So Long, Farewell, I Can't Spell German So Never Mind the Rest

Greetings, mes petits. I've written here before about how I've been a devout reader since I was about two days old. But it wasn't plays or oral histories or absurdist haiku that got me started down the path of the bibliophile; no, it was fiction, truths not facts, creative lying with a real ending at the end, made-up stuff. Since then I've branched out; now I listen to country *and* western. But the core of my love of reading will always reside in a fictional place.

Perhaps that's why I picked a short story to highlight in my final post. Yes, yes, get out the hankies, oh the humanity, but I must, my dears, I must leave you. I've been offered a highly lucrative--well, let's just say lucrative--well, okay, *technically* it's lucrative since there's monetary compensation involved, but let's not quantify it, shall we, how crass--position writing book reviews for a startup site. I know what you're thinking: "What an idiot, leaving a non-paying job for a low-paying one!" Good point. But that mortgage isn't going to pay itself, so until my wealthy patron comes along :: taps foot, checks watch :: I've got to trade some labor for some cash. It's the American way, hippie.

Plus, you can still come and visit me sometime at my personal blog, Nine Long Nights. Tell me I sent you!

Enough about me; what do *you* think about eSCENE, Web del Sol's compendium of excellent literature from all across the Series of Tubes? Pretty frakking awesome, that's right, I knew that's what you'd say. For instance, I just ran across a really great story at eSCENE #37: "Representing Doris" by Peter Walpole, from Virginia Quarterly Review.

This story reminded me of a weird combination of Flannery O'Connor (unsparing examination of psychology and foibles), Mary Gaitskill (absolutely pitch-perfect depictions of the subtlest nuances of action and expression), and Richard Bausch (the peccadiloes and idiocies of educated upper-middle-class people whose lives are starting to unravel).

I really can do no better than to give you a longish excerpt from the first part of the story, where it is explained how an old lady, a neighbor of the middle-aged protagonist, slowly went a little crazy:

Doris had been a shy, lovely bride. Over the years, however, she had become increasingly withdrawn, to the point where Paul, who was utterly devoted to her, finally no longer needed to apologize when Doris did not attend a potluck supper, or a cookout, or the yearly Walk for a Cure with all the other ladies of the hill. People came to understand that Doris would not be coming. Since Paul’s death, she had essentially become a recluse. Sometimes, in the dead of winter, she might go a week or more without leaving her house. Occasionally illness confined her to bed. So, not every day, but most days, she would venture into the world only to collect the mail and to water her driveway.

Yes, she's watering the asphalt driveway, not the plants or the grass near it. The protagonist feels protective of the doddering old woman. The protagonist's wife merely clucks her tongue until the town enters a drought, when she wants to call the cops and report the old lady for violating water-use restrictions. Great setup for a great story. This is that rarest of literary stories: excellent writing, profoundly observed characters, *and* an actual plot. Is that too much to ask? Most of the time, yes. But not here.

As the drought drags on, hilarity does not ensue, except it does, because Walpole has such a great sense of humor. As proof, here's another longish excerpt, describing what happens when the neighbors gather around to see the police car that's been called to Doris's house:

Bob and Nancy were out for their morning walk with Tucker, their big goofy Labrador, who immediately stuck his nose in Mallory’s crotch.

“Okay,” Mallory said, and danced a bit sideways and bounced into Claire, or Carla—Caroline?—the nurse or lab technician or something who was renting the Hoagland’s garage apartment. She was in a remarkably small jogging outfit. “Sorry,” he said, and she laughed.

“He likes you,” she said, grinning as Tucker snuffled greedily. “A lot.”

Hans and Venetia, who had been heading to church, were sitting in their car with the window rolled down.

“Is she all right?” Hans asked, and Venetia echoed: “Is Doris all right?”

“Restrictions,” Mallory mumbled.

“Tucker, that’s enough!” Bob said and gave Tucker’s leash a good pull.

“Busted on a watering rap,” the girl beside Mallory said, as he brushed the front of his trousers.

The humor and awkwardness and sharp insights continue to a payoff that truly feels like one. So, for the last time, it is my honor and pleasure to say to you: Click the clicky bit. Read the ready bit. Enjoy.