June 19th, 2023 - Civil Disturbance

Dear TNY,

It’s another bright day in paradise as I read “Civil Disturbance”.

And I’m whelmed.

My first issue is a matter of technical inaccuracy.  They are sitting in the car under the freeway, but the car is running.  It’s cold, yes, but he talks about how the heater is on.  Car running.  Heater on.  So how in the fuck are the windows fogging up?  Has the author never been in a car in winter? In a running car?  I lived in Alaska for six years, never seen this shit happen.  Maybe if the car had a piece of shit heating system (like my old VW beetle; I used to carry around a one-eyed frog scrubby that I was given at a Bath & Body Works (a former employer of mine) such that I could wipe the inside and outside of the windshield whilst operating during winter).  Anyway, I don’t buy it.  Poor detail.  Makes me lose trust in the author, which shakes the foundation of the story. Like when a taxi driver takes a turn that you wouldn’t take in a city you are familiar with.

And my second issue was that obviously Chekhov’s bricks in the first act will be thrown through windows in the last act.  There was no question when the excuse given to the cop was “cleaning up the city”. Who cleans up bricks? That was straight bullshit.  So, when you know what’s going to happen the story can’t surprise you anymore.

And what the fuck was the cop’s job from the storytelling standpoint anyway?  My guess is that he was there specifically to introduce the bricks and then conveniently disappear, which is exactly what he did.

This reads a lot like stories from the 80’s.  It wasn’t quite as gritty, but it felt like real life, not NYC writer life.  Which is fine.  But it was flat fucking Coke, man.  There was no pop.  No pizazz.  No fresh language.  There was nothing really creative about this at all.  And I don’t think it should have ended at the bricks.  The change in the MC, his turn, that was the moment it should have ended.   This bit:

And suddenly I feel sad about everything. The politics. The mayor. The photos that surround me from my glory days. What I really want to tell Bryce is that he should save his money, that when his shift is over today he can go to the vacant lot and do ten pullups on a steel beam. If he can’t do ten, do one. And when he gets home he can do jumping jacks on his area rug with the soggy footprints that I left there. In other words, he can take matters into his own hands.

But I don’t want this spelled out so directly.  We need to see this happen to him, to feel it happen to him.  And we need to receive it ambiguously such that we aren’t quite sure if we are feeling it for ourselves or for him, or it’s him alone that’s feeling it, or it’s all of us, all at once, just for a moment.  Because that’s what this story is about. 

But no, we get bricks and they win the election. Horsecock.

I swear to God that no one at your magazine knows how to read.  That’s the only way it’s possible to have a weekly distribution of such mediocre shit.  Wait, it could be possible that the writers of today are only writing mediocre shit.  I wouldn’t put it past them.

Speaking of mediocre shit, the fam and I went to a sea life place yesterday.  Like SeaWorld, but the bargain bin kind.  We did this ironically.  And at the dolphin show, the host lady couldn’t get the audience to do anything.  Applaud.  Say “Aloha”.  Nothing.  But when the dolphins were doing their schtick, the amount of oohing and aahing was astounding.  And I was thinking to myself, this is the reason we can’t have nice things.  It’s that the majority of people are oohers and aahers.  They see these dolphins as being here for their entertainment.  And they have a right to be entertained, at all costs.  What I saw were animals that were just more people, albeit enslaved, and trainers that were really excited to hold their hands in positions and throw fish, and these little beauties were flying through the air in a pool that was way too small against the backdrop of one of the most spectacular places on planet earth.  Of course, it made me sad.  And I wanted to set every one of the dolphins free.  And stuff the oohers and aahers into the pool and scream, “DANCE MONKEY, DANCE!”  But as I’m sitting here thinking about it now, I didn’t ask the dolphins their opinions. Maybe they’re happy.  And maybe the oohers and aahers are not bad people.  Maybe I’m just a judgy fucking monster who thinks he knows best. 

Maybe I’m just human.  Maybe like the dolphins, I’m just another people.

Well, TNY, thanks for trying to revert back to a better style of short story.  Next time try to pick one that isn’t so beige.  Then again, I’m reading Barry Hannah as my side piece, so you might have your fucking work cut out for you.  Now that guy, he’s a fucking monster.  The best kind.

Nick