The Pugilist at Rest – Thom Jones

 

I encountered this story not knowing anything about the author or the story itself – the way I experience most of the stories in these anthologies. 

Discovering these types of stories is terrific – knowing they are great and then researching them and the author and developing a greater appreciation of the work. I'm intimidated now, writing about this story because I feel that this post will get a few more eyes on it because of its popularity. Not that I don't appreciate people reading what I write, but I think that what I'm writing about here really isn't what most people will be looking for when it comes to doing research on this story.

This bit of reflection brings me back around to the "why" of this blog. Since I started this writing back in 2008, this place has offered me a reliable location to get thoughts about life on record. I suppose it's also a bit of a recording for my children – a hope that someday they will take the time to learn a bit more about me after I'm gone. I'm confident that they'll be able to find these words and make another connection with me.

There's another thought – a connection. I've made a few connections in this space over time—some fascinating ones – relationships that have educated me and enlightened me. You know who you are, old friend – and I think of you often.

This is also a space where I can practice my writing without being "graded" on the writing. I can use the story as a jumping-off point and just write.

Again though, the eyes that'll be drawn to this post just because of the story…

Onward – this story…

This is another New Yorker story – honestly, though, I don't think it fits into the typical New Yorker mold for that period. In this piece by JCO – for the New Yorker, about Jones after his death, she details how this story landed on her desk at the Ontario Review – and how her husband at the time ultimately rejected it – (because of its length) and how Jones had submitted it to several publications – one was the New Yorker, that eventually published it. She acknowledges his good fortune for having it picked up there and the fact that a few more of his stories finally landed in that publication's pages again. We'll encounter him in the BASS anthology in later '90s collections.

Jones seemed like a writer's writer. When this story was picked up, he was in his 40's working as a janitor – granting him the chance to read several thousand books during that time. Earlier in his life, there was time spent at the Iowa Writer's Workshop – so between his reading and his workshop experience, he found the code for producing the perfect publishable short story. He also struggled with substance abuse – eventually overcoming it.

Yes, I do think that there is a code/formula for producing this type of story – of course, it has to land on the right desk at the right time, and the first reader of that story has to be in the right mood to ingest that story (hopefully they are focused enough – not distracted by their own lives) to drive it through to eventual publication.

Of course, you can fire and forget your submissions…hoping to hit that right combo. Was Jones one of the lucky ones? No – I don't think so – he did enough groundwork before setting off on his quest.

Of course, as it happens with these stories in this collection, he died recently – in 2016.

I enjoyed learning about this story because Jones wrote and created a reality that he never actually experienced – the mark of a true master. He took his own life experiences, friends, and family members' experiences – refined them through the knowledge gained by all his reading and developed this incredibly convincing fiction. Sometimes you can see through the fiction – not with Jones.

It was true fiction.

 

 

 

Emergency – Denis Johnson

All the leaves are now off the large tree in our backyard. When I first set up this home office back in August, the tree was filled with large dark green leaves. I would occasionally look up from the computer, resting my eyes and watch the leaves twist and turn in the late summer sun. 

Fall settled in, and the leaves remained a dark green, and I wondered daily when they’d begin their change. As the days passed, they eventually turned, and the change seemed to accelerate through November. 

The beginning of December brought out the best colors, and strong winds and rainstorms forced the leaves off the branches. Now, here we are in mid-December, and after yesterday’s rain, all the leaves seem to have been torn off the tree.

As fast as they disappeared, I’m sure I’ll think their return in spring is premature.

I value the opportunity to have this view of this tree at this point in my life.

View and perspective.

I loved this short story by Denis Johnson. Without physically ingesting any sort of conscious altering substance, I felt that my consciousness was on a bit of a trip while reading this story. This is, of course, what happens so many times when we read good fiction – we get lost in a character or scene, time melts away, we are transported to another realm – we become someone else.

Johnson does a beautiful job of altering my consciousness through this short story. I was taken out of my room, away from my window, looking out on the leafless tree, and joined the characters in their own chemically altered world. I suppose it should come as a surprise that Johnson was so skilled at relating an experience through a chemically altered state of mind. After reading bout him, it appears that he spent some time addicted to substances. Write what you know.

Perhaps it has to do with the simple way life and time moves. Still, it seems that with a greater frequency, more of the authors that I encounter in these anthologies pass away within a few years of reading them – or just a short time before I meet them. I first encountered Johnson back in 2015 when I read and wrote about his story Car-Crash while Hitchhiking. It was featured in the 1990 anthology of BASS. I remember the story well. I read it during one of my overnight shifts at the ODU library. I wrote about it soon after reading as I felt that what it stirred in me need to be recorded. Part of the reason why I enjoyed Johnson so much was the similarities in style that I saw between him, Carver and Updike. I went deeper into those in the earlier post. I feel the need now, more than then, for authors like Carver and Updike, and my reading of this anthology has suffered as I seek out stories by those two authors. Sorry for the little aside there. Anyway, between the time I first read him, and now, Denis Johnson passed away. Looks like it was in 2017. 

He was an incredible author. 

Perhaps if I read and wrote faster, these sorts of things will happen less often.

Same Place, Same Things – Tim Gautreaux

 

The leaves on the large tree outside of my window turn from green to yellow, red, and then brown, and today, without a wind, they seem to be falling faster than I’ve ever noticed. It’s beautiful and comforting knowing that summer has retreated, and we are moving well into a new season.

Pre-pandemic, I found myself at times, falling into a routine that could provide comfort one day and uneasiness the next. Wake up, run/exercise, shower, drive to work, work 9-5, come home, spend time with the family, watch a little TV, sleep – repeat. It was nice, but there was some staleness to it – especially the 9-5 portion of the day.

In February, I left my place of employment after a 20-year run. I settled into an interesting few weeks, where I searched for other jobs and had some down-time to relax and reflect on my next moves.

March arrived, and so did the national shut-down as everyone tried to figure out how to live in the new normal.

Summer sets in, and we develop a routine as a family to provide the boys with a sense of normalcy in the middle of this crisis. It was a pleasant routine – wake up without an alarm, run/exercise, eat breakfast together, head out for a walk together, sit outside for most of the day, eating, lounging by the pool in the backyard. The evening would come, we’d head out on another walk, have dinner together and perhaps go on a third walk. We ate a lot of watermelon and ice cream. Listened to music and goofed off. It was a great summer.

August arrives, and I started a new job. Wake up at 6:00, run/exercise, make breakfast, shower, but the time clock and the timeclock is punched when I sign into MS Teams at 8:00 in the morning. Spend a good part of the day in front of a computer working from home. I am fortunate. We are all able to be together during this time, and I think that one day when we’re old and reflecting on this time, we’ll have very fond memories of the time spent together.

I don’t know if I find routines comforting or not. I value the knowledge that there is the predictability of a routine, and I know it’s suitable for the boys. I do wonder, though, if there is a loss that I am experiencing without the unpredictability.

The main character in this short story finds himself going through a routine of fixing

farmer’s water pumps and his routine life take s a turn for the worse after an encounter with a lonely woman on a dusty farm.

Disruptions in my modern life seem to consist of car trouble, internet connectivity issues…that sort of thing. Pretty minor.

But what lies just below the surface of this thin reality of everyday life is the chaos of uncertainty that will poke through and cause quite the most unpleasant disruptions on rare occasions.

The chaos visited us in March…we’re still living through it.

What will happen the next time chaos pokes through our thin reality?

How will we react? How will it alter our lives?

 

Across the Bridge – Mavis Gallant

Across the Bridge is the ninth and final story by Mavis Gallant to be featured in the Best American series.

Gallant is a master storyteller.

There’s just one problem for me.

I don’t like her stories.

I believe I gave her a fair shot in my early treatment after my first exposure to her writing. But as I read more of her…I just found that she wasn’t to my tastes.

That’s about all I have to say about that.  

A Good Scent from a Strange Mountain – Robert Olen Butler

As these short stories allow us, and for a reader to fully take advantage of them, one must trust the author, suspend reality, surrender yourself and become someone else. 

A great author can take you out of your "body" and drop you into a character of their choosing. Of course, you have to play along, fully immerse yourself in the story, and not throw up any obstacles to the immersion. 

And what is terrific about this is that you can close the book and return to "your life" but still retain the life of that character if you feel the necessity.

The written story really is an incredible device – as is the mind that absorbs and translates the strange symbols printed on the pages.

Through this story that first appeared in the New England Review, Robert Olen Butler invites you to slip into the mind of an elderly Vietnamese man nearing death as he reflects upon his life, visiting departed relatives and acquaintances…even the restless ghost of Ho Chi Minh.

I've often wondered about my final days. Morbid? I don't think so. These thoughts allow me to refocus on my life's priorities – to live in the moment with the people I love. It also allows me to take stock of my life is/was and alter my course, if necessary. 

I also wonder if I'll be of sound mind at my time of death to even reflect as this character does. Will I have my memories? Will they torture me in my last minutes, or will I just simply fade away? What purpose would be served as I lay there, torturing myself with these thoughts?

Perhaps, when it is my time, there will be the option to customize your last days. To make sure that your last breaths are comfortable and that you are at peace. That would be wonderful. 

Silver Water – Amy Bloom

Silver Water first appeared in Story magazine. I once had a nice collection of Story magazines, and it pains me to write the word once in this sentence. 

I believe they were all “donated” to a local thrift store. I like to imagine that they were snatched up by another lover of the short story, but in reality, they probably sat on the shelf in the store and were dumped after not selling.

 I suppose they were only valuable to me, purchased from a used book store in downtown Norfolk in the mid 00’s with birthday money from my grandmother. I remember writing that down in the cover of one of the editions. 

They stood in formation on my bookshelf for several years, and I’d pull one out every so often, thumb through it, read a story and return it to its home.

Amy Bloom makes three appearances in The Best American anthology. Her first appearance was in 1991 with Love is Not a Pie. 

We will visit with Amy again in 2000. 

Love is Not a Pie is a beautiful story and compelled me to write one of my favorite posts that detailed a past spent with my father—the post that was made in April of 2017 – just a few short months before he died.

Silver Water tackles the too important issue of mental health and, more importantly, how a family copes with it when it strikes and completely cripples one of its members. I remember discussing schizophrenia with my father – he, of course, supervised a few of them over many years. I was baffled at how this disease could completely ravage a person – and their family.

Having a loved one suffer from such a debilitating mental illness is one of my greatest fears. Your mother, wife, son, or daughter could be completely “normal” one day…and then, the disease creeps in, grabs that portion of their brain, their soul – and takes them from you. It’s so heartbreaking. 

Once again, we are shown, life is suffering.

A Different Kind of Imperfection – Thomas Beller

"Nothing is bothering me. It’s just odd to be back. You know, like, when you go away and then you come back and it’s, like-"

A Different Kind of Imperfection was first published in The New Yorker, fittingly, is a New York story ( I wonder if there were short story writers that purposely wrote New York City stories in an attempt to get them in the New Yorker with the thought that they would actually get published there and then propelled into literary stardom…).

As I do with these stories, and especially with the stories published in the 90s, I travel back to those days and reflect on my life and draw parallels between the story and what I was going through then...and sometimes now. This one is very easy to do as it features a character that has returned home to NYC on a break from college. He lives with his single mother (father died when the boy was 10) and lazes about the house reading a book from his father’s collection, wondering what an underlined phrase means to the now deceased father, contemplating the lives of his younger parents and his father’s life as he learned that he had cancer and was dying.

I’m pretty sure I just summed up the story well enough - of course without getting too deep into the underlying meanings...etc. – it’s beautiful – several sentences are just straight-up art. 

Thomas Beller appears only once in the BASS anthology, but what an incredible writer he is - and incredibly faithful to NYC.

I have done this story a disservice though. This disservice is keeping with my track record on these stories, so it’s not entirely unfair to this story. 

I read this story earlier this year. Perhaps it was April…May or June. One should remember, though, what year it is…2020 in the year of the forever month of March. Having read the story so many months ago and now it is mid-September, yes, I re-read it…if you call speed reading it an actual read. 

I am once again playing catch-up with these stories. I’m about 5 stories into this anthology and have only posted about 2 before this one.

Life once again got in the way. I enjoyed the summer with the family without having a job. Summer began to fade, and I was fortunate enough to secure employment. School has started for the kids (virtual), and I am working from home too.

I am once again turning to this blog to provide some stability in what is a boat in churning seas. I am not threatened by the waters, I just need that stabilizing tool this blog provides.

This outlet, this blog has been here for me for the last 12 years, and I am happy to turn to it once again.

I remember returning home several times during university breaks. I had grown, and the distance between my mother and I had grown too. She so desperately wanted to know what was going on in my life, for me to open up, but that pleading, those requests shut me up tighter against her. I don’t suppose that many young men feel too inclined to open up fully to their mothers concerning their exploits when they are between 18 and 25. We were still boys though we like to believe we were men.

This story and the relationship the main character has with the memory of his father and his (living) mother allowed me to reexamine those trips home and my behavior back then. It’s sad to think about the way I acted – and I need to be realistic in thinking that my children could also not feel the need to share their lives with me no matter how much I wish them to.  

Lessons learned? Yes - once again, from the best teacher - these stories. 

Days of Heaven - Rick Bass

                                                

So happy to encounter Rick Bass along this journey once again. I was first introduced to him in 2012 with Cats And Students, Bubbles And Abysses. Looking back at that post, it seems that I enjoyed the story but had a bit of trouble fully understanding it. Meeting him again in 2017, through The Legend Of Pig-Eye was welcome and I really had a great time reading about the publication of the story and and thinking about the message. 

When I saw that Bass had a story in this collection, I was really looking forward to reading it - and more so after reading the first story in the collection that I wasn't especially fond of.

Days of Heaven is a beautiful story. Well, perhaps beautiful is the wrong word - but I can't seem to come up with another word right now that fits how I felt after reading it. 

I suppose what I enjoyed most about this story is that - well, it's a story. It didn't force me to seek something out within it (not that I don't mind the challenge). Bass simply, through his composition told a great story. 

A large part of what endears me to a story of course is how well I can relate to it - this seems obvious - right? 

I could see myself in another life, as a 20 something living as a caretaker in a cabin out west. I could see myself sharing the perspective of the main character, behaving like him and thinking of others, as he thinks of them. 

In the Contributor's Notes section at at the end of the collection, Bass writes quite a lot about the creation of this story and the multiple drafts and edits it went through with his editors (13, if I remember correctly).

In my spreadsheet of BASS authors, we will encounter Rick Bass again in 1996, 1999 and finally in 2001. 

I look forward to spending more time with him.

  

The Last Lovely City - Alice Adams

The last time we had the chance to spend some time with Alice Adams was a couple years ago when we were introduced to her as the editor for BASS 1991.  

I mentioned that she first appeared in The BASS in 1976 so I missed her by a couple of years as this project started with the 1978 collection. She is featured again with two stories after the guest editor spot in the BASS ’92 and ’96.

Adams appears first in the 1992 collection simply because of her last name. It seems that the editor and guest editor of these volumes have consistently agreed that the easiest way to order the stories is alphabetical by the authors last name - with the exception of BASS 1992 guest edited by John Gardner.

The Last Lovely City takes place along Stinson Beach California. With the incredible technology afforded to us in these times, I was able to visit the same beach town Alice did and decided to make as the setting for her story.

This story first appeared in The New Yorker in the March 11, 1991 issue. The U.S. had just finished active hostilities during Operation Desert Storm.

Personally, I felt that this story gave the anthology a bit of a rough takeoff. It's a story that still has the feel of the mid-1980s. I had to push myself through that time barrier to find a message that resonated with me - understanding that as with all of these stories, there is a very good chance that I would not find one.

And then, a simple paragraph tucked in towards the end made the connection.

"...the doctor finds that those giants from his dark and tangled past have quite suddenly receded: Delores and Tolliver have shrunk down to human size, the size of people accidentally encountered at a party. Such meeting can happen to anyone, easily, especially at a certain age."

I have reached the age - and have been the age to have the above happen on more than one occasion. The encounters cause quick butterflies to rise in your heart, quickening its beat and upon reflection hours later, perhaps at home after the meting, laying in bed reflecting, you realize how silly your mind was, building these people up from your past into "giants".

Time, once again has taught you a valuable lesson - a lesson that you will forget probably forget and replay several times more throughout your life.

Intermission

I'm pretty sure the algorithms synced across a few platforms to bring In the Land of Men to my attention - and just like that, I downloaded it last night, and I'm primed to start reading tonight. 

I'm excited about this book mainly because I think it'll offer some additional insight to the lit scene of the 90's. We've just breached the 90s in this BASS exploration project and BASS 1992 is the first time we encounter David Foster Wallace - a major part of Miller's book. Additionally, according to my spreadsheet, during her time at Esquire, Miller edited four authors that landed in The Best American Short Stories. 

I'll be sure to circle back around in a few days with my thoughts. 

The Best American Short Stories 1992 - Introduction

Start the clock. 

I'm notorious for taking years to read these anthologies. We are 15 books in to this series starting with 1978 back in 2008. 

Back when I started this project, I worked at a newspaper in Virginia. Two weeks ago, I voluntarily left the newspaper (my second home for 19 years). It was a difficult decision, but a move that was necessary. I'm sure in the years and posts to come, I will dive deeper into everything surrounding my departure. These stories have a way of prying out details over time - this is the purpose of this project - it's a bit of therapy. 

I've written several times about the various stages of my life and here we are at another. It'll be very interesting to see what develops.

So, here we are, finally reading the BASS 1992. I loved the 90s and the editor of this volume, in his introduction, touches on one of the reasons why I found that decade so special.

Robert Stone made his first appearance in The Best American Series back in 1998 which I read in 2012. I found his introduction to this volume a little rough - of course perhaps I am out of practice (reading that is). The following passage did catch me though.

"In their variety, these stories reflect what is probably the most significant development in late-twentieth-century American fiction, the renewal and revitalization of the realist mode, which has been taken up by a new generation of writers. This represents less a "triumph" of realism than the obviation of old arguments about the relationship between life and language. As of 1992, American writers seem ready to accept traditional forms without self-consciousness in dealing with the complexity of the world around them."

This final paragraph from the introduction nails it perfectly for me. It's why I found love for the short story in the early 90s.

During my time at Norwich University, I worked as a work study student in the library. I was assigned to the periodicals department where I received incoming magazines and journals. I cataloged the new arrivals and at times, when needed, I assisted in the weeding of older journals from the shelves. Because Norwich was associated with Vermont College at this time, we received copies of important literary journals. When I found a few minutes of down-time between my duties, I would flip through these journals, journals with odd sounding names, Black Warrior Review, Ploughshares, The Southern Review, Missouri Review, Paris Review and the Virginia Quarterly Review just to name a few. I can't readily recall what story or what journal pulled me in, but I was hooked. It was in these journals that the stories I am now reading in the BASS are resurfacing. No doubt, I will run across one or several that seem all too familiar...the years softening my recollection of having actually reading it so many years ago.

Now, the publications and number of stories featured in BASS 1992.

Ploughshares - 1

Story - 3

New England Review - 1

The Atlantic Monthly - 1

Harper's Magazine - 1

The Southern Review - 1

Fiction International - 1

Black Warrior Review - 1

American Short Fiction - 1

The New Yorker - 9

So, as you can see, and it shouldn't come as a  surprise, stories from The New Yorker heavily outweigh the others.

Stone has this to say about the stories from that publication.

"The large number of New Yorker inclusions I think results from the fact that while The New Yorker is still able to attract first-rate submissions, the days are past when there was such a thing as a "New Yorker story." 

Well, lets see about that. I'm very excited to start this new journey - both in my life and with this volume. 

The 90s were my decade - I have faith that these stories will hold up.

Onward!

A Conclusion

I can’t count the number of times I’ve started this entry in my head. I finished the last story in this edition quite some time ago so why deviate from my normal behavior of waiting to post an entry?

I made the introductory post for this edition back on February 27, 2017. 

That was 2 years, 11 months and 3 days ago…or 1067 days.

This project suffered neglect due to my inability to remain focused on it and due to the many other wonderful titles, that surfaced and caught my attention. 

These occasional entries are good though to shame me into posting more. 

Maybe. 

So, what can I say about The Best American Short Stories 1991? 

An overview of this volume wouldn’t be fair. I have trouble recalling the good/bad/ugly of these stories. 

So – with that, let’s put this volume behind us. 

After all, I have started a new volume in life (more on that later) so it is only appropriate that I do with this project.

A Sandstone Farmhouse – John Updike

Well hello there Mr. Updike!

Our society has changed quite a bit since we first met back in January 2010.

You were in 1980, and your story was featured in Playboy and I was reading it across time 30 years later.

For many, then and now, your work appearing in that publication would be a natural fit. There were quite a few opinions of your writing back in 1980  and into the 90s (plenty of hate) the early 2000s as well as in 2010 – and now, when you are discussed/studied, their opinions are colored by our societal shifts…as they should be. 

I loved your writing back in 2010, and now almost 10 years later, I still love your writing.

It was this anthology that brought me closer to you. I saw you develop and it allowed me to explore the critical discussion of your work. I learned so much.

And now, you are back in my life.

I rushed to this story, not only because it is the last one in this edition, and I’m so over this particular year, but it had been some time since we last had some time together.

I finished your story well over a month ago and I fell down the rabbit hole of researching you again.

That was a mistake.

I should have left well alone.

I climbed out of the hole, lessons learned, and here we are.

So, this story…

About three years ago, my sister and I cleaned out my mother’s house. We moved her into an apartment. It was the house that I moved into when I was 5 and my sister was 2.

We disturbed dust and pulled pictures off the walls that hadn’t moved in close to 40 years.

Curtains were pulled down and light shined in corners that were dark for a lifetime.

We did the cleaning in the summer and it was hot and sweaty. 

We piled boxes on the curb that were picked through by strangers. What they didn’t scavenge, the city trash collectors picked up with a giant claw truck.

We held an estate sale allowing strangers to tromp through the house and pay cents for what we and she spent good money on years before.

The house was too big for her and physically, she was too small for the house.

I thought a lot about that move and my mother while reading this story.

On occasion, I’ll drive past that house, my mother’s the one I was raised in and the memories come flooding back. 

Playing in the front yard, riding up and down the block on my bike, my skateboard. The early mornings - pushing my bike past the parked cars in the driveway so I could deliver the daily newspaper. 

Sitting on the front porch with friends. 

I look up at the attic window, my room, my refuge from age 13 to 18. 

The days I spent lying on my bed looking down at the street where I now sit in an idling car looking up at the empty windows.

So, Updike’s Sandstone Farmhouse took me back to my house, to those memories of EVERYTHING that happened there. 

Updike does that to me  - and I appreciate and love his writing for this. 

Dog Stories – Francine Prose

“Dog Stories” comes partly out of my continuing interest in the way people tell their stories – in this case, stories about dogs. … People never talk about nothing, not even when they seem to. There are always secret and interesting reasons for the stories they decide to tell and for the moments at which they choose to tell them.” – Francine Prose

I don’t find myself in the position much to be on the receiving end of a good dog story. Most stories that come my way are through work, and I can’t really call those “stories”.

I suppose a reason that I’m not on the receiving end is that I’m rarely in social situations that allow others to tell me stories. I don’t have a large social circle and most stories that come my way are told to me by my children.

The advice that Prose gives above though can be used with those stories because my kids are great at choosing the times to tell me their stories.

Through this BASS reading exercise, I have found a great spark to tell some of my stories. The story randomly finds its way to me across time and provides the spark to ignite the process of thought. Sometimes this process can last days, weeks or months. Sometimes I can relate to a story immediately.

What is unfortunate though is that I find myself falling into the habit of not reading and in turn, not telling my stories.

American, Abroad – Joyce Carol Oates

Sitting on this book again. 

Work and life continue to get in the way. How many times can I use that excuse? I can’t keep using those as excuses. 

I can’t wait to write the wrap-up of this volume to see how long it took me to finish this volume. 

It’s going to be redic.

I finished reading this story over a month ago and I’m finally getting around to writing about it.

When I read that JCO is included in a BASS volume I’m pretty excited to plow through the stories to reach and read it. This story was featured towards the end of the volume and I was similarily excited to read it…but unfortunately, it did not deliver what I expected.

Thinking of my expectations, and all the changes that I have experienced in my life over the lifespan of this project I wonder if my expectations have morphed as well.

Perhaps the “feelings” of expectations the correct atmosphere to be enveloped in before during and after this story because there is quite a bit of “expectation” in this story.

The expectation of physical violence, the expectation of a meeting – or a friendship…

Expectations are a very dangerous thing. 

Set them too high and you’ll find disappointment. Set them too low and perhaps, resentment, anger jealousy.

So…lesson from JCO – check your expectations.