… but isn’t it a little bit your fault, really?
jeff parker and i went to the same graduate program but i never knew him. he graduated before i got there. and yet it seemed like everyone there had known him, or has known him since, and has had good things to say about him, and so, when his first novel, ovenman, came out long after even i had left graduate school, i bought it, out of solidarity with him for having braved three winters in syracuse (even though they weren’t the same three winters i had braved, one of which came within a tenth of an inch of breaking the record for all time snowiest), and for publishing with a relatively independent press, and because people had good things to say about it, the novel, as well.
but then i didn’t read it, because the good things people were saying weren’t really good enough. they weren’t bad. in fact, i think the word i heard most often was “fun.” my friends will tell you i’m not against fun — they might actually tell you that i’m way into it — but i don’t mind saying that i’m usually looking for more than that from a book, because, let’s face it, the “fun” of a book can’t really compare to the fun of, for examples, dancing your ass off in a dense crowd of strangers, sitting on a stoop with your friends and some beers, or going out to dinner with your wife, all of which examples are regularly available to me and which compete with my book time.
dare i say i’m actually looking for some kind of edification from most of the books i read? the aesthete i once was would kick my face in. he was about 70 pounds heavier than me, a non-effete aesthete. let’s get away from me, all of them, and just say that some of the compliments sounded a little condescending, if not back-handed.
which sucks, because the thing is, this is a book deserving of really high compliments. and when i was first reading it i got a little peeved at my friends who didn’t recommend it strongly enough. but as i went on, i developed a theory as to why nobody talked about it well:
if you try to describe any event in the book you will sound like a total douche. i know because i tried about three times before i finally gave up, realizing i was doing more harm than good.
so rather than try to describe anything concrete, let me say two things.
it was either this or decide where to get dinner.
1. this book is incredibly well written. but it’s written in such a subtle way that you might not notice it, and if you do, and then you try to describe it, you might, again, risk sounding like a douche. so, rather than analyze or explain, let me show you the sequence, which falls on the second page of the novel, that sold me for good:
Last time I went before a judge — that time to take care of over two K in parking tickets, a figure he dropped to five hundred, a figure i’ve yet to pay — he said to me, “Son, this represents a serious caricature flaw.” His Southern made certain words come out more syllabled.
if you can take it from me that this doesn’t come across as mannered or flashy in context, and just appreciate the rhythm and comic timing of the sentences and sensibility, and still not see the brilliance here, then i hate you.
but sentences aren’t everything, with all due respect to gary lutz (seriously, tons of respect, just found this essay a little much) (the fat aesthete i once was loved it, though), so we move to the second thing:
2. i expected parker’s protagonist, when thinfinger (also not as bad as it sounds in context), to be a loveable loser, and to tell the truth, i’m getting tired of loveable losers, so tired i might have to address the issue at a later date. by loveable loser i mean the kind of down on his (it’s always a him) luck sucker you just can’t help but root for. the loveable loser is a caricature of pathetic, a caricature so you don’t have to acknowledge how pathetic you are, whoever you are. he’s a cartoon that makes you feel better about yourself. i’ll do more about him another time.
for now i’ll say that when thinfinger is pathetic, but not a caricature of pathetic, loveable (maybe) and a loser (sure), but not a loveable loser. he’s ambivalent, but also amoral, and he takes agency, which makes the book much, much darker than any of the reviews let on. unfortunately, i can’t risk describing that here.
so how can i reinforce my case? two things i can say that are pretty much undeniable:
1. while the book does its own thing, it shows the influence of padgett powell’s edisto, which, with that qualifier (that it still does its own thing) is one of the highest endoresements i can give.
2. there are gorgeous descriptions of menial labor here. and i don’t want to give you examples. i want you to see them in context. they will make you hate your neighbor so much less.
How is this my fault?
Can’t you see how you’ve disappointed me most of all?
Ovenman is set in Florida. Florida, Gruber. And you didn’t render judgment one way or another.
I don’t know how I’ll ever trust you again.