Features Overview

Instead of drawing from his own experiences in any naturalistic way, in any way that felt completely real or virtuous, he often pushed his work into the realm of abstraction, creating hollowed out references to real life, echoes of truth, fragments or facsimiles of experiences. He did this not out of any abundant propensity for style, but out of fear. He wrote with fear in his bones, each character an indictment of his own lack of courage. He never wrote about himself in the first person or used any kind of reflexive structure. He was afraid that the wrong might feel too familiar or the wrong phrase might have others suspect his work as being too derivative. He was petrified by the demons of peer review that hardly even exist anymore, save of course for the occasional close-minded blog post. Notwithstanding, he remained horror-struck by the potential for the ultimate allegation of his work being cliche.  Of course, there are no peer critiques outside of academia anymore, no writers groups or public readings. The New York Review of Books exists only to serve up legacy copies of Flaubert, he often thought. And though he knew that people no longer crowded auditoriums waiting for writers to recite lewd poetry and drink wildly on stage, that by contrast, they fill amphitheaters and sidewalks of retail stores for the latest phone launch, his diluted fear of derision plighted him with unforgiving regularity. This of course, was his own doing and not the effect of any actual criticism he had received. In fact, his efforts to remain astray from the nucleus of examination for his approach to realism resulted in praise for his work in the abstract—a lauding for his supposed rekindling of the great mid-century American cogitation. While the praise was better than the alternative, he ultimately felt disconnected from it, often wishing the accolades were in response to a different style of writing that intervenes in ordinary life rather than meandering in the superficial. He wanted to be known as being unwavering and brave and not preoccupied with style some contrived style.

Despite his feelings on the matter, it was precisely this style that brought him to Savannah. A two day book signing for his latest collection of shorts, all about a nameless pornographer in the throes of writing his tell-all account of his industry. Despite the occupation of the character, the book is more of a meditation on surface culture and the character’s reckoning of self, though the occasionally explicit descriptions of sex would no doubt characterize his efforts and broaden sales. FIFTY SHADES OF ARTHOUSE, one reviewer noted on a not-so-popular literature blog. If he submitted to cliche, it would be these types of reviews that would drive him to drink, though because of his obstinance, he chooses long walks and meditation next to his radiator.

A giant colonial derivation, to him, the Savannah walked a thin line between feeling authentically old or preserved and painfully reenacted. There was something anachronistic about the green halogen bulbs and other obvious attempts to inject modernity, though he felt more offended by the pastiche of the place and the new buildings that slathered “old Savannah charm” onto their facades in the form of fake corinthians or non-functioning shutters. This place was riddled with kitsch and opposed the barren atmospheres of his works. There was irony here, but not in the form he preferred. Not close enough to the likes of his stories where artists subterfuge elites by playing working class. No, the ghost ride trolly tours were worse, though in some ways quite similar versions of the Hollywood home tours for which he had disdain.

The narrows street, down which he was walking his expensive dog was dwarfed by a large blue garbage container and a yellow sodium vapor lamp, another obvious example of the city’s compulsory need to “maintain antiquity,” he thought. A rare cool breeze served to break up the Georgia humidity and move the low hanging fog that was settling over the approaching graveyard. He thought about how familiar the image felt and vowed to never feature anything similar. As he reached the end of the street, his prized animal showed signs of fatigue, offering an obvious signal to turn the block and return to the air conditioned hotel lobby. Ordinarily, he would have turned around, but despite its cliche, the fog settling above the graveyard was attractive. It held a tranquility as if protecting the eroded remains with an almost religious shield from the humid night. He did that thing that most people with time on their hands do when they pass a graveyard, and that is to think about all the lives, their obvious variances and similarities and how despite not knowing one another while alive, there’s now are poetry to their posthumous mutuality. What is it, he thought about our need to memorialize life in any way, let alone these rounded protrusions? He thought about what it would be like if he had a family in more than just this dog and how that might effect the writing he doesn’t even prefer to be making. He mostly thought about skipping his book signing.

The two of them reached the end of the block, now on the backside of the hip hotel split into two buildings. The other side of the street was abundantly dark as if marking some kind of apparent geographic divide. The street was lit only by whatever ambient light bounced off of the surrounding buildings and by the sharp neons of the gas station at the far end of the street. This block felt like very connected to the graveyard, he thought, as if deliberately left absent of more commercialization. The breeze died down and his dig was beginning to show more signs of fatigue. In fact, they were both breathing heavily, the humid air getting stuck to the insides of their windpipes like tar.

Toward the end of the street, a figure, backlit from the red neon of the gas station, swerved on a bicycle with a languid lack of intention. As he meandered closer, the red light behind him began to fade and his front became more illuminated by the surrounding dims lights around them. He avoided eye contact and instead focused on his dog for the first time in their walk. Both he and the dog and the man on the bike were now in the middle of the block. He looked up and in an instant noticed the man on the bike’s close proximity. He feigned in courage but could feel the muscles in the backs of his knees trembling slightly.

“What’s happenin, man?” the man on the bike said.

“It’s going.” Whenever faced with discomfort, he usually opted for contrite replies and brevity. The absence of language gave him the time to asses his surroundings though it also gave anxiety the opportunity to mount.

The man on the bike rode past them and he could feel oxygen returning to his brain. For a moment he wondered why this brief encounter bothered him so much. He didn’t believe in the dark myths of this town, only its hardened legacy of slavery of repression. He was a person of facts, a realist and ultimately, a New Yorker. Perhaps this man’s proximity to the cliche, though nonetheless eery graveyard produced this sensation of dread, or the fact that because of recent political rioting, the streets by contrast feel completely still and almost absent of the ambiance typical of any city. At any rate, he marched on, working hard to convince himself that anxiety he was feeling was connected to his predilection to enhance situations in his mind and nothing having to this town’s “aura.”

“So hey man, can you help me out with a little something?” the man on the bike said, now closer to him, having turned around to travel in the same direction.

“Hey, sorry. I don’t have any cash.” the man replied.

“You don’t have any cash? But you look like someone who might have cash. You see how I could be confused, right?”

The man felt a pressure in his head. This occurred any time he was faced with advanced stress. This he thought, was a reason to drive a man to drink. More than any peer review, if they existed, or any fan’s disappointed response to the work. Certainly drinking in the face of stress isn’t cliche, he thought? It’s not like drinking to upload some notion of how a writer should behave.

“Yeah, well, I don’t have any cash on.” the dog stopped in its tracks and the man on the bike mimicked him immediately. Now, the three of them, stopped halfway between the cemetery and the end of the block which showed signs of life and the entrance to his hotel, were fully embroiled in conversation, with no evasion of eye contact would slow the man on the bike’s attempts to retain attention.

“Oh, so you have cash, you just don’t have any cash on you? Is that right?”

“I don’t have to talk about whatever cash I do or don’t have to you any longer. I’m just trying to walk my dog, man.” He was proud of this line. It felt tough, like something one of is characters might say. For the first time, he felt connected to his work and thankful that he wrote about the saccharine aspects of real like, that he focused on the brutality and coldness he thought we were all capable of. While he rested on the laurels of his brief accomplishment, he stared into the yellowed eyes of the man on the bicycle and realized how far from toughness he actually was. He thought about the chic hotel behind him and control over temperature that it offered in nearly every room and immediately became disgusted by the insincerity of his own character and softened his tone.

“Look, my friend, I just don’t have any money on me.”

“Well, I can dig that, baby. But look, I’m just tryna get something to eat, you feel me?”

“Yeah, I feel you—”

“Look, man, I ain’t tryna get it for free, neither. I know the value of a dollar like you do.” The man looked down at the dog that was just beginning to move again. Now, the three of them were strolling the dark street together again.

“That’s an expensive dog, right? How much he cost?”

“I don’t remember.”

The man began to careen closer to the sidewalk, with some movements seeming as if he were trying to cut them off.

“You don’t remember?” he said with a dubious smile. “I know those types of dog and I know that they cost some money! You feel me?” his tone elevating with into a supercilious note.

The dog stopped again and the man immediately began to pull on the lead, rather than allowing the dog to catch his breath. Farther from the cemetery now and from the cool voodoo breeze, the humidity was beginning to increase.

“Hey, partner, you need help with that dog? He looks strong.”

“I’m good, man. Listen, I can ’t help you out, okay?” the man laughing off the question with a false confidence. He wondered if the man on the bike could detect the tremble in his voice or feel through the ground the shaking in his knees.

“Look, I know times is tough, baby. I ain’t tryna get something for nothin’. I’m a business man. Can you dig it?”

“I don’t know what that means, to be honest with you. I’m just trying to get home.”

“Well, where’s home? I know it ain’t in this fancy hotel, is it? Do you stay in this hotel every night of your life? Now, if that’s the case, I know you got some money!”

Before answering, the rush of blood began flooding his head once again. He began seeing spots and quickly determined that the sensation he was feeling wasn’t fear or anxiety, but rage. As the man drifted slightly away from them, thoughts of extreme violence intruded his consciousness. He thought about activating the superhuman strength found only day dreams and animated movies to rip this man off of his bike and choke him with the chain, of course neglecting the practical details of procedure and the time and tools it would take to actually remove the bike’s hardware. As the man on the bike got closer, the thoughts went away and he instead focused on walking faster.

“Hey, man. Let me help you with that dog. I work on tips!” the man laughed.

He began to employ silence as reasoning or appealing to the sensibility of someone in his situation was not working. Interestingly, the man on the bike did the same and the three of them traveled the block for a few moments in silence. This absence bothered him more as the man’s partially-flat back tire ushered in a new terrorizing sound he hadn’t heard until now, worse than their insipid dialogue from moments before. The rubber pulled against the corroded blacktop and because they were traveling at such a slow pace, the spokes also seemed to drag and the man could hear every single penetration of metal. The absence of sound was beginning to do something strange to his perception of time. With each pull of the rubber, the end of the block seemed farther away. And now the syncopating rhythm of the bike began to mix with the breath of his dog. The hefty willows above them didn't have any sound. The gas station ahead of them was also somehow silent as is this man on the bike was its only loiterer. Though he knew he was getting closer, the hotel’s entrance was also producing no noise. No touring being dropped off. No bellhops signaling for the late night carriage rides he disdained. Only the breathing of his overweigh dog and the dragging of the rubber.

“Okay, man. Just do what you’re going to do. I’ve had enough.”

“Hey, baby. I thought you were giving me the silent treatment for a minute. Look, I’ll tell it to you this way. I got hash, I got heroin. I got everything you need. I know you got money somewhere even if it ain’t on you—so it seems like we got the perfect business.”

“But for the last time, I don’t have any cash.” the man increased his pace to the end of the block.

“Well then how about you give me that dog.”

“Excuse me?”

“Let me have him.” the man stared forward, this time without his usual vail of humor. He just stared at the man with a protracted and unwavering gaze.

“Hey, man get the fuck out of here.” this toughness that he cited felt sincere. He was proud of himself for accessing some actual sense of strength in the face of extreme stress. “I’m not going to sit here and be badgered, man. Just fuck off.”

The man on the bike sat motionless. No longer was he meandering in large semi-circles, or continuing his playful game of sidewalk attrition. He was quiet for the first time since leaving the gas station. Now, the man observed that he’s once again framed by the red neon which seemed to be pulsing behind him in the rhythm of his own heartbeat and his dog’s breath. The two men held eye contact and the three of them stood motionless. One heartbeat and one breath, met with one glow of red neon. Nothing in this scene seemed familiar and thus, nothing cliche. The man stood in a new type of fear and in a perverse admiration for the momentary break from his typically neutral existence. If ordinary life were like this, he might find pleasure in writing about it. And after a moment of existential observance, he called his dog’d attention and began to walk, nearly rounding the corner, closer to the ambient light, further away from the cemetery and the green halogen bulbs that felt out of place.

He looked behind to notice the man on the bike, motionless and quiet, his only only turned slightly to track his progress down the street. As he reached the end of the block, he began to hear the ambient sounds of the hotel’s front entrance. Suddenly, the pounding of his chest began subsiding and he wondered if there was ever really a man on a bike at all. Why had he let this episode, this single interaction affect him to this degree? Was he the subject of a horror story cliche? he thought. Though he rationalized his experience with the man on the bike as being of this world and not an apparitional encounter, he still lacked the courage to turn his head around once more in inspection. Surely, the man continued on in his intended direction toward the cemetery with aim to harass another likely subject walking his dog. 

The end of the block seemed close, though the sounds of the lobby could hardly be heard and in this absence of sound, his check began to pound once again, a residual effect of the encounter. After a few moments, the beating was of his chest became accentuated by another sound, this one not derived from the body. It grew louder and in an instant he recognized the familiar drag of rubber on cement. He picked up his pace, begging his dog to reach the end of the block so that witnesses to the impending altercation he began to construct in his mind could be found. He began to walk even faster until stopped dog stopped in his tracks, pulling the two of them backward.

“Hey baby, where you off to? Look, man. I know we got off on the wrong track, but I’m willing to forgive you, you dig?”

“Just get the fuck away from me, okay?”

“Now, why you have to talk to me like that?”
The man pulled his dog and they were off once again, now close to the end of the block. It was too early for people to be spilling out of the bar across the street, but he prayed for any drunk to walk by and disrupt this man’s harassment. Once again, he followed closely, this time an arm’s length away from the sidewalk and the closest he’s been all night. The man refused to make eye contact. He remained calm and in control of his breath. The break in interacting with the man on the bike allowed him to collect himself. He focused on walking and on his dog and didn’t allow for the intrusive thoughts to penetrate his concentration. And while he was attracted to this injection of abnormality, he was going tired of the stress. It reminded him of the fear he felt from peer reviews and he wanted desperately for this episode to conclude.

“C’mon, man. I got good heroin for you. I’ll even give you a sample. I know you got the money!” the man on the bike said as he swerved in even closer to the sidewalk.

His pace increased in as much as his dog could stand for it. For whatever reason, the end of the block began to feel father away and he wondered if he was making any progress at all. Finally, he decided to confront the man on the bike in a show of force. He thought consciously about his attack and whether it would be justifiable. Certainly this is harassment at this point, he though. Certainly any reasonable person in law enforcement could understand the intentionality and his need to defend himself, he continued. He decided that the best approach would be to surprise the man on the bike, to let go of his dog’s lead and land a right hook squarely above the mandible of the man on the bike. He was larger than him, after all and could easily damage his face without much force at all. It seemed like a reasonable enough plan, until he started to wonder about the aftermath. In this surveilled state, he imagined that street cameras would identify him should he walk away from the scene. He began to imagine the man on the bike, bloodied with a broken face and opened skull from hitting the ground. The mess was appealing to him as a sign of victory of this aggressor, but provided an interesting logistic to his circumstances. Of course, he could call the police and proactively alert them to his battery, he thought, though the idea of being taken in for questions and dragged into the banal proceedings of the criminal justice system seemed like a horrible waste of time. Resisting engagement seemed like the best approach at this point and lesson number one of a life in New York. But in spite of his internal rational, the pounding of his chest was beginning to increase once again. The stress was so severe that it reminded him of his terrible drug episode from years prior, where it wasn’t until he rejected the drug in a vomitous mass was he able to feel cleansed of the experience. Similarly, he felt the stress could be punctured with a pin and he finally turned around with the final and deliberate intention to be the hardened character from his novels. As he turned with his fist lifted in the air, the red haze from around the man on the bike blurred violently, and the ghost town slowed. As he thought he was landing the punch, he felt a sudden and unfamiliar tension run through his body. His limbs went completely still and fell to the ground. He felt warm, but he knew this couldn’t be attributed to the Georgia humidity. This was a different kind of warmth and it was instantly followed by a rush of cool. Once these sensations of temperature subsided he focused closely on the source of pain.

“I know you got some money somewhere. And I’m going to find it.” the man on the bike yelled, now standing above him in a shadowy mass. He bent down and the man saw his hand move out of his field of view which was becoming dark and out of focus. He felt a sharp and unbearable tearing sensation in his stomach and mustered the courage to look down toward his body in a crepuscular haze.

“What the fuck did you do?” he called out to the man from bike.

“This is just business. I wish you would have taken something from me. I don’t like when business goes to this level, you dig?” he said as he pushed into the man’s stomach causing him to writhe in an acute anguish.

The man looked down once again and noticed a long attenuated piece of metal sticking out of his midsection. As he came to terms with the pain he watched as the man from the bike continued to open his stomach in some depraved search for money.

“There’s nothing there but my soul.”

The man from the bike looked up, wiping some blood from his left hand onto his forehead and the rest on his tattered shirt.

“Well that’s exactly what I’m looking for,” he said. “If I find your soul, I’ll find the money, you feel me?”

“But I’m not a banker. I don’t have money on my soul.” the man said, gasping for air.

“Well then, if I can’t find money, I’ll trade it in at a pawn shop. It’s gotta be worth something, doesn’t it? I’m a business man.” he said with a determined look into the man’s innards.

As he lay on the ground like an early renaissance painting subject, his stomach opened to the quiet street without people or much ambient noise at all, he listened for the his dog’s breath. Unexpectedly, his dog seemed calm and perhaps happy not to be walking. His breath was had an ordinary rhythm and began to sooth him as he drifted further into a sublime state of unrecognizable suffering. From the end of the block, he could hear the subtle clapping of iron on cobblestone in the unmistakable pattern of horse steps. He opened his eyes and through thick mucus, watched as the man from the bike continued his crouched rampage of organs in search of a soul, peeling layers of his body apart, one section at a time and the carriage slowly clapped by, presumably carrying a couple behind its thick curtains. He closed his eyes and listened as the driver carried on about ghosts in Savannah and how they’ve preserved antiquity over the years and for the first time in his life, he wished he were a part of that cliche.