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.