to get up because of Pokey.  Pokey was her adopted manatee.  Kathleen loved manatees and she was convinced that without her monthly financial support, Pokey might get eaten by a shark.  Or poached.  Pokey was her only reason for living.  She had a picture of him on her refrigerator that she kissed every morning.   Refrigerator.  Food.  Muffin-top.  Kathleen moaned again, then tried to use the mouth mirror to examine her waistline.  Fat fat fat.  Typical. 

 A rattling and banging from the clinic’s front door caused Kathleen to drop the molar mirror on her navel. “Urgh, we’re closed; there’s a sign” she said to the toothbrushes.  Bang bang bang.  Kathleen groaned, rolled off the chair, and stumbled out of the Molar Room and toward the front door.  “Hellllp, uunnnhh, ohhh please.”  The banging on the door continued.  Kathleen rolled her eyes.  Probably some moron who hadn’t flossed in fifteen years with a tooth that fell out.  Typical.  Kathleen unlocked the front door, squinted at the sun, and said through the crack loud enough to be heard over the moans, “I’m sooo sorry; we’re closed until two. You can schedule an appointment with Dr. John then.”  She started to close the door, but the moaner stuck his foot in the door and said, “oh no, you’ve got to help me now.”

 Kathleen drew herself up to her full height, ready to tell this moron where he could get off, when her eyes adjusted to the sun and she actually saw him.  Jet black hair, sleek, ponytailed.  White button down, open enough to reveal the top of a toned chest.  Jeans tight enough to give Kathleen a fantasy good enough to last a couple of weeks.  His hands were grabbing the right side of his face, and he was bent over in pain, but Kathleen only noticed his perfectly manicured fingernails and  Italian, expensive-looking loafers.  “Uh…,” she said, smoothing her ponytail and pulling down her uniform top to expose a bit of chest, “well, I mean, I can try to help you.”  “Please,” he replied.

 Kathleen led him to the Molar Room and got him situated.  She leaned over him so he could see a little down her shirt as she reached for the previously rejected mouth mirror.  “Welcome to Dr. John’s Friendly Smiles Dental Clinic,” she said sultrily.  “I’m Kathleen.  We can fill out your paperwork and stuff later, but what’s your name?” 

 “Unng, Raj.  My mouth has been killing me since this morning.  It feels like there’s a miniature jackhammer in there.”  “Hmm, well I’ll be sure to fix you right up, Raj.   What do you do when your mouth doesn’t hurt?”  He stopped moaning and looked right at her, frowning, and Kathleen realized she was twirling a strand of hair around her finger.  She stopped  “I’m in imports,” he said.  This day was looking up, thought Kathleen.  Maybe those expensive Italian shoes were in her future.   “Wonderful!” she exclaimed.  “Let’s get you checked out.”  Kathleen decided against the surgical mask she usually wore.  Not sexy.  Raj opened his mouth and Kathleen resisted the sudden urge to stick her tongue in it.  Instead, she batted her eyelashes and moved in with the mouth mirror.  His breath smelled like peppermint and vodka.  She sucked in her stomach and stuck our her chest. 

 “Ah ha!,” she exclaimed.  “What have we here?”  Kathleen zoomed in on the black rectangle stuck between two of Raj’s molars and pulled.  Raj screeched and swore.  Kathleen grabbed his arm gently.  “It’s okay,” she soothed.  “Oh man,” gasped Raj, “how can I thank you?  I feel a hundred times better already.”  He looked straight into her eyes, grinned, and blinked.  Kathleen blushed, noticed she was twirling her hair again, stopped, and tried to smile sexily.  “So what was in there anyway?” asked Raj.  Kathleen looked down at what she had removed from Raj’s mouth.  It was like a computer chip, with a red blinking light and a little vibration.  “Um…I don’t know,” she said, holding it out to him.  Raj’s eyes widened and he sat up abruptly, looking widely around the room.  Then he grabbed the chip, threw it on the ground and stomped on it.  “Show me a place I can hide!” he bellowed.  “What…why?” gasped Kathleen as he pulled her out of the Molar Room. 

 “Look, I don’t exactly import…legal things,” Raj muttered as she pointed to the supply closet in the hallway.  “I can’t be found.”  He stopped and looked at Kathleen.  She started to twirl her hair again.  “Baby, will you help me?”  He finally looked at her cleavage.  “Of course, Raj!” she gasped, taking a step toward him. 

 “Freeze! Put your hands up!”  Kathleen and Raj whirled around to see three cops, guns out and pointed at Raj.  “Mr. Carruthers,” you can escape the law no longer,” said one.  “Thanks to the tracking device and bug we put in your omelet, and this young lady’s very clear identification of your location, you are under arrest for smuggling opium into the United States.”  The cops grabbed Raj and cuffed him, pulling him down the hall and out the door of the clinic.

 “Raj!,” Kathleen called out, following the retreating cops, Raj struggling and cursing between them.   She stretched out her arms toward him.  “How can I…where can I find you?  I still want to be with you!”  He stopped struggling long enough to turn around and stare straight at her.  This time she stopped her arm before it could twirl her hair.   “Are you kidding?”  Raj spat.  “Not only did you get me caught, you’re wearing a manatee scrunchie. I am Raj Carruthers.   I do not need you.”  The cops pushed him into the car and sped away.

 Kathleen’s mouth fell open, then she noticed and jerked it shut.  She closed her eyes and stumbled back against the clinic door.  Why had she worn that stupid scrunchie today?  Typical.  She went inside, relocked the door, and shuffled back to the Molar Room. Flopping down, she told the toothbrushes, “I just want to die.”

Cocktails and Tall Tales: Dr Swanson’s Grand Day

Please enjoy “Dr. Swanson’s Grand Day” by Dave!  (See this post for an explanation.)

*  *  *

Dr. Swanson was finishing up his 9:30 root canal on James Thurman, Esq. He did not like James Thurman, Esq., one of the town’s municipal judges, because of an unfavorable alimony ruling he had handed down in Dr. Swanson’s third divorce several years earlier. He was basically finished with the drilling and the polishing but he dragged things out a bit longer, really leaning into Thurman’s rear molar with the grinder until he could see little tears form at the corners of his eyes and trickle down his crow’s feet and he heard the soft whimper of a man in real pain who cannot shout because his mouth is crammed full of gauze. 

“Well, all through here, James! You’ve been a very good boy. See Janice for a sucker on your way out.”

The judge moaned. Dr. Swanson smiled and whistled softly and walked to the lobby for a cup of coffee. Seated there, amongst the dull beige couches and years old fashion magazines, was an angel.  Her hair was golden and puffy and radiated soft light just like a Suave commercial, her legs were long and fit like an antelope’s, and she wore dark mysterious glasses that made him think of James Bond but in a sexy-woman sort of way. And she had a cat. He found cats very sexy indeed. He leaned over the formica counter and whispered.

“Janice, is that ravishing creature my ten o’ clock hygienist interview? Colors? Kathy Colors?”

Janice nodded. Dr. Swanson grinned his widest David Hasselhof grin. “Miss Colors! Delighted, enraptured to meet you at last! Do follow me to the back, we’ve got you doing a little test cleaning on Raj Carruthers, a good sport of a chap and a damn fine importer-exporter if you’re ever in need of one. He imported my third wife for me from Australia, you know.”

“May I bring my Pokey back with me?” Dr. Swanson furrowed his brow. She picked up the cat. “I daresay I never go anywhere without my Pokey. She’s my eyes and ears after the accident, you know.”

 Accident? Thought Dr. Swanson. Eyes and ears? Then he shrugged it off. “Of course, of course, Miss Colors!” Never anything wrong with a little Pokey in the examination room, he thought with a devilish grin.

He led her to the exam room, introduced her to Carruthers, then left for a few minutes to deal with the write-up for the Thurman root canal.  He was interrupted by a tap on his shoulder. It was Janice.

“Doctor, I think there’s a problem with the new hygienist. I think she’s blind. Possibly deaf, too, but I can’t be certain about that.”

“How do you know?” asked the doctor.

“Perhaps you should just come take a look.”

Her eyes and ears. Dr. Swanson shrugged. “I’m sure it’s just your imagination, Janice. She comes with very good recommendations, you know she once cleaned the Papal teeth?” Hmm, thought Swanson, Come to think of it, those recommendations might have been a little too good. “Ok, Janice let’s have a look.”

When they reached the exam room, the first thing Dr. Swanson noticed was all the blood. It was coming out of Raj Carruther’s leg and forming a dark, rich stain on his khaki pants. He was strapped down on the exam table with a drill sticking halfway into his thigh, his mouth shoved full of gauze. Miss Colors was whistling softly and absently flossing the teeth of her cat Pokey. “My, what long whiskers you have Mr. Carruthers.”

Then, quick as a leopard, Miss Colors spun around and let out a high shrill insane scream, polisher in hand, and sprung for Dr. Swanson, but Janice was too quick for her. In a blur of lightning-fast movement, she twisted, grabbed the plaque scraper from the metal tray beside the table, leapt past the x-ray machine, and plunged the thin metal instrument into the sinuous neck of Miss Kathy Colors.

Janice and Dr. Swanson breathed a sigh of relief. Then three things happened at once: Kathy Colors fell to the ground, lifeless. Raj Carruthers passed out from shock and extreme blood loss. And Pokey the cat sprang towards Dr. Swanson’s face, her tiny claws flashing with fury in the fluorescent light. Now it was Swanson’s turn to react, ducking, grabbing the cat by the tail, and flinging it over the exam table and through the open seventh-floor window.

Dr. Swanson knelt beside Kathy Colors and removed her dark glasses.

“My God Janice, look! It’s my second wife, Kitty, posing as a blind and deaf hygienist and come with her ninja-cat to kill me and Raj Carruthers, the man who imported my third wife from Australia.”

“You’ve saved my life, Janice. Will you be the fourth Mrs. John Swanson?” She nodded and they kissed passionately.

“We had really better get Mr. Carruthers to the hospital, don’t you think dear?” said Janice.

“He can wait, my love. He can wait.” And he kissed her once more.

But a keen observer would have noted the claw marks on the windowsill, and, moving closer and looking out the window, might have seen a large, mangy tabby cat clinging ferociously to the building’s outer edifice, it’s red, beady eyes shining with the promise of murder.

Cocktails and Tall Tales: An Introduction

A couple of weeks ago, my friends Jenna and Dave suggested a party at which we would drink cocktails and read stories we had written specifically for the party.  Here were the rules, copied and pasted straight from my Gmail account.

You shall bring a one page short story that YOU have composed using the characters that we provide below. Now, you’re thinking, “well i’m most certainly not a writer.” and the truth is, no, you’re probably not, but we just want to laugh and have fun so try your best, use any genre or style you like (sci fi, erotic, horror, funny, childrens, erotic, etc), and don’t spend more than an hour writing it.

SO, the cast of characters. You determine their age, the relation to each other, the way they interact, their sex, their species, etc. Their lives are in your nimble fingers–Kathleen Colors, Dental Hygenist; Raj Carruthers, Importer/Exporter; Pokey, Unemployed

I was pretty impressed by the results!  Over the next few days, right here at Bouquet of Parentheses, you will find the following original, previously unpublished stories:

“Dr. Swanson’s Grand Day” by Dave

“Molars, Manatees, Mayhem” by Holly

“Pokey Will Pay” by Tasersedge

“The Art of Conversation” by Sarah

“Neat and Tidy” by Dave (he wrote tw0)

“Air Guitar” by Jenna

Enjoy!

Tunneling to the Center of the Earth

Generally, I dislike writing these book reviews, but I do it because I think it is good for me (keeps my lit analysis skillz in shape, a little at least), but I’m actually excited about this one because I am so excited to tell you about this awesome book!

It is a collection of short stories called Tunneling to the Center of the Earth by Kevin Wilson.  I believe this is his first published book.   These eleven stories are about loneliness, the struggles of coming of age, and love.  Thematically (and perhaps a bit stylistically) they remind me of the stories in Winesburg, Ohio by Sherwood Anderson, which is officially one of my favorite books.  (In fact, in the bonus features of this book, Wilson cites an Anderson story as the inspiration for one of his own and he is quoted in one of the epigraphs of the book, which I’ll talk about in a minute.)  Most of these stories are a fascinating mix of the realistic and the just slightly absurd.  Absurd enough to make it fun and unique and humorous, but realistic enough for the stories to resonate.   Some of the story endings in this book are hopeful, some calmly sad, and some ambigeuous.

While not all of the stories have the fantastic element that I mentioned above, my two favorites did.  “Blowing up on the Spot” is about a man whose job is to collect the Qs in a Scrabble tile factory and whose parents spontaneously combusted on the subway.  He fears spontaneously combusting himself, and also worries for his younger brother, who has been suicidal since their parents’ death.  “The Choir Director Affair (The Baby’s Teeth)” is the story of a man’s affair, intertwined with the main character’s fascination for the man’s son, a baby with a premature full set of teeth.  And, if that wasn’t enough, the story is successfully narrated in the second person point of view. Whoa.  I was amazed.   The underlying seriousness of issues like suicide and adultry are skillfully mixed with the strange story elements, making for unpredictable and enjoyable reads.

One last thing: usually I’m not impressed by epigraphs in books because I don’t often see the connection to the story and because I don’t really like quotes, but the two that Wilson chose for this book of stories perfectly encompassed Wilson’s writing, I thought.

There’s nothing in this warm, vegetal dusk that is not beautiful or that will last. “Tropical Courtyard” by Joe Bolton

One hopes for so much from a chicken and is so dreadfully disillusioned. “The Egg” by Sherwood Anderson

Though I liked some more than others, there wasn’t a story in the book that I disliked.  I will definitely keep an eye out for whatever Kevin Wilson writes next.  I’m so excited about the possiblity of this author.   If he keeps it up, he will definitely be a new favorite of mine.  Best book I’ve read this year!

The Disreputable History of Frankie Landau-Banks

I picked up the Young Adult literature book The Disreputable History of Frankie Landau-Banks by E. Lockhart at the library this summer after hearing about it on NPR. 

The story’s protagonist is Frankie, a sophomore at the prestigious Alabaster Preparatory Academy, who has grown curves over the summer and has thus secured Matthew Livingston, a popular senior, as her new boyfriend.  Frankie soon finds out that Matthew is a member of the Loyal Order of the Basset Hounds, an all-male secret society that has been a tradition at the school since 1951.  Frankie is annoyed that 1) Matthew keeps ditching her for the society 2) the society is gender exclusive  and 3) the current members of the society are not clever enough to plan any good pranks, so she takes to spying on the society and eventually infiltrating it.  We know from the beginning that she gets caught, but have to read all the way through to find out the specifics of the pranks she references at the beginning (“the Library Lady,” “the Doggies in the Window,” and “the abduction of the Guppy” to name a few.) 

Frankie’s character is smart, creative, and self-aware, while still holding some of the insecurities of the typical teenage girl.  For example, she acknowledges early on that her boyfriend does not appreciate her for who she really is, but still revels in the security and popularity that her boyfriend brings.  Frankie is a good YA lit heroine, but because of the narration of the book, you don’t feel like you know her incredibly well.  She is a bit too unflappable for my tastes. 

One feature of YA books that I often enjoy is when the author takes a little time out of the story to teach the reader something that is relevant to the plot.  The Series of Unfortunate Events books do this all the time–the narrator will use a word that is perhaps a bit above the level of the children reading it and will then cleverly define it.  In The Disreputable History,Frankie learns (and thus the narrator gets to tell us) about the panopticon, a French prison design by a philosopher which allowed the guard to look at all the prisoners at once, without the the prisoner knowing whether or not they actually were being watched, thus minimizing the amount of watching that actually needed to happen.  The author then connects this to how we often self-govern as a result of a societal norms, creating a sort of social panopticon.  This all connects to the plot a Frankie decides to break the panopticon “rules” of both Alabaster security and of her social group.  Interesting. 

The other cute “learning” element of this book is Frankie’s clever and humorous use of what she calls the “neglected positive.” I’ll let the book explain it:

The neglected positive of immaculate is maculate, meaning morally blemished or stained.  The neglected positive of insufferable is sufferable–meaning bearable–though no one ever uses it.

Other times, the neglected positive is nota word.  It is then an imaginary neglected positive, or INP (inpea)…Some inpeas:…Petuous, meaning careful.  Ept, meaning competent, from inept.  Turbed, meaning relaxed and comfortable, from disturbed. 

 After the narrator takes the time to explain this to us, Frankie uses these terms without further comment, and sometimes you have to look twice to figure out what she means.  While I have to laugh at how the author clearly adds stuff like this because she loves words a little too much, it is a nice addition for both style and character.

This book has a very clear social message–more so than many YA Lit books.  But, like much YA Lit, it is not subtle in its communication of said message.  From the book’s last page:

It is better to be alone, she figures, than to be with someone who can’t see who you are.  It is better to lead than to follow.  It is better to speak up than stay silent.  It is better to open doors than to shut them on people. 

In context, that quote is not quite as cloying as it sounds, but it is still a little much.  Throughout the book, Frankie points out not only blatant sexism, but also a problem that is probably much more common among the tween and teenage girls who might read this book–having a boyfriend or a social group that underestimates your worth and appreciates you for “eye candy” value only.  While this message is overly obvious in the book, it is a solid and uniquely presented one.  Overall, this is a light and entertaining book and certainly worth the short amount of time it takes to read.

Last Exit to Brooklyn

I picked up Last Exit to Brooklyn by Hubert Selby Jr. in college, most likely at the Brown Deer Salvation Army for $0.33, (I miss you Brown Deer Salvation Army!  I love you!), most likely because of the blurb on the back cover:

Last Exit to Brooklynwas found obscene at the Old Bailey in November 1967, a decision which was reversed by a historic Appeal Court judgement in July, 1968.  Now, ‘this honest and terrible book’ as Anthony Burgess describes it in his introduction to this edition, can take its rightful place as one of the major books of our time.

The book is a collection of vignettes of various length about working class people in the projects and tough streets of New York City.  In reference to that “obscene” ruling, it contains quite a bit of profanity, drug use, graphic descriptions of violence and graphic-er (yes) descriptions of  both homosexual and heterosexual activity.  Also, it leaves out all the apostrophes (insert audible gasp here). 

Seriously though, I found all the “obscenity” in Last Exitappropriate because it didn’t overwhelm the characters or the themes.  It is not sex or violence for the shock value.  It is part of a plot that proves a point.  (Tangentially, the only author I’ve found to go way too far in this area is Bret Easton Ellis, author of Less Than Zero and American Psycho.  The amount of sexual violence in AP made it unreadable, in my opinion.)    

It’s been awhile since I’ve indulged my love for modernist themes in literature and this book served to remind me how much I love stories of regular lives, filled with loneliness and alienation.   A perfect example of this is a story I taught while student teaching–The Far and the Nearby Thomas Wolfe.  (If you are actually going to click that link and read the story, don’t read the rest of this paragraph until you do.  Spoiler alert!)  It’s a very short story about a train conductor who passes the same town everyday for years, and daily exchanges waves with a woman and her daughter who grows into a women herself over the train conductor’s years of service.  The conductor can’t wait to retire and go see these women and this town close-up.  But when he does, the woman is old and bitter and he is left confused and disillusioned, realizing that the town he ”knew” is nothing like he imagined it, and he can never have that perfect picture back again.  Despite my penchant for being a fairly optimistic, cheery person, I love the how depressing this story is. Stories of disillusionment and despair tend to resonate with me.  (For more depressing, Holly-approved stories, check out “Bliss” by Katherine Mansfield and “The Story of an Hour” by Kate Chopin.)

Anyway, I like Last Exitfor its modern themes. These people’s lives suck.  Georgette is in love with Vinnie, who plays her and doesn’t love her back.  Tralala is  drug-addicted prostitute.  Harry is a secretly gay union worker whom no one likes.  Etc.  Their lives are repetitious and painful to watch.  There are no happy endings.  In fact, this book is filled with rather disturbing endings.

There were a couple elements of the book that threw me more than any of the “obscenity”, but upon further reflection, I think I understand why Selby wrote this way.  First of all, many of the homosexual males in the book have female names and are referred to as “she.”  To be clear, these are not transgendered characters.  Because of this, it was disorienting and hard to picture the characters correctly.  Much of the book is written with the bias of chauvinist male characters, and these characters devalue women throughout.  Perhaps Selby referred to the gay men as “she”  to show a similar devaluing of homosexual men in the eyes of the other men.  Also, Harry, the union work who discovers he is gay, is uncomfortable with his sexuality and might find safety in referring to these men in feminine terms. 

The other element that seemed offensive on first reading was the last section of the book , which portrays several husbands who range from lazy to abusive to philandering while their wives do all the housework, childcare, and provide the income.  In each case, the men have no respect or appreciation for their wives.  These men are horrible, and while their wives despise them, several of the wives are still sexually desirous of them.  That made me totally mad–it seemed like a stereotype of women that was coming from the author, not from that chauvinist male voice.  But overall I don’t think Selby is sexist, I think he is pointing out the irony of the husbands’ perspectives–they are looking elsewhere for gratification, while their wives are desperate to be fulfilled.  Desperation reigns throughout, in fact.  It is sad.

I think this book is important because of its focus on alienated, powerless, hurting people–those dismissed because their addictions or illness, those who are underestimated or stereotyped, those who are desperate for a different life.  Like many of my favorite books, Last Exit is character-driven.  These alienated, powerless people are given complex voices, and though often what they choose to say and think and do is not pretty or positive, it is real and human, and the voices, no matter how horrible, cannot be ignored.

Blue Shoe

You might very well already know that Anne Lamott is one of my favorite authors.  I’ve read all of her books of essays about faith, and the one about writing, and now two of her novels.  Her memoirs are insightful, provocative, and hilarious. (See my reflection on one here.)   Her novels, while they don’t live up to her non-fiction, are still quite well-written.

Blue Shoe is about Mattie, a 30-something, divorced mom of two who is struggling with her mother’s declining health, her dead father’s sordid past, her ex-husband’s new wife and baby, and her crush on a married man, among other things.  It’s a story of everyday things, really, though there’s a bit of romance thrown in.  The ending is hopeful, but not unrealistic.

The first thing I noticed as I began Blue Shoe was all the similarities to Lamott’s own life.   The other novel I’ve read, Rosie, also had a lot of autobiographical elements.  At first this annoyed me, but now I’m not as sure that it’s a problem.  (You’re supposed to write what you know, right?  It worked for Anne of Green Gables.)   Like Lamott, Mattie is a single mom, a Californian, a Christian, and has a strong circle of support that includes both family and friends who are as close as family.  Like Lamott, Mattie lives a messy life with a roller coaster of emotions.  Perhaps it is these similarities to Lamott’s own life that makes the book feel quite intimate much of the time.  For example, another struggle in the book is the decline  and eventual death of the family dog, Marjorie.  The moments as the children slide under the bed to lie next to her, as the dog passes horrible gas, and as the family gathers around her and the vet puts her to sleep, are so simple and sad that I imagine Lamott must have experienced this event too.

The other element that makes the book feel intimate is Lamott’s unique choices of imagery.  Her descriptions are just not quite like any others .  She can make normal things seem totally horrible or totally glorious in just a sentence or two.  See for yourself:

Totally Horrible: (Describing the scene at a nursing home):  “So Mattie and the children wandered the halls and worriedly watched the old people do things nice old people were not supposed to do–play with food, moan, gape at things that weren’t there.  Grandparents were supposed to have looks of tender appreciation on their faces when they saw children; these people wore rubber Halloween masks of insanity and vacancy, their eyes rolling and weepy, their tongues thrusting, their fingers of bone.”

Totally Glorious: (Describing an old woman): “She looked like an ancient Russian nun, all wrinkles and creases, spokes emanating from around her mouth like sun rays, deep dark eyes hidden by folds of skin.  Half of her face was in light, the other mostly in shadow, which created a sense of rest: without the shadow you wouldn’t have seen the shape, the landscape of her face.”

Also, Anne Lamott has this thing for ”smell” imagery.  I remember this was the case in Rosie too.   She just mentions the smell of things in her descriptions a lot–Mattie’s children’s heads, an old woman’s apartment, an empty room– and it sticks out to me.  Not a bad or good thing, just unique.

In comparison to her non-fiction, Lamott’s novels suffer from a lack of humor.  The witty, self-depreceting humor in her non-fiction is absolutely crucial.  I miss it here.  The book is very rarely funny or even light-hearted.  Sure, Mattie is dealing with all those aforementioned problems, but so is Lamott in her non-fiction, and she still uses humor all the time.  I would really like to see what Lamott could do if she made a great departure from the fiction she’s written so far, and wrote a novel in the humorous vein of her non-fiction.

Until she does that or publishes a new book of non-fiction, or until I have a kid and it is time to read Operating Instructions: A Journal of My Son’s First Year, I might be taking a break from Anne Lamott.  But I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: if you haven’t read Travelling Mercies, take a break from whatever you are doing and read it right now.  (Especially if you are Jack and you have my copy.  No, I don’t want it back.  I want you to read it.)