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Reading List

The Wind Up Bird Chronicle

After Dark

Sticky Fingers

2666

Traveling Sprinkler

Selected Shorts

The Cooking Gene

The Orphan Master’s Son

The Assassination of Margaret Thatcher

Heartburn

Lincoln in the Bardo

The Black Wedding

Heartburn

Postcards from the edge

Wallflower at the Orgy

Kitchen Confidential

The Underground Railroad

Fortune Smiles

The Vegetarian

The Nix

The Hearts of Men

Stalin’s Daughter

All over Creation

La Belle Sauvage

Bunker Hill: A City, A Siege, A Revolution

Vacationland

Munich

Managed Expectations

Go with your gut

I have this deep feeling of depression somewhere below the pit of my stomach. Okay, let’s start by deconstructing the very concept of a pit of the stomach: what I really mean is that I feel like there’s a small anvil sitting in the bottom of my stomach, connected to the rest of my body by veins and arteries and such, and it’s pulsing and molten, and with each pulse the juices flowing around the bottom collect dread in the form of runoff.

The ocean is the same as my stomach. A few years ago, I heard a story about underwater waterfalls and lakes, where the salinity is so high that the water flows as its own entity, free of the lighterweight water above. Suddenly I wonder if the entire planet is soaking up dread the same way I am, feeling the dread that comes with knowledge.

I’m a twentieth-century person: I know that now. I like twentieth-century things. Record players, television, physical media, old movies, old clothes, long-dead actors and actresses that should be household names and aren’t. And I realize that my century was a perennially shitty one; filled with war, depression, disease, oppression–and that this century is shaping up to be more of the same. But there’s a cruelty now that wasn’t present before–a cruelty in even the most well-meaning people, as they pile on to every cause in a low-stakes competition between right and wrong that erupts into an empty orgasm of self-righteousness before putting its clothes back on and leaving the room without a word.

I don’t know what the answer is. I want this thing to work, I’m terrified that it won’t, that the earth, overcome with the physical burden of billions of people in the cloud will continue its long melt, trying to wipe its surfaces clean.

So, shit. How do I resolve this?

Fictions

Friend in low places.

The trenchcoat mafia has given up on reigns of terror to snapchat themselves vaping behind Rite Aid. They stand four parking spaces apart, silent and hunched over phones, attempting to get the best shot of themselves blowing fruit punch scented smoke. They reach social media climax simultanously, wordlessly shoving their phones into baggy pockets and slouching towards the subway. The greasier of the two pulls out a dull metal object and I take a quick glance around to see if there’s a convienient barrier I can duck behind if shit pops off. But no, I realize it’s just a flask of some special concoction of vape fluid that he’s clumsily pouring into his space-age e-hookah.

An Ashmont train pulls in and I sit down across from an anachronism whose age I’d place in the low sixties. Bolo tie and black leather vest compete with late-model bluetooth earpiece hooked to wraparound sunglasses. Drinking a diet coke from a coozie. Patriotic New Balances propped up on a hard shell suitcase screened with an American flag. I’m breathless.

Two labradoodles get on with a couple in tow.

Vaping outside the rite aid.

Fictions

Boy makes good.

Ray had always been a nice, well-behaved boy. When we was in grade school together he was always the lead choirboy, while I was always in detention. I don’t remember Ray having the voice of an angel or nothing, but he had a big head of blonde hair and a big set of blue eyes, and in his choir robe he looked like a china doll.
Towheaded, they called it.
The sisters would always stand him up in front of the class and coo all over him, and he’d act shy and bashful while all the time he was lapping it up.
I had to quit school in eight grade to help Ma and dad, but Ray went all the way through St. Nicolas, then Bishop Rosecrans. Then came the war and I went off to the Pacific, and he went off to the infantry, where he probably heard a few too many shells and became all panicky with a ringing in his ears.
Shellshocked, they call it.
He hung around Europe for a while, but then his dad died in an accident in a fire out at the Philo electric plant, and Ray had to move back down home to help his Mom. At first he was a big man around town with all his European stories. He even ran with your Grandma a bit before she wore me down and I married her. But after a while he spent most of his time in Stillman’s tavern because getting loaded helped with the ringing in his ears.
I had come out of the service as a master electrician, and we was still friends, so I’d try to help Ray get odd jobs here and there, but none of them stuck for too long. Then sometime around ’48 his sister came down with something bad, and the doc told them they’d have to take her down to Columbus for an operation. So the whole family started saving, but they was always a bunch of deadbeats without a cent to rub between them, so it seemed like poor sis was out of luck.
Then one day, I’m out wiring jack Ditmar’s new department store downtown, and Ray comes to find me, with a rolled up copy of the Newark Advocate in his hand. He shows me this article about some fella in Italy who broke the world record for being buried alive. He had make it 38 days buried in a fancy coffin rigged up with a long pipe used as a vent so he could breathe. When they dug him up, the record people gave him a bunch of money and a trip to America, where he stayed and opened up a spaghetti restaurant in Toledo.
So here’s Ray, with his rolled up newspaper and the smell of Jaybee’s Brandy on his breath, and he tells me that he’s got some shovels outside in his car. He’d gone over to the Funeral home and talked Bill Egan into lending him one of them coffins they keep around for ex-cons and the kind of folks that end up win what they call a pauper’s grave. Then he’s gone down to what used be be Stillman Tavern, down in the eight ward, and he’s talked Abe Stillman into letting him dig up a corner of the parking lot. But Ray, always having to be center of attention, he had decided to go one better than the Italian guy. Not only was he going to stay in the ground for fifty days and break the record, but he cooked up this whole idea that if people threw a nickel down the pipe at him, they could talk to him about whatever they wanted for five minutes.
It took a while to talk me into helping with this scheme, but Ray was so excited about maybe breaking the record, and he insisted that the money would go for his sister’s operation, so after a while I found some guys and we dug Ray a grave ten feet under the front yard of the bar. We braced it with timbers so he had room to stand, and a bucket for his necessaries, then we rigged him up with a wide length of pipe running to the top of the ground. Your Grandma even painted us a pretty sign. “Talk to Ray, you’ll make his day.”
At first, nobody seemed all that confident that Ray could make it so long, and in the first few days, he probably only made a buck or so. Me and the other guys at the bar took turns sitting in a chair by the hole, making sure that people actually dropped the nickel in before they started yapping away about God, or the war, or love. Some people would bring him bible tracts and others would bring him girlie magazines, and we’d lower them down to him, along with baloney sandwiches and bottles of his favorite Jaybee’s Fine French Brandy. Occasionally you could hear a grunt or some muffled words, but Ray was silent most of the time. Silent and loaded.
After about ten days a reporter from the Times-Recorder came out to the hole. Bill Flynn and I had spent the morning bailing out buckets of water, since the Stillman Tavern was near the junction of the Muskingum and Licking Rivers, and if it rained, Ray’s coffin (where he slept) would start sloshing around. He was pretty calm through the whole thing though. Like I said, the brandy helped a lot with that. The reporter shouted his questions down the hole, and it was pretty hard to hear Ray’s answers, so we helped the guy along a bit, telling him about Ray’s bravery in the war, and his sick sister. Before long, the story made it all the way to Columbus, and there were buses of people stopping at Stillman’s coming over to the hole for a nickel and a chat. We had to cut everyone’s time to two minutes, he was so in demand.
Finally it got to the fiftieth day. The crowds had died down because the hole was starting to smell a little, and we called down to Ray, to let him know that it was time to start digging him up. Well, Ray didn’t wanna be dug up. He shouted up the hole in clear plain English that he was having a wonderful time down there, and wouldn’t it be great if he could make it a few more days. At this point, your Grandma and some other wives got involved, and they each came out to shout down the hole that this business was taking us out of our homes, and that they were fed up. After a couple days of this screeching, Ray relented, and we started digging, and after about an hour we hauled Ray, his coffin, and two buckets of nickels up top. He was all grey and brown and crusted with Zanesville clay and smelled like a rendering plant, so we handed him a bar of soap and made him hose down in the river for a while. When he got all the crud off, we saw that the hair on his head and his chin had turned bright white, but otherwise he seemed like his normal self. Ray didn’t even seem that disappointed when nobody showed up with a check or even a certificate for his beating the world record. He just too his two buckets of nickels into the tavern and started buying rounds of drinks.
Ray ran out of nickels pretty quick. Especially after Abe Stillman hinted around that he should get a cut for putting up with Ray taking up a prime parking spot for so long. Ray gave him half a bucket, which was probably too generous. We drank for almost twenty-four hours straight and sang just about every song we knew. Ray’s voice was hoarse by the time your Grandma and my Ma came to get me, and he serenaded them with a few choruses of Goodness Irene as they dragged me off to bed. Your Grandma and her friend Eunice Nickels went over to St. Nicholas, and talked Father Deets into taking up a collection for Ray’s sis. She went down to have her operation, but they fowled something up and took out a long part of her intestine and she didn’t make it much longer than a few years after that.
Everybody was proud of Ray. He made it into the papers for a day or two, but he never seemed quite the same after he came out of that hole. The good news was, the Italian guy up in Toledo sent Ray a letter inviting him to visit, and he took the bus up there for a free spaghetti and meatball dinner. Turned out that the Italian fella had a sister he had brought over, and she hit it off with Ray. They got married and ended up opening a spaghetti restaurant in Gallipolis. I never made it down to see them, but your Grandma went a few times and said it was pretty good. He passed about twenty years ago now, and the restaurant closed not long after. Apparently his kids were running with the mob, and the restaurant got shut down for laundering money.
About ten years later, your Grandma and I ran into Sister Mary Roberta from St. Nicholas down at Zettinger’s drugstore and we got to talking about Ray’s trip down the hole. We laughed about the nickels a bit, and then she got very serious.
“When that sweet boy’s towhead turned white, I knew that he had been visited by the Holy Spirit.”
Well, your Grandma was very taken with what the Sister said, and went home and prayed a decade of rosary dedicated to Ray. I knew better. She called it the Holy Spirit. I call it a combination of World War Two and Jaybee’s fine French Brandy.

Sketches of public transit

I HAVE ARRIVED

The grey sky is hitting the grey water, and the view all the way up to what my Mapquest printout tells me is Nahant is a vast blob of grey, except for a whopper of a retirement home: a buff pink ziggurat rising grandly behind some scrubby shrubs The ocean smells like the hot sweet tang of radiator fluid. It’s nothing like the store brand salt air dryer sheets I bought last month to psych myself up for this move.
Technically I can see why people say that Wonderland is disapointing. I fully acknowledge that the stop is just a giant parking lot littered with Dunkin’ Donuts cups, yet I can’t help feeling a bit betrayed by my sister Ohioan. Twenty-five years of shared history, growing up landlocked with access to nothing but gravel beaches and the turquoise-painted zoo smelling hell that was Canoochee Creek. How is it that she is so unable to look beyond the strip of boarded up pizza joints and burned out crusts of motels to seE OVER FIVE MILES OF ATLANTIC OCEAN BEACH ACCESSIBLE BY SUBWAY.
I can’t believe how easy this was. I should come hear every day after work. Well, realistically, more like once a week. I’m pretty cold in my interview outfit, a sundress from the Urban Outfitters clearance rack covered over with a velvet blazer that some big-boobed girl named Greta left at my going away party. And the water will eventually make my toes numb, but how could I possibly walk on the beach in SHOES?
Two weeks ago I was stuck in the drive-thru at Arby’s waiting for a Jamocha shake and waffle fries. Now I’m standing at the end of a continent, looking out at a vast coniquous body of water filled with whales and dotted with container ships. I am the Queen of all that I survey and–a man is approaching me out of the grey blob. Shirtless. Tan. Big white chiclet teeth and crinkles around his eyes. Probably about seventy. As he walks by, he raises his chin at me–a tough greeting, and tells me in that accent synonymous with Clam Chowder and This Old House, “we’re glad you’re here.”
I HAVE ARRIVED.