The Paris Review got name checked in a song by the Australian band t:dy t:wns. Not to be outdone, we now have our own song thanks to writer (and musical genius) Nikesh Shukla.
Thanks to the looping magic of Vine, the song is endless — but it’s been stuck on repeat in my head all day anyway. Enjoy it now, before Nikesh gets signed to a label and the record execs make us take it down.
— Benjamin Samuel is the co-editor of Electric Literature. He’s not in competition with The Paris Review or anything…he was a couple weeks, but that’s settled now. Find him on Twitter.
I love language, and I hate censorship. But I still believe there are words that should never be said. Forget about four-letter words, slurs, and blasphemy; I’m talking about awful, demoralizing, soul-decaying words. Words like “audit,” “vegan,” “aperitif,” and “feelings.”
*** — Benjamin Samuel is the co-editor of Electric Literature. He hates the non-word “nother” even though he still uses it, but’s that a whole nother story. Find him on Twitter.
As a member of the Teddy Ruxpin generation, I’m no stranger to strange things to read to your kids — or should that be “strange things reading to your kids”? With that in mind I’m all for Brooklyn-based writer Matthue Roth’s new book My First Kafka, which is Kafka…but, you know, for kids.
Roth adapted three Kafka stories (“Excursion into the Mountains,” “The Metamorphosis,” and “Josefine the Singer, or The Mouse Folk”) for a younger audience. Because, well, maybe it’s best that he explain. Here’s a brief interview with the author:
Electric Literature: What’s it like translating literature into a kids’ book? Matthue Roth: You aren’t implying that kids’ books can’t be literature, are you? OK, so — when I slammed more often, most of writing was crossing out and condensing. Part of the process for me was like what Jonathan Safran Foer did, or what I think he did, when he turned Street of Crocodiles into a short story, literally sitting down with a massive text, reading it until you have it memorized, trying to decide which parts stick with you the most, which parts are concrete and which parts aren’t, but would be best served by concrete illustrations, which parts can you effectively build a completely new story out of? You know you’ll never be completely faithful to the source text, and you try as hard as you can to be completely faithful to it.
EL: Why is Kafka good for kids? Roth: Reading is good for kids! Stories are good for kids. And discomfort, scariness, thinking too much, is good for kids. Maurice Sendak said that Outside Over There (which is probably his best book, and the basis for the movie Labyrinth) was him working through his childhood fear of being abducted like Charles Lindbergh’s baby. When I was a kid, I was afraid of everyone. I loved Sherlock Holmes and The Goonies and stopped being so afraid because of the idea that heroes can be just as scary as villains.
EL: Why isn’t Kafka good for kids? Roth: Really, Kafka isn’t good for anyone. His stories haunt you. Not in a Scary Stories To Tell in the Dark way, but in a real, way-too-human way of things that happen to us that we usually don’t want to spend too much time thinking about.
Also, it’s creepy and a bit obnoxious of any of us to read Kafka, considering he asked his closest friends to burn his work. But it’s not like, say, the first time I saw Kurt Cobain’s diary in a store and got the overwhelming chill of, I must never touch this. Am I making excuses? Maybe. But, even though it maybe shouldn’t be my choice, I’d much rather honor Kafka by getting into his work than never having had that chance.
Note: Get a free limited-edition mini book by Matthue Roth when you buy My First Kafka directly from the author. Get it here.
*** –Benjamin Samuelis the co-editor of Electric Literature. He is currently looking for someone to burn his angsty poetry before he dies. Find him on Twitter.
On July 20, 1969, or so I am told, after forty-eight hours of hellish labor, Leigh was born and some guys walked around on the moon. Leigh had red hair, and was a girl. The people who walked around on the moon were all male, that is to say they had penises. Due to zero gravity, they had erections the entire trip. Even when they blasted off they had hard-ons. The roar of the rocket engines excited them. “It was better than sex,” they said afterwards.
The whole deal started like this: some guys looked up at the moon and said “Hey, let’s go there.” And so they did. They dreamed it up like some forgotten oriental city and put it into action (they had the money to indulge such fantasies in those days). The Americans made it to the moon first, because they had the most cash. Also, they had captured Nazi rocket scientists.
The only other people who were in the race with the Americans to get to the moon were the Soviets. The Soviets lived in a country that was founded by Vikings that sailed up the Volga River, enslaving everyone they met. Those they didn’t enslave, they killed. Eventually, a bald guy named “Lenin” overthrew the Vikings. Then came the Nazis.
All the same: the Soviets and the Americans both wanted to be the first on the moon. They both wanted to see if it was made of green cheese, which all the best scientists agreed it was. Also, they wanted to get up there and drop atomic bombs back on the other side on earth. So they saw the moon and said “Let’s go!” and that’s exactly what they did. Kennedy made a speech that got everybody fired up and it was decided right then and there that somebody had to go to the moon. Men with crew cuts made the journey possible. They used slide rules.
There were rumors of cities on the moon.
So while the men were walking around on the moon, looking for cities made of green cheese, Leigh was being born, red hair and all.
Everything was coming together.
Later, it would be claimed she kept stretching out her tiny hand, as if reaching for something in the air above her, but eventually it would come out that this was merely dreamed up by one of the nursing staff in an attempt to get Leigh’s mother interested in the tiny, bloody being she had just spent the previous two days and nights trying to force out of her body.
“There are men on the moon,” said the nurse as she brought Leigh in for her mother to see. She had seen it on television in the doctors’ lounge and was repeating her observation. The nurse said it as a simple statement of fact, with the same enthusiasm she might’ve said “there are men on the roof.” Fantastic events like that were pretty common back in the days when the money still held out. First they were making radar, then splitting the atom, then putting guys on the moon. The list goes on and on.
The nurse let Leigh’s mother hold her baby for a while, and they talked about the guys who were on the moon. A sign in Times Square, New York said “SOME GUYS ARE UP THERE ON THE MOON!” and everybody cheered. When they came back they rode down the streets in big cars and everybody threw paper at them. This sort of thing went on and on for days: another city, more cars, more paper flying around their heads. They learned to live with it.
“What a lucky baby to be born on the same day as man walks on the moon,” said the nurse, and then she took Leigh away from her mother to take her back to the nursery.
“Look at the way she keeps stretching out her hand, like she knows what’s going on up there.” Leigh’s mother looked bleary-eyed at her daughter. Leigh wasn’t doing anything. She was sleeping.
“You just missed it,” said the nurse. “She’s a moon baby. That’s what they’re calling all the babies that are born today.” And then the nurse said the words again with a magical lilt in her voice, in contrast to the deadpan delivery she had used to inform Leigh’s mother that there were guys in the process of hanging out on the moon: “Moon Baby…”
The nurse took Leigh and put her back in the nursery with all the other Moon Babies. Then she picked up another Moon Baby and took it to another Moon Mother and tried to convince the Moon Mother that her Moon Baby was reaching out for the heavens in a gesture of strange, sympathetic magic for the guys bounding around on the moon with hard-ons. Nobody believed her.
Later on, after an early childhood spent attempting to paste her unruly curls of red hair to her head with an eclectic collection of combs, plastic barrettes, and even degenerating at one point to rubber bands (culminating in a tearful watershed moment of frustration and realization that would pave the way for her masses of curled hair to flow freely) we would meet and discuss her birth and the events leading up to it: the Second World War, her parents meeting at a kitchen table littered with empty beer bottles after a party and Leigh’s eventual conception, but neither of us could make much sense of it.
My earliest memory is of Nixon resigning on television. That was back when my family lived in the Yukon. After Nixon came the fire which burned our house to the ground, the tall orange flames playing off the rippling waters of the deep, cold lake full of huge pike we used to catch from a wooden motor boat.
The Yukon of my memories is composed of grays, whites, and red clay, gravel roads, pine trees, and mountain ranges ground into submission by ancient glaciers. All that disappeared in the orange glow reflected in the cold Autumn waters of the lake.
But first, more about Nixon. My father told us to be quiet so he could watch Nixon resign. We saw it all, through the miracle of television. Nixon, in his pale blue sharkskin suit, black hair plastered to his face by sweat, a good three-day growth on his face, his prodigious sweat having soaked through his suit jacket leaving immense stains under each arm. He said his piece: all about truth, justice, and the American way, and then he left. He walked right out of the White House, down Pennsylvania Avenue, and just kept walking. He removed his tie and threw it in the reflecting pool. A little kid fished it out to use as a memento of the historic occasion. Nixon kept walking, and the television people played all kinds of sentimental music like “Amazing Grace” and “Kumbaya”.
Nixon walked right down the middle of the street, waving to people, accepting mock-salutes from old soldiers who had served with him in the Pacific, and shaking hands with the rank and file. Several people offered him jobs, but Nixon declined them all. He did try to get into the space program, but they didn’t want any ex-presidents. They told him he didn’t have enough of a science background. Nixon countered by saying that they had offered Walter Cronkite a ride in the spaceship, a charge that left NASA without reply. Nixon left, embittered, and ended up selling his garbage to souvenir hunters to pay the bills. The real reason NASA didn’t want him was that they were afraid his known tendency to sweat like a pig would short circuit the electrical system in the space capsule.
“All the same,” Nixon would later say, after the truth had come out through the Freedom of Information Act, “they should’ve let me ride in the spaceship. Every ex-president should have the right to go to the moon.”
After the show was over the Yanks went crazy. They all cried and pulled their hair out and wanted him back. Those responsible for his impeachment were dragged from their homes and strung up from telephone poles. Entire cities were razed. Finally, the next day, everybody calmed down and order was restored. The papers all cried out that Nixon should come back, but he never did.
“This bull has died too big a death,” he said when the news crews found him living in South Carolina growing yams and writing his memoirs. Everybody agreed that those were pretty much the truest worlds they’d ever heard spoken by an ex-president, and that they should throw their support behind his successor: Gerald Ford. When Nixon found out they had taken his refusal seriously he became distraught and said he was only kidding, that he would gladly resume the office of the Chief Executive. But his recant came too late, as they had already changed the locks on the White House. That same week, Nixon got his rejection letter from NASA, so it was pretty rough on him.
After our house burned down, we gave up on living in the Yukon and moved to Ontario. My father got a job as an electrician, and I met Leigh. She was the first Moon Baby I ever met. She had red hair, and then one day a barn on our concession burned up, the orange flames lighting up the sky for miles around. It got us both so excited we copulated right then and there in the darkness, with the mosquitos biting our bare skin, the sirens of the emergency vehicles wailing in the summer breeze. It was the beginning of the later stage of our relationship, and after we finished we had no idea why we had done it.
“Must be the moon,” said Leigh. And although I wanted badly to believe it, the only trouble with this convenient explanation was that there was no moon in the sky that night.
Every time her birthday would roll around, Leigh would receive a pair of silver earrings in the shape of a crescent moon. When I came to visit her they would be hanging all over her room, jingling as the wind moved them, reflecting the early morning light. They were all in the shape of a crescent moon, never a full moon, usually with the face of a woman inside the crescent. By the time the twenty-fifth earrings arrived, everybody had pretty much given up on getting back to the moon. It cost too much. The Americans had spent billions of dollars getting a few guys up there so they could play golf. And what did they bring back as souvenirs? Like little children on their first trip to the beach, they brought back rocks. They toured the rocks around all over the place, told everybody about how they had come from the moon in an attempt to drum up more money so they could go back up.
“There may be cities on the moon,” they hinted broadly. They had no shame. They had moon fever. Their entire lives, body and soul, had become devoted to one cause: getting back up on the moon and playing golf. The problem was, everybody had already paid for the show once. The astronauts had already been up there and made it back. People weren’t interested in getting to the moon, they were interested mainly in the danger. To most people, it was a sort of glorified drag race, and everybody knows that the best part of drag racing is watching the cars blow up. The problem with the space program was that they kept trying to make it safer and safer. Also, only a few special people could go up in their capsule every time. Nixon was the loudest voice against the elitist space program:
“If I used to be president, and they won’t let me go up in their capsule, think how long it will be before you, the common man, can go to the moon.”
He said this at every public speaking engagement. NASA fried a few guys on the launching pad in a capsule fire to try and prove the program was still a life and death matter, but nobody bought it. The public rose up:
“We want to go to the moooooooon!” they said.
A PUT NIXON ON THE MOON! committee was formed. The public felt that if they got Tricky Dick up there, it was only a matter of time before they average Joe was up there hitting a few rounds. Dick was to be their watershed candidate. Soon the public was on fire with moon mania. Popular magazines ran in-depth stories with step-by-step plans about how the moon would be colonized. Newspapers ran headlines like “LET’S GET ONE OF OURS ON THE MOON!” A forest fire had been ignited.
Time wore on.
The moon was on everybody’s mind. Leigh and I would often sit and look at it, wonder about it, just like the old days before some guys went up there and desecrated it with stupid sports. Moon watching, instead of drag racing, became America’s number one pastime. You would see people all over the place just sitting serenely looking up at the moon. Artists painted pictures of it and wrote poems about it. People of all ages, sexes, and races were putting aside their differences to join together and put somebody from the rank and file on the moon. Everything was becoming good and sound and pure.
Everybody looked at the moon and agreed it was the most beautiful thing in outer space, and that people must go there when they die to live in great, glorious, silver castles and dress in silk. This idea, proposed by a member of the Great Pacific Northwest Moon Watchers, won immediate acceptance by the vast majority of the population. It was comforting for everyone to think that up there on the moon were all their friends and relatives, and that someday they would join them. Also, it got everybody even more fired up to go to the moon. People got so excited that they tried to build their own spaceships. Each group of moon watchers came up with a plan, pooled their resources, and built rocket ships. These efforts were outlawed after only a few tries. Gravity, always a jealous lover, was reluctant to share any of her charges, and sent one ship crashing down into a crowded suburb of Jersey City. In a farewell speech the pilot said, “I’m going to get to the moon, one way or another,” and he had meant what he said. His body was never recovered, but the crater his impact created was dedicated as a national memorial to everyone’s efforts to get off the planet, everywhere. Delegates from moon watching clubs all over the world came for the dedication ceremony. The keynote speaker, good old Tricky Dick, made an impassioned plea to governments around the world to put ordinary people in space.
“Let not another brave soul fall like Icarus from the sky,” he said, emotion choking his voice. “For although you may fetter us here in fear and ignorance, as surely as the sun which also rises, and the majestic Moon, mother of all things, waxes and wanes, the spirit of mankind will soon soar in the heaven!”
The speech was well received, even though most people didn’t know who Icarus was, and it was reprinted in newspapers all over the world. People started comparing it to Kennedy’s inaugural address. Soon everybody was rioting in the streets and calling for the scientists and their slide rules to be handed over to the public. The government made a token gesture of handing over the slide rules, but of course without the scientists they were useless. This made the public even angrier. Leigh and I watched the rioting on television. It was now well over two decades since the original astronauts had landed on the moon.
“There has to be an easier way to get to the moon then launching somebody in a big tin can,” I said as we watched on television as a man who, for some reason was buck naked except for a pair of black combat boots, was running through the flaming streets of Munich with a microwave oven hoisted over his head, an insane look of glee on his face. In Vancouver, people had gathered in Stanley Park to burn a dummy across the front of which was pinned a sign saying “GRAVITY” written in an angry, scraggly hand.
“I think it’s the idea of getting to the moon people like,” said Leigh. “It’s the challenge of the unreachable goal. Like Everest. It has to be tried.” On television, a London mob had somehow gotten the statue of Nelson off his dizzying column in Trafalgar Square and were committing unspeakable indignities on it.
The chaos continued for several days. The armies of the various nations were called out to put down the insurrections. Unfortunately for the powers that be however, their ranks were filled with closet moon watchers, who joined in the disruptions as soon as they were deployed. Just when things seemed on the verge of descending into total anarchy, a lunar eclipse cowed everybody, and most people showed up for work the next day. The Soviets took advantage of the confusion to launch an orbiting space station they called “MIR”. On board MIR was a woman about to give birth. The Commies wanted to see what would happen to a baby born in space. They tried to make out like she was just a regular woman, trying to steal world approval for their program, but then some journalist uncovered that she was in fact a KGB Colonel, and the USSR was forced to give Gary Powers back to the United Nations.
The Space Baby was born perfectly normal, and was raised in total isolation by specially trained chimpanzees until he was twenty-one. Me and Leigh sat up on the roof of my parents’s house to watch his spacecraft go over the night he was born. It looked like a moving star.
“Wow,” said Leigh, looking up at the little blip, “somebody’s being born in that thing. That’s gotta be a first.”
“Do you believe in astrology?” I asked.
“You mean like ’what’s your sign’?”
“Sort of. Do you think your parents planned it so you would be born on the day of the moon landings?”
“Don’t be gross!”
“Well?”
My only answer was a cold stare from Leigh. Obviously she was not eager to combine the subjects of parents and sex. I decided to continue my line of questioning anyway.
“They must’ve planned for a certain time. Why not the moon landing?”
“Because I doubt they planned it for a specific day. Besides, I was born late. My dad had to take my mom for a ride in his father’s truck to induce labor.”
“Maybe you wanted to wait until the moon landing.”
I arched my eyebrows suggestively. The Space Baby and his mother streaked silently above us in the firmament. I went over the equation in my head: moon landing, Leigh’s birth, Nixon resigning, Nixon trying to go to the moon. I could come to no firm conclusion. Nonetheless, I could tell that watching the spaceship up in the night sky was getting Leigh excited, and before long we would make love for the second time in our relationship. When it was over, we still couldn’t figure out why we had done it.
Then, in August, the unthinkable happened: it was announced that Richard Nixon was going to the moon. The announcement was greeted with stunned silence by the general population. The entire world, faced with the prospect of the event which they had worked decades towards with no serious belief it would actually happen coming to fruition, was flabbergasted. Without the glue of common purpose, the population’s unity began to dissolve. The different moon watching organizations battled for control of the world’s faithful. Instead of huge riots, the various factions engaged in pitched battles in very major city, fighting tenaciously for territory in street-by-street battles. Nixon appeared on television, calling for calm, but the situation was beyond repair. The PUT NIXON ON THE MOON! committee (formerly the most powerful of the plebeian moon race organizations) was torn apart by infighting, and was unable to induce a peaceful end to the hostilities. Finally, after days of impassioned pleas for calm, Nixon appeared for one last time on television and said:
“Fuck you all, I’m going to the moooooooon!”
The population grew dejected, and then, like any mob worth its salt, turned on their leader. Nixon’s name, henceforward, would be “mud.” Contracts were put out on him. He was burned in effigy. NASA had to conceal where Nixon was going to be launched into space from. The day of the launch, Leigh and I watched as a clean shaven and power dry Nixon made his way to the capsule, flashing his trademark “double victory” at everyone he passed. Inside the capsule, Dick tried to come up with witty things to say, but the best he could muster was: “This is going to be better than sex!”
“Why do men always say that?” Leigh asked me.
The final countdown began, Nixon pushing buttons and smiling insanely. But then, when they reached zero hour, nothing happened. Instead, NASA flashed his location on the screen. Nixon was sitting on top of a fake space craft. He tried the latch, but found it locked. He pulled frantically, without effect, sweating madly. The picture then flashed to the real spacecraft lifting off with real astronauts and real golf gear. It then flashed back to Nixon’s decoy craft, which was being rocked back and forth by an enraged mob. Luckily for Nixon, they couldn’t get the hatch open either, so the different factions took turns rolling him around in his dummy capsule to try to make him nauseous. Then, the PUT NIXON ON THE MOON! committee, having put aside their differences, came to his rescue, driving off the enraged mob with pepper spray.
That evening, me and Leigh watched the guys who had been on the real launch make their way to the moon in their tiny capsule. The following evening, we lay on the roof of my parents’ house and listened to their broadcast from space on the radio. One of the guys was making a speech that started like this:
“In the beginning, God created the heavens and the earth…”
Then he went on about how good the earth looked from outer space, and how it didn’t really matter exactly who was going into space, because they represented everyone on earth. It was a real good speech, well put together. Dimitri, as the Space Baby born on Mir came to be named, was working as a commentator on some American network, and he said he’d never heard what it was like to be in space expressed so eloquently, but mostly everybody thought it was bullshit. Then the other announcer smacked Dimitri in the mouth because there was no way Dimitri could remember what it was like in space because he had only been a baby at the time.
The asphalt shingles on the roof still retained the warmth of the day’s sunshine. Looking up at the night sky, I knew we would make love before long, and maybe this time we would figure out why.
“What if you mother unconsciously held back labor until the moon landing?” I asked.
“Don’t be ridiculous. She was in labor for forty-eight hours. Nobody would choose that, consciously or unconsciously. Give it up. The moon landing has absolutely nothing to do with my birth.”
I decided not to bring up the question any more, even though I still wanted to know the answer. The technological cuckolding of Nixon had thrown my calculations into confusion. The space capsule kept going on through space, and the people in some city in Australia turned on all their lights to let the guys in the capsule know they didn’t want them to get burned up like those other astronauts. Me and Leigh made love, and although we still couldn’t come to any firm conclusions as to why it happened, we finally had to concede that the moon, which was that night in full phase, was partially responsible.
The astronauts returned safely to earth, with more rocks. Nixon was spirited away by his followers, and we didn’t hear about him again until a couple of years later when he was caught trying to sneak into the White House through a basement window. The Secret Service threw him out in front of the place where an enraged mob tore him to pieces with their bare hands and some broken bottles. Although Leigh continued to receive silver moon earrings every year on her birthday, there were no more moon landings, as the Americans had run out of money.
About the Author
If Rob McCleary had known Jonathan Lethem liked his work so much at the time he probably would’ve stuck it out a little longer writing fiction. Instead, he got a job writing Saturday morning cartoons. His new work of fiction “Diary Of A Skyway Woman” (or) “My Life in the Service of the Ohio Top Superstar Academy of Aerial Arts Correspondence Flight School & Mobile Beastiarium” is available on iTunes for the irresistibly low price of $1.99 for the month of July to celebrate the zombie-like resurrection of “Nixon In Space.” He is currently working on a new young adult novel about a girl who creates an army of revenge-exacting, homicidal freaks called “Ballerina Frankenstein.”
About the Guest Editor
Jonathan Lethem is the author of seven novels including Fortress of Solitude and Motherless Brooklyn, which was named Novel of the Year by Esquire and won the National Book Critics Circle Award and the Salon Book Award, as well as the Macallan Crime Writers Association Gold Dagger. He has also written two short story collections, a novella and a collection of essays, edited The Vintage Book of Amnesia, guest-edited The Year’s Best Music Writing 2002, and was the founding fiction editor of Fence magazine. His writings have appeared in the New Yorker, Rolling Stone, McSweeney’s and many other periodicals.
“Nixon in Space,” first published in CRANK! in 1996, went the way of many zines from the 90’s — a sweet memory. Out-of-print but not forgotten, Jonathan Lethem resurrected the story for the latest issue of Recommended Reading.
In his introduction, Lethem writes, “The story is exuberant and rageful, political and eccentric, relevant and timeless. If you wrote ‘Nixon In Space’ or its equivalent fifty times you’d be George Saunders or Donald Barthelme. Do it just once and you’re Rob McCleary, I guess.”
Nixon in retirement: the concept almost oxymoronic — a former leader of the free world relegated to golf and early dinners. Mixing power with nostalgia, as Hunter demonstrates, is a great recipe for melancholy.
Ever wonder what it’s like to be the woman behind the man, when the man is America’s favorite failure? Told in four sections, “Starlight” visits the final days of the Nixon administration, the early days of Mr. and Mrs. Nixon’s marriage, and the life and times of the Nixon family dog. With lines like, “People thought his smile was insincere because it was such a smile,” Beattie has Mrs. Nixon’s on double duty; her delicate observations reveal as much about her husband as they do about herself.
Homes’ latest novel features the late Richard Nixon as a would-be fiction writer. He didn’t fail, exactly — his stories were kept secret until after his death — but he was certainly obsessed with failure. In one completely produced story, a charismatic door-to-door salesman called Wilson Grady ends his day with dinner alone at a diner. The mashed potatoes “mounded like hills” (Hemingway, anyone?), and the plate so perfect it prompts the author to declare of his character, “he loves America” — the sentence dripping with irony like gravy off Wilson’s meatloaf.
Read “Hello Everybody” by A.M. Homes in Recommended Reading.
I have always been a quiet person. Shy. Meek. Non-threatening. I was an only child. My personality fit well with my surroundings. I taught the adults in my life it was okay if my needs were met last or not at all. My fears were inconsequential, to myself and therefore to them. I did not value myself. I did not know how to speak louder than the quietest person in the room. At school it was the same thing. In my twenties it was the same thing. At some point in my thirties, something changed. Maybe it was that I started writing. I realized I had all this energy inside me. I think you would call it anger or rage but I think that is putting a negative voice to something I feel is a positive expression of what I couldn’t say when I was 8 or 16 or 29. The only time I was ever able to express this energy, for minute chunks of time, earlier, was when listening to music. I have always gravitated toward music in which someone is yelling or screaming, particularly if that person is yelling or screaming, “Fuck you!” I liked screaming and yelling along with them, even if no sound came out of my mouth. Even if you were in the room next to mine and you could only hear the lead singer yelling. Even if you could detect no change on my face when I walked back out of my room.
These are all songs I have listened to on repeat numerous times. These are all songs without which I would be an infinitely more miserable person. These are all songs to listen to on the floor of your basement at two in the morning when no one else in the house is awake and you have measured out one and a half shots of whiskey into a short glass and have two ultra-light cigarettes ready to be smoked and earbuds in your ears and no, this is not the saddest time of day, as some people have asked you, it’s the goddamn best part of every one of your days. This right here, homey, is the goddamn best part.
Note: Some of the songs listed are not on Spotify but they still needed to be on the mix, so press pause and listen to the YouTube.
Skip the rest of this song and listen to the Kanye opening multiple times instead. Whenever I think of Kanye I think of Eminem’s verse from “No Love”, “Man, get these whack cocksuckers off stage, where the fuck is Kanye when you need him?” I also often think of that line at readings. Also, if you’re a white person and listening to rap and don’t get off saying the word “nigga,” you’re lying, bro.
2. “Cold (feat. DJ Khaled)” — Kanye West
This song is about how much more Kanye knows about fashion than you (“Don’t talk to me ‘bout style, nigga, I’ll ma’fuckin’ embarrass you. Talkin’ ‘bout clothes, I’ll ma’fuckin’ embarrass you”) and features my new favorite lyric ever, “Tell PETA my mink is draggin’ on the floor.” Also, at the end of the song, there is about ten minutes of shout outs to Chicago cross streets. Every time you think it’s going to stop, there are more streets shouted out. (And if you can do it better than him then you do it!)
3. “Overdose” — Twista
Speaking of Chicago. I think Twista is from there. Feel like it’s impossible to listen to this song without palms up, elbows bent, tits bouncing.
I really like songs about teenagers and school. There’s at least one “fuck you” in this song. Also, these lyrics:
“Most wanna tap and score, I want a fam of four
Not like a family of four, just like…fuck it
You’ll never listen to this shit anyway, fuck you, bitch.”
Word.
5. “Brain Damage” — Eminem
I asked my daughter what Eminem song I should put on here. I said I was probably going to pick “Kim” and she said, “Ohmygawd, you’re only picking that cuz you’re trying to get a reaction out of people. Stop.” So this is her pick. Goes with Earl since it’s about school and teenagers.
6. “Sandwitches (Feat. Hodgy Beats)” — Tyler, the Creator
Fav part:
“My love is gone for you mommy, you could ride in hearses
I’m sick in the brain dumb bitch, can you nurse this?
You told me life would never, ever, ever get this perfect
Then you smoke a J of weed, and take his kids to the churches
Uhhhhhhhh, fuck church!”
2nd Fav part:
“Triple six is my number, you can get it off my Tumblr”
7. “I Think That I Would Die” — Hole
The first time I listened to this CD was on a solo drive to Pittsburgh to see my mother after a breakup. Feel like this is in my top five CDs of all time. Probably like it more than any single Nirvana CD. I hadn’t yet had a baby the first time I heard this song but I really liked where Courtney says “Fuck you” to the bitch who wrote the Vanity Fair article about her. Now that I’ve had a kid, feel like the lyrics are even more powerful. Like, if I walked in on my daughter murdering someone I wouldn’t even ask why. I would just help her do it.
8. “Kim” — Eminem
You know, sometimes relationships don’t work out. And sometimes you fantasize about killing the other person. That don’t make you a misogynist.
9. “Halo” — Beyonce
This seems like the perfect time for some Sasha Fierce. Also, if I ever drive my car over a cliff, this song will be playing.
10. “Bullet With Butterfly Wings” — Smashing Pumpkins
My daughter hates when this song comes on the car radio.
11. “Love Is Blindness” — Jack White (covering U2)
Not gonna lie. I had high hopes for Gatsby remake. Maybe cuz the first trailer I saw was with this song playing. I read Gatsby again last summer. There’s a reason Hunter S. Thompson (and others) have typed that shit out. The movies, of course, will never capture that reason. But I still really like this song. I like when Jack White screams. I’ve never heard the U2 version.
Have been listening to Pink Floyd a lot again lately. Feels kind of like doing drugs without doing drugs. Also, feels beautiful and nostalgic and like everything is okay if you just shut your eyes and listen. Also, it ends with these lyrics, “I can’t think of anything else to say except…I think it’s marvelous! HaHaHa!” (Only regret in picking this song is that you should probably never listen to just one Pink Floyd song. So really I’d like to include all of Dark Side of the Moon here, if that’s okay.)
Best song title ever? Just straight up tell her/him, mane.
15. “Where Did You Sleep Last Night (Live)” — Nirvana (cover of Leadbelly)
I remember the months before Kurt finally died. Every time I turned on the radio and there was a block of Nirvana songs I thought, “Okay, he’s finally done it.” It wasn’t really a surprise when he died but it was still devastating. The most devastating “famous person” death for me in my lifetime. Listening to this song makes me simultaneously happy and sad. A couple years after Kurt died I wrote a really bad screenplay about him called Not Fade Away, that was a lot like Last Days, before Last Days, and incorporated my fantasy of finding a heroin addicted genius musician and hiding him in my rural log cabin and nursing him back to health while making him fall in love with me. Also, every time I hear Kurt say, “shiver for me,” I literally shiver.
A couple months ago I heard Jack White on Marc Maron’s WTF podcast and realized I didn’t have any White Stripes on my iPod. I downloaded a couple albums including a live one. A few days later I was driving back from Chicago by myself and listening to The White Stripes albums and this song came on. I don’t think I’d ever heard it (this version or Dolly’s) and I listened to it at least 20 times in a row on that drive. (Maybe desperation and rage and hunger are all closely related feelings? Just had this thought. D’uh.)
17. “Touch Me I’m Sick” — Mudhoney
First time I heard this song it was on a jukebox in a dirty basement bar in Cincinnati. At that time I was into Danzig and Soundgarden and Henry Rollins and Green River and going to a lot of shows. I never got to see Mudhoney but I kind of feel like I did, just hearing them on the jukebox that night.
18. “Sliver” — Nirvana
Back to songs about teens/kids. Something super sweet about this song that makes me happy. Also, feel similar listening to it as listening to Jack White scream in “Jolene.” “Woke up in my mother’s arms,” that’s all we really want.
19. “Part of Me” — Katy Perry
Okay, this is the song where you put down your whiskey glass and cigs and get the fuck up and dance around your basement at three in the morning like it’s a mosh pit except you’re fist pumping so maybe not a mosh pit and your cat is looking at you from the couch like wtf, bro? and you just shrug your shoulders and keep running in circles and “flipping the bird” to imaginary people because more than anything this song is the biggest “fuck you” ever, until the song is over and then play it again and start the whole thing over again and keep doing this until you can’t run anymore and you have to give up and go upstairs and wait until the next night to start it all all over again.
Failure is a part of life. And for writers (or anyone who’s ever dated anyone) so is rejection. Rather than cower in fear of failing again, we can learn from it. We can, as the over-quoted Samuel Beckett commandment goes, endeavor to “fail better.” We can also find solace and encouragement in the knowledge that others, including masters like Gertrude Stein, have failed before us.
In 1912, publisher Arthur C. Fifield sent to a despicable (albeit clever) rejection letter Getrude Stein, mocking her (eventually) first published book Three Lives. A copy of the letter is below, so prepare to sympathize with Stein and/or dig deep in schadenfreude.
From: cnarrows@sphere.com Sent: Tuesday, September 12, 2006 4:16 PM To: Askew, Edward Subject: Meeting Request
Dear Mr. Askew,
My husband Gregory and I recently read about your real estate practice in the Borough Observatory, and we think you would be a good fit for us. We’ve found ourselves in the unfortunate situation of needing to search for an apartment prematurely. We live in a row home here in Everly Gardens and want to stay in the area.
When we rented from our landlady a year and a half ago, she led us to believe many things about her building and the apartment that are false — the most significant of which has put my health at risk. Actually, it’s not just my health; you could say that she has created chaos in our lives. I’ll spare you the details for now, as they exhaust me. We have tried to make our living situation work for a long time. (We even renewed our lease when things were momentarily looking up.) Now, the landlady has finally agreed to let us out of our lease with thirty days’ notice, and contacting you, I hope, will be the answer to our many-months-long search for a suitable and affordable living space. I hope it will be the final action we have to take in order to change our distressing situation.
We would like to meet with you at your earliest convenience. From the sound of it, you don’t take many new clients without recommendations. But I am hoping you might find room for us in your busy schedule despite our lack of referrals.
Thank you for your time. I look forward to hearing from you.
Sincerely,
Cecelia Narrows
P.S. I read in the article that you prefer to converse by email, which suits me just fine. (I’ve never been a fan of telephonic communication anyway.)
From: Edward_Askew@LastExitRealty.com Sent: Tuesday, September 12, 2006 5:47 PM To: Narrows, Cecelia Subject: RE: Meeting Request
Dear Ms. Narrows:
You won’t need a referral for my services, although you are correct that I am not seeking unsolicited business. The Borough Observatory is correct: I am the preeminent broker for rentals in Everly Gardens and am therefore very busy. In addition to my regular client list, I have their friends, and their friends’ friends, and on and on. I only take on a few “walk-ins” a year. Consider yourselves lucky.
You might wonder why I chose you if my time is so limited. First, I appreciate that you took the time to read the Observatory’s article about me and felt compelled to email. Secondly, I am keen on finding apartments for people who have been previously mismatched with a living space. That, from the sound of it, is your current situation. The misery of ill-fitting apartments and landlords is the fault of unqualified, ignorant brokers who don’t know their neighborhood or its people. My job, as I see it, is to provide excellent landlords with excellent tenants: I match people with people. Quality with quality. Even peculiarities with peculiarities. To preserve the neighborly character of Everly Gardens, I have taken on the role of its vigilant protector. If all brokers were as attentive, there would be less misery in the world.
I must warn you, though, that some people find my style (how shall I put it?) both untraditional and intrusive. Untraditional, I will admit to being. But those who find me intrusive misunderstand my comprehensive methodology. Some people are not open to candor, even if it comes paired with “a canny instinct.” And such people are not the clients I am looking for. But since you’ve read the article, I assume you understand my approach is different.
I was quite pleased with the quality of that article, by the way — overdue as the recognition was. But I am somewhat surprised that you hadn’t heard of me before. I assure you, I would have saved you precious time and energy in your previous apartment searches. Something the article did not mention is that I do not set up personal meetings or show apartments myself. I let the process unfold a bit more organically. I ask my clients to stay mute about the process, as it tends to provoke unfounded speculations.
After you describe your rental needs more fully, and when I have an availability that I think fits you (like a sweater, I often say), I will send you a description of the apartment, and you will decide if you want to see it. If so, we will make arrangements for you to have keys or an appointment with the landlord.
There are two requirements I make of all my clients. (These are the untidy aspects of business.) One, the broker’s fee: mine is 13.75 percent. Yes, it is expensive, but it’s nonnegotiable. Two, you must agree to see no other broker and no other apartments — this disturbs the process.
If this is satisfactory to you, please let me know immediately what you hope to find in your new apartment. And please communicate these terms clearly to your husband. It is always aggravating to find midway through what I call “the unraveling” that one person never agreed to my provisos.
Your humble shepherd,
Edward Askew
From: cnarrows@sphere.com Sent: Wednesday, September 13, 2006 10:46 AM To: Askew, Edward Subject: Dream Apartment
Good morning, Mr. Askew. Thanks so much for your quick response. I’m so relieved! I spoke with Gregory, and we agree to your terms. Having surveyed the rental climate in the borough for some time, we really feel you are our best resource. The prices are soaring, aren’t they? While reading the article, I was struck by the fact that your landlords agree to offer apartments at below market value, simply because they know you’ll deliver tenants who match their needs.
I am surprised that you prefer not to meet us, since you are considered such a careful screener: the “finder of good people,” as the reporter put it. Yet you choose not to meet them? But if it works. When in Rome!
Gregory and I are looking for a true one-bedroom. Not a junior one-bedroom, an L-shaped studio, or the like. I work from home, so having a small workspace, be it a nook, a corner, an extra-deep closet, or (in my dreams) a true office, is a necessity for me. Also, we need a nonsmoking apartment. The previous tenants must not have been smokers — the smell permeates. And the neighboring tenants must not smoke, or we must be shown that the apartment’s ventilation system isn’t affected. If we move into a brownstone or a townhouse (which we would prefer), then it has to be entirely nonsmoking. If it’s an apartment building, then it shouldn’t be situated above a bar or restaurant. Smoking triggers my asthma. Our current landlady knew this, but nevertheless chose to lie to us about her own habit.
What else? The landlord cannot be a snoop who looks into windows, through garbage and recycling, mail, etc. He or she must have respect for a tenant’s privacy. Finally, our current apartment has a w/d in the basement as well as a bit of storage space, a dishwasher in the kitchen, and three closets. We prefer a lower level apartment — garden or parlor floor. I’ve already done the fifth floor walk-up thing, and I’m done with it. Gregory and I recognize that all these things may be difficult to find again under one roof in Everly Gardens. We thought we had hit the jackpot with this apartment and are loath to move at all. But since we must, we’d like to retain as many of these amenities as possible. Oh, and I like a bathtub, not just a stand-up shower. Don’t worry, though; we will be open-minded and flexible.
I sense I have gone on a bit. And perhaps this is much too much to ask or expect.
With hope,
Cecelia Narrows
From: Edward_Askew@LastExitRealty.com Sent: Wednesday, September 13, 2006 12:03 PM To: Narrows, Cecelia Subject: RE: Dream Apartment
Dear Ms. Narrows:
Now that I know your desires a little better, perhaps it is time we dispense with formalities. Please call me Ed. Yes, you do want an apartment with all the bells and whistles, but I don’t think it’s out of the realm of possibility. However, I need to know your budget: what you pay now and what you are willing to spend.
Onward and upward,
Ed
P.S. My methods are my methods, and I’ve found it does no good to try and explain them. In the end my clients are satisfied, and that is what matters.
From: cnarrows@sphere.com Sent: Wednesday, September 13, 2006 7:58 PM To: Askew, Edward Subject: RE: Dream Apartment
Dear Ed,
Please call me Cecelia, of course. (And Gregory, should you two ever correspond, is Gregory, not Greg.) Our current rent is $1550, but we understand the current market and would be willing to go up several hundred dollars if necessary.
Oh, I can’t believe I forgot to mention it — how did I forget? — we have a dog, Tigerlily. (She’s another reason we don’t want stairs.) So we need a place that will accommodate her. She’s a medium-sized (47 lbs.) mutt with brown and black fur. She does not bark, cry, scratch doors, carry fleas, or have habits a landlord would find problematic. She loves people and other animals and is fine with children. An apartment with any outdoor space, say a terrace or a porch, would be a wonderful treat for the three of us.
Looking forward to working with you,
Cecelia
From: Edward_Askew@LastExitRealty.com Sent: Thursday, September 14, 2006 9:42 AM To: Narrows, Cecelia Subject: Dog
You should have told me you have a dog, Cecelia. Right off the bat. It changes things. I spent a good amount of time yesterday assembling potential rentals for you, and now I must begin again. When I ask you to provide information, please be thorough. Dogs and babies! Dogs and babies! Landlords don’t want them. They make my work infinitely more complicated. Why are clients not forthcoming about these things? The withholding of information is never productive.
Now, down to business. While Tigerlily sounds like a gem, my landlords tell me that many pet owners only see positives in their animals. So I would like you to write me a description of your dog’s two biggest flaws. I can tell you now that your budget, considering this new information and your other requirements, is unrealistic. What you want isn’t impossible, financially speaking, but it will be challenging. Please note that I may have to show you several apartments out of your range — though just beyond it, really. You will say yea or nay to these places, but at least you’ll have a sense of the landscape you are dealing with.
Unless there are further impediments, we will begin the process soon.
Laboriously yours,
Ed Askew
P.S. Let’s avoid further surprises, shall we? Out with them now.
From: gregory.narrows@boroland.edu Sent: Thursday, September 14, 2006 10:45 AM To: Narrows, Cecelia Subject: RE: FW: Dog
Hmmmm. Maybe this guy isn’t right for us.
From: cnarrows@sphere.com Sent: Thursday, September 14, 2006 11:13 AM To: Narrows, Gregory Subject: Patience
I agree. It was a strange email. It raised flags. I don’t have the energy to do much else, do you? If the article’s correct, he monopolizes the market anyway.
From: cnarrows@sphere.com Sent: Thursday, September 14, 2006 12:35 PM To: Askew, Edward Subject: Dog Flaws
Dear Ed,
While I understand your frustration concerning my omission of Tigerlily, I assure you there was no motive behind it. It was only an oversight. I will endeavor to avoid such oversights in the future, if you endeavor to avoid the unnecessary gruffness I felt in your last email. Gregory and I are eager to cooperate with you. The Observatory piece about you clued us in to some details about your practices, but as you pointed out, it withheld others, and I couldn’t have known that you had a true pet peeve, as it were. I am not a mind reader.
Still, I understand your concern about Tigerlily. We are happy to report that although she has her flaws, they are not the kind that upset others. Here’s a summary:
1. She doesn’t walk well on a leash. She likes to think she’s in charge, and she’ll walk us all over town if her heart’s set on it.
2. She is afraid of thunderstorms, wind, and rain. Actually she’s skittish about almost everything — sirens and alarms, mirrors, even crossing thresholds. We joke that she sees things that we cannot. This can get annoying if we are traveling with her or trying to walk her during inclement weather, but honestly, we mostly feel bad for her when she’s scared.
If there were worse I would say it.
Again, apologies,
Cecelia
P.S. I was very careful to think about anything else we require. There’s only this (and it is quite obvious, but I will state it anyway for good measure): the landlord must be relatively sane — or at least amiable.
From: Edward_Askew@LastExitRealty.com Sent: Thursday, September 14, 2006 5:43 PM To: Narrows, Cecelia Subject: RE: Dog Flaws Attachment: LOA (.10 MB)
I think we understand each other. Tigerlily sounds fine. A dog of contradictions (aren’t they always?) — a headstrong shrinking violet. I have attached a letter of agreement for you and Gregory to print and sign. It’s just a standard format document for background information: current address, professions, salaries, SS# (I need this to run your credit reports), etc. It says that you both agree to work with Last Exit exclusively and to pay my broker’s fee, and that you won’t reveal information about my fleet of brownstones and their owners.
So it begins. But please note that the unraveling may not end for some time — weeks or even a few months. The rental market is tight; in fact, it is setting records, with availability at an all-time low of .09 percent. (You can check both the Observatory and the Grey Day for that statistic.)
The forecast may be cloudy, but we stand a fighting chance.
Onward and upward,
Edward
From: gregory.narrows@boroland.edu
Sent: Thursday, September 14, 2006 6:24 PM
To: Narrows, Cecelia
Subject: Contract
Ceci,
It’s one thing to verbally agree not to see any other brokers, and it’s another to sign a document to that effect, don’t you think?
I’ll be home around seven. Let’s talk then.
From: cnarrows@sphere.com Sent: Thursday, September 14, 2006 8:27 PM To: Askew, Edward Subject: Letter of Agreement Attachment: LOA (.10 MB)
And away we go! Please keep in mind that we are really anxious to get out of our current situation. I am almost beyond having hope that there is an answer for us in this city. I see happy people all around us making their lives work despite their challenging living situations. Why haven’t we been so lucky? It’s a relief to finally feel a modicum of hope. Still, I am aware that treacherous real estate waters lie ahead.
Thank you, Ed. It is such a relief to find a broker who does more than point to the listing posted in the window.
Cecelia
From: Edward_Askew@LastExitRealty.com Sent: Friday, September 15, 2006 10:12 AM To: Narrows, Cecelia Subject: Apartment Visit
Cecelia,
Are you and Gregory free to view an apartment next Wednesday evening at 9:45 sharp?
From: gregory.narrows@boroland.edu Sent: Saturday, September 16, 2006 2:35 PM To: Askew, Edward Subject: RE: Apartment Visit
Dear Mr. Askew:
Cecelia says I am to call you Ed. Yes, Ed, we’re available on Wednesday. I am responding on behalf of Cecelia because she is out of town. She felt she needed to escape the apartment for a while and is visiting a friend. Anyway, it gives me an opportunity to introduce myself. I assume you saw from the paperwork that I’m an assistant economics professor at Boroughland University. If only my colleagues and I could predict the NYC housing market!
Sincerely,
Gregory Narrows
From: gregory.narrows@boroland.edu Sent: Saturday, September 16, 2006 2:45 PM To: Narrows, Cecelia Subject: Plans?
When are you planning to come home? I wish you had discussed leaving with me — I thought we’ve talked about this. I really need you to talk to me before you “escape” like this. A note on the table is not sufficient. What if I’d had to work late? Tigerlily shouldn’t have to wait. It’s not fair to either of us. I don’t know if you’ll be checking your email, but I can’t call — you left your cell phone on the desk. I suppose you’ll want me to cancel our dinner plans for tomorrow night with Beth and Josh?
I’m trying not to be angry. But please come home. I’ve talked to Mrs. Rasp. I also emailed Ed.
Love,
G.
From: Edward_Askew@LastExitRealty.com Sent: Monday, September 18, 2006 9:34 AM To: Narrows, Cecelia CC: Narrows, Gregory Subject: Wednesday Appointment
Please go to 535 Rumble St., between Granite and Heart. As I said, at 9:45 sharp. Ring buzzer #2. And follow these directions carefully: Remove your shoes before entering the apartment — if you can, before Mrs. Feldman has a chance to request it … She’ll love you right away for that. Bring along butterscotch or root beer barrel candy — what I mean is something old-fashioned — and offer her one casually as she shows you the place, as if it weren’t planned. And don’t ask her about the missing finger on her left hand.
Let me know what you think of Mrs. Feldman’s place. It’s available Nov 1.
Good luck,
Ed
P.S. Cecelia, I hope you are recovering. A bad living situation, as you’ve learned, can wreak havoc on the immune system. It’s a shame it took you so long to find me; you would have avoided these discomforts.
From: cnarrows@sphere.com Sent: Monday, September 18, 2006 4:53 PM To: Askew, Edward CC: Narrows, Gregory Subject: RE: Wednesday Appointment
Ed,
9:45 on the nose at Rumble St. And I’m feeling much better, thanks.
From: cnarrows@sphere.com Sent: Saturday, September 23, 2006 9:17 AM To: Askew, Edward CC: Narrows, Gregory Subject: Humble Rumble
Dear Ed,
Mrs. Feldman was a dear. You were spot-on with the shoes and the hard candy. We would have no problems with her as a landlady. But we aren’t sure about the place. It’s a bit skinny, at ten (and a half) feet wide, is it not? I consider myself flexible, but I’m not Alice in Wonderland — able to grow taller and slimmer with a bite of magic cake. I wish I were! Anyway, it feels like a tight squeeze. Otherwise, the detailing was magnificent: the duck-footed bathtub, the tin ceilings, and the vintage appliances… Still, the space is so skinny — and it must be fifty square feet smaller than our current apartment. I’m just not sure we can do with so little. And the rent is on the high end, isn’t it? $1950? Without a dishwasher? And only one closet?
Who knows, maybe this is the place. Perhaps you were thinking something narrow for the Narrows! I don’t know, though. Gregory and I might need to see more places first. The last time we rented, we took the first place we saw in the neighborhood. So our lesson was, don’t jump into the pool without looking — there may be sharks. Let’s keep this one in consideration though.
With thanks,
Cecelia
From: Edward_Askew@LastExitRealty.com Sent: Sunday, September 24, 2006 10:11 AM To: Narrows, Cecelia CC: Narrows, Gregory Subject: RE: Humble Rumble
Dear Cecelia and Gregory:
Fine. Though I believe the Rumble place is a practical apartment that fits the bulk of your requirements, foremost of which is that the landlady will take a dog. And it’s within (though at the top of) your initial budget. Still, I hear you. I believe you will know when you have seen the right apartment. It is my experience that the apartment will leave an indelible impression on you. You will feel a unifying effect.
The next viewing is scheduled for Sunday. I’ll email soon with details.
P.S. I don’t know what possessed either of you to wait three days before emailing your opinion of this apartment to me. You can’t seriously expect me to keep an apartment open to you for that long. It won’t happen again. I expect to be emailed directly after you see an apartment. I have work to do here and need to know immediately where you’re at with it, or I will begin to doubt your sincerity about this apartment search.
From: gregory.narrows@boroland.edu Sent: Wednesday, September 27, 2006 2:56 PM To: Narrows, Cecelia Subject: Last Chance to Exit?
Have you heard from Ed yet this week? I happened to mention him to a colleague this morning (I am still pissed about Sunday’s email), and his eyes got really big. He warned me that we shouldn’t work with him, that he was neurotic and controlling — which, of course, we already know. But apparently he also makes sure people he doesn’t like (e.g. former “disgruntled ex-clients”) have difficultly finding apartments in Everly Gardens. He said that the borough message boards are rife with horror stories. Speaking of horror stories… I hope everything’s going okay at home today. Just remember, we’ll work this out with or without Ed. This isn’t our only option. In fact, I think I’m through with all of this. I know you don’t want to have to move twice, but we could try to sublet something for two or three months. It’s not a desirable situation, but it might relieve some of the strain.
Love you,
G.
From: cnarrows@sphere.com Sent: Wednesday, September 27, 2006 3:28 PM To: Narrows, Gregory Subject: RE: Last Chance to Exit?
No, I haven’t heard from Ed. As soon as you mentioned it, I got onto the Boroland Lounge’s blog forum and went to the real estate section. Rants about Ed were everywhere — lots of familiar descriptions of Ed’s odd practices, his self-aggrandizing, all of his rules. There were a ton of similar stories: that he asked people to give up or even put down their pets because they wouldn’t be allowed in their dream apartments; that he called clients in the middle of the night, calling them names, threatening them, because he caught them using another broker; and that he hounds and insults clients who don’t make a decision on his schedule. Whatever you can think of, Ed’s been accused of it. There was even one post from a guy who says that he was so disturbed by Ed’s treatment that he decided to have it out with him in person. He describes all of the measures Ed took to keep his identity under wraps. And though he says he found him, he never really got close enough to get a good look. Some people think he’s just a reincarnation of this notoriously obnoxious broker who was arrested for assaulting a client and was subsequently fired from his company. There are all sorts of rumors.
Then there are Ed supporters. They say, yes he’s weird, yes his personality is defective, yes he can be unnecessarily rude and mean, but somehow, he’s got all the good, lower-priced apartments on his roster. They say that he puts his clients through the hoops to prove their mettle, and his landlords and owners appreciate him for it. So, if you want access, listen carefully, do what he says, suck it up, and it won’t be that painful. It’s crazy! Ed is the neighborhood’s favorite topic.
Speaking of crazy, I opened the door to the hallway this morning, and Mrs. Rasp was standing right outside. She said she was taking out the trash last night and heard us discussing her. Then she handed me two wine bottles and told me we should have recycled them. I asked her not to go through our garbage, that she shouldn’t eavesdrop, and she told me that we talked too loud. We have to get out of here! But I don’t want to sublet. I want to find a home, someplace calm and comfortable. Why does this elude us? What have we done to deserve this kind of torture? I’m climbing under the covers — I can’t handle this anymore. Please don’t say you’re through with this. I am trying to take on the bulk of this responsibility. I know you aren’t convinced about all of this, but I need you to stick with me. I have to believe it’s difficult for a reason — that we’ll be rewarded for our perseverance.
XOXO,
C.
From: gregory.narrows@boroland.edu Sent: Wednesday, September 27, 2006 4:40 PM To: Narrows, Cecelia Subject: RE: Last Chance to Exit?
Oh brother. I’m going to come home early and take you to dinner. I’ll skip my office hours. I know you want this to be the answer — but I can’t help but feel that we have gotten ourselves into another bad situation. It sounds to me like Ed’s landlords appreciate him because he screens out everyone but complete pushovers who are willing to put up with anything. The desperate make perfectly complacent renters.
Love you,
G.
From: cnarrows@sphere.com Sent: Wednesday, September 27, 2006 4:42 PM To: Narrows, Gregory Subject: RE: Last Chance to Exit?
Gregory,
I might be desperate. But I am not a pushover. You know we’re not pushovers. I’ve been exceedingly firm with Ed about our requirements and desires — and he is not only welcoming of that, but it’s a requisite. I have responded to his attitude accordingly, and he seems to have some sort of respect for that. I know this isn’t our only option. But it’s our best option… and I know it’s all very unfamiliar, but there’s at least a process… something resembling a system.
Dinner would be good. Maybe you can just call for delivery? I don’t think I feel up to going out. Besides, Mrs. Rasp has been sitting on the stoop… roosting… ever since our encounter. I need to avoid her for the rest of the day — for the rest of my life.
Love,
C.
From: Edward_Askew@LastExitRealty.com Sent: Friday, September 29, 2006 5:50 PM To: Narrows, Cecelia CC: Narrows, Gregory Subject: Apartment #2
Dear Cecelia and Gregory:
This apartment doesn’t have a live-in landlord; you’ll have to show yourselves the place. Go to 375 Angle St. on Sunday at 7:00 PM. That’s between Judge and Harris. On the right side of the building, there’s a garden gate. Enter it, and follow the brick pathway to the back of the garden (go under the cupola, past the birdbath and pond). In the far corner of the property, there should be a small concrete Buddha. Turn him upsidedown for the key to the back entrance. Once you’re inside, you’ll see a stairwell. The apartment is on the garden level and includes access to the fairyland you’ve just walked through.
Email me immediately afterward.
From: cnarrows@sphere.com Sent: Sunday, October 1, 2006 8:38 PM To: Askew, Edward CC: Narrows, Gregory Subject: Emergency at the Angle Apartment
Dear Ed,
Please help. You must contact the owner of 375 Angle immediately. We decided to take Tigerlily with us, and she somehow disappeared. We’ve looked for her everywhere — for over an hour. We finally came back home. I was hoping she’d be here somehow. But I think she’s somewhere in that apartment. There was a rickety spiral staircase in the corner of the kitchen, opposite the refrigerator, and as soon as Tigerlily saw it, she ambled up it with her ears up, as if she were hunting something. (It was unlike her, really, to be so bold.) And I don’t think I took my eyes off her, but I must have because that was the last I saw of her. I climbed up the staircase, and it led nowhere. It goes up into a tall alcove that seems to be there only to hold the stairs themselves. At the end of the staircase is a door. Well, half of a door — or the door is only half visible. The ceiling cuts it in half. It’s hard to describe. In any case, the door wasn’t functional. It’s sealed shut. And Tigerlily wasn’t there anyway — even though we saw her ascend the steps and not come back down.
Ed, we’ve turned the apartment and garden upside down looking for her, to no avail. Perhaps there are nooks or hiding spots in the house that we couldn’t see.
I’m sorry, but this is urgent — please get back to me ASAP. Calling would be quicker: 718–701–2080.
From: Edward_Askew@LastExitRealty.com Sent: Sunday, October 1, 2006 11:10 PM To: Narrows, Cecelia CC: Narrows, Gregory Subject: RE: Emergency at the Angle Apartment
Cecelia and Gregory:
I went over to the brownstone myself and found Tigerlily in the garden watching the koi in the pond. I found some rope in the shed and tied her to a tree. Nice dog. Perhaps when you go back you can actually evaluate the apartment? I expected to know what you thought about it immediately. This foolishness has caused an unforeseen delay in my schedule. And next time I suggest you leave your dog at home. As we discussed before, phone calls are not a part of my practice.
From: cnarrows@sphere.com Sent: Monday, October 2, 2006 1:38 AM To: Askew, Edward CC: Narrows, Gregory Subject: RE: Emergency at the Angle Apartment
Ed,
First, thank you, thank you for locating Tigerlily! My deepest apologies for the bother. I wonder where she got to.
We left Tigerlily tied to the gate outside while we looked again at the apartment (although she was quite terrified when we found her — she was shivering and shaking — and more so when we left her again).
I have to say, the place is magnificent, just grand!
I think we will be ready to jump at this one — the cherub carved into the fireplace mantel was surely sending a message to us. The size of the apartment won our hearts for sure. And the other details too: the Art Deco mirror in the bathroom, the bird motif on the shelves in the kitchen, and the unusual but charming nooks and spaces — except for the staircase, which is a bit creepy.
A few questions: Where does the spiral staircase lead? The best Gregory and I could figure, the door — were it to open — would go absolutely nowhere. One would step out of it and fall for quite a distance to the ground. We tried to see if the door was visible on the outside of the building, but the side of the house is covered in ivy. Considering what happened earlier with Tigerlily, this concerns me. Can you inquire about it?
Next, the question of laundry… is there a w/d available in the basement, perhaps?
Finally, there is the issue of price. I noticed you didn’t mention it in your email, and I’m afraid this might be because the apartment is farther out of our range than we would like. Well, I hope it’s not too far out; I am starting to feel the accelerated heart rate one associates with love!
Apologies and appreciation,
Cecelia
From: Edward_Askew@LastExitRealty.com Sent: Monday, October 2, 2006 11:10 AM To: Narrows, Cecelia CC: Narrows, Gregory Subject: RE: Emergency at the Angle Apartment
Cecelia and Gregory:
The spiral staircase is a mystery indeed. Previous tenants have reported hearing footsteps on the stairs, as well as the sound of the door opening and closing. But as you saw for yourself, it’s completely sealed shut. I have never been one for ghost stories, and none of my tenants has ever been chased away by supposed spirits. Beyond that I can only give you this tidbit: the owner of the building refuses to remove either the staircase or the door. I suspect she’s nostalgic. Maybe it involves significant family history. I can’t say for sure.
Alas, you’re right about price. It is a bit outside your budget. But I wanted you to keep an open mind and reflect on what I said about realistic expectations in the current rental market. This apartment is listed at $2450. I may be able to negotiate that down slightly.
From: cnarrows@sphere.com Sent: Friday, October 6, 2006 3:55 PM To: Askew, Edward CC: Narrows, Gregory Subject: RE: Emergency at the Angle Apartment
Hi Ed,
The apartment is just too expensive. We love it, but I almost wish I hadn’t seen it — we’d rent it in a heartbeat if we could. Please remember that we aren’t moving out of desire or whim. We’re moving because we have been put in an impossible situation, and this unexpected move is going to cost us several thousand dollars that we don’t have. We’ve already increased our budget for monthly rent by 25 percent — again, this is money we hadn’t planned on having to spend.
So that is not just a little bit out of our range, but four hundred beyond it. I’m afraid that’s not in the cards at all.
Sincerely,
Cecelia and Gregory
From: Edward_Askew@LastExitRealty.com Sent: Saturday, October 7, 2006 10:15 AM To: Narrows, Cecelia CC: Narrows, Gregory Subject: Apartment Search
Cecelia and Gregory:
I sense you are frustrated with me. Do not be dismayed. Everything is happening as it has to. This is all part of the unraveling. We will find where you fit. Please stop by my office at 156 Judge St. at your first convenience. There will be an envelope waiting for you at the receptionist’s desk. In it you will find three more listings with instructions and viewing times. It is not necessary to reply to this email unless you have a conflict with one of the times I have appointed. Be in touch when you’ve seen them all.
Sincerely,
Ed
From: cnarrows@sphere.com Sent: Thursday, October 12, 2006 11:15 PM To: Askew, Edward CC: Narrows, Gregory Subject: Apartments 3, 4, and 5
Ed,
I could go on about each apartment for some length, but unless you want specific details I will spare you. Here’s our assessment:
Apartment 3: No — no sink in bathroom!
Apartment 4: No — no closets!
Apartment 5: No — strange landlord and strange smell in apartment!
Thank you for all your hard work setting these up, but I must say I am feeling discouraged. Days and days are going by now. I do not think I can take another day under the constant watch of our landlady. We are beginning to regret not jumping on that first apartment, but I still believe we wouldn’t be comfortable there.
What now?
Cecelia
From: Edward_Askew@LastExitRealty.com Sent: Friday, October 13, 2006 12:15 PM To: Narrows, Cecelia CC: Narrows, Gregory Subject: RE: Apartments 3, 4, and 5
Cecelia:
Don’t despair. The unraveling is taking place. Please go to 453 Minnow St. between Judge and Clark this afternoon at 3:45. The rent is within your range. As always, please be prompt. The keys will be in the mouth of the marble lion that guards the door. One key opens the front door, and the other opens the door at the top of the wooden staircase. I strongly advise you to be there. This one’s a winner.
Best of luck,
Ed
From: cnarrows@sphere.com Sent: Friday, October 13, 2006 5:05 PM To: Askew, Edward CC: Narrows, Gregory Subject: A Place on Minnow
Dear Ed,
We entered the brownstone feeling far from optimistic. The sky was gray, and it was cold and lightly raining. But when we stepped in the doorway, the strangest thing happened: a small music box (which upon further investigation we realized was wired to the front door and triggered upon opening) played a sweet rendition of a theme from Swan Lake. We climbed the wonderful staircase and admired the polished banister with its authentic patina and curlicue carvings.
We stepped into an immaculate, empty room. I know a lot of people prefer to view apartments furnished, but I do not. I like to project my life — my belongings — onto an empty space. And I could tell right away that the walls are long enough for our bookshelves, with some room left over for our sofa and my desk; the bedroom will easily hold a dresser, a bed, and more shelves. The two closets are more than ample — one could be a little office, it’s so big! And the kitchen, a calm, silvery sage-green oasis with marble cabinet tops and new appliances. Finally, the bathroom is magnificent.
After breathing in the clean atmosphere of this immaculate space, we stepped onto the balcony overlooking the garden. It has room for seating and a barbecue. Tigerlily will love it; she’ll be able to commune with the birds and squirrels.
There’s only one thing that we don’t understand — where is the ceiling? The roof? When we stepped into the apartment there were four walls, yet we were… outside. The sky, which had been so dismal as we walked over, was clear and blue. It ripped open my heart. I wondered what it meant, and why you had sent us here. How was the rain staying out? Everything was dry and clean. Not so much as a leaf or a twig had made its way in.
Somehow I felt calm. But Gregory didn’t. He said he is tired of your process, that he feels toyed with. He thinks you are taking advantage of us — of me. I hope that’s not true, Ed. I reminded him about the newspaper article — that was real. These apartments that we’ve seen, however flawed, are real too. I told him there must be a logical explanation and that he shouldn’t rush to judgment. And everything else about the apartment was so perfect.
Can you please enlighten us? Are they building a new roof soon? If they are, then when can we move in?
Cecelia
From: Edward_Askew@LastExitRealty.com Sent: Saturday, October 14, 2006 3:58 PM To: Narrows, Cecelia CC: Narrows, Gregory Subject: RE: A Place on Minnow
My Dear Narrows:
I must say, all this apartment searching has caused you to see things that, quite literally, are not there. Perhaps the process has gone too far? Perhaps I misjudged you from the beginning, and you will never commit to a new home? I have already shown you several suitable apartments, and you have rejected them all. And despite my growing doubts about your commitment to finding a new home in Everly Gardens, I have continued to give you time and access to my significant resources. My energies should have been directed elsewhere.
I immediately inquired about the status of the ceiling and roof, and the landlord was so agitated that he cancelled his dinner plans and drove all the way over from New Jersey to inspect his apartment. He now thinks I played some sort of joke on him. He is not amused. Nor am I.
Whatever happened to you two over there wasn’t what the landlord experienced. He reported that the roof is intact, as is the ceiling. Would you both like to see the place again, perhaps after a weekend of rest? Or would you like to move forward with this apartment? The monthly rent is $1850 — right in your range. You can move in November 15, which will give you just enough time to give the thirty days’ notice to your current landlady.
Awaiting word,
Ed
P.S. This is the last place I have to show you. I have other clients waiting for my services. You have to draw or fold. I strongly suggest you draw.
From: cnarrows@sphere.com Sent: Saturday, October 14, 2006 8:01 PM To: Askew, Edward Subject: RE: A Place on Minnow
Ed,
I don’t know what to say, except that I saw a sky. And it was blue. So, so, blue. I don’t know what will happen when it really rains, not like the drizzle the other day; will the place still be dry? In a thunderstorm? In snow? I suppose we will see. We will just have to manage.
Please draw up the paperwork. Gregory is more than skeptical — in fact, he’s aghast. But he will come around. He just wants to see me happy. He wants me to find some peace. I feel certain that this is the place where we will find respite. The air was so clean and fresh. I told Gregory, I can finally breathe.
You would tell us, wouldn’t you? You would tell us if this place wasn’t right. I am starting to suspect you had this place for us all along.
I told Gregory that you wouldn’t let us make a mistake. I assured him. It’s not a mistake, is it?
Promise me, Ed. Promise me, and I’ll take it.
About the Author
A.N. Devers’ work has appeared in many print and online publications including Lapham’s Quarterly, Los Angeles Review of Books, The New Yorker, The Paris Review, The Rumpus, Salon, Slate, and Slice. Her Tin House essay, “On the Outskirts” received Notable Distinction in The Best American Essays 2011. She has edited fiction at A Public Space and Pen America: A Journal for Writers and Readers and is the founder and editor of Writers’ Houses, an online publication that provides a searchable index of visitable writers’ houses around the world. She received her MFA in Fiction from the Bennington Writing Seminars. This was her first published short story. Follow her on twitter @andevers.
About the Guest Editor
David Gates is the author of two novels, Jernigan and Preston Falls, and a collection of short stories, The Wonders of the Invisible World. He teaches at the University of Montana, and in the Bennington Writing Seminars.
It’s fair to assume that any adolescent who’s read Catcher in the Rye compared themselves to Holden Caufield. If you need evidence, just ask anyone who read Salinger’s classic in their disaffected youth. It’s also fair to assume that any new novel about disaffected youth will be compared to Catcher. If you need evidence, head over to Atlantic.com where Maura Kelly asks “Must every new coming-of-age novel be the next Catcher in the Rye?”
Year after year, generation after generation, every time a good coming-of-age novel is written, someone somewhere compares it to Salinger’s tour de force. Why exactly is it that reviewers so often name-check the book about the aimless, ambling adventures of a kid who’s just been kicked out of Pencey Prep when discussing stories about growing up?
Recently, Ben Lytal’s novel Map of Tulsa was compared to Catcher as was Teddy Wayne’s The Love Song of Jonny Valentine. Both Dave Eggers’ A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius and Bret Easton Ellis’ Less than Zero were (incorrectly, says Kelly) called the MTV generation’s Catcher in the Rye. “Holden has become the ur-teenager, as much as Catcher has become the ur-bildungsroman,” says Kelly.
As it turns out, however, any evocation of Salinger’s classic by a reviewer may not be a suggestion that a new novel will be Catcher-like in voice or plot, but more a prediction that it will “touch this generation the way that The Catcher in the Rye touched its generation.”
The Lit List is a sometimes-weekly compendium of New York’s finest literary events and readings. All events are 100% free unless stated otherwise. Something you think we should know about? Email dish@electricliterature.com
Monday, June 24
Simon Van Booy is at McNally Jackson tonight to read from his new novel, The Illusion of Separateness. Van Booy is also the editor of some philosophy anthologies, including Why Our Decisions Don’t Matter. I like this guy. 7PM.
Karen Shepard is at Greenlight Bookstore in Fort Greene tonight to discuss her new novel, The Celestials, and will be in conversation with Anne Ishii, blogger at The Asian American Writers’ Workshop blog “The Margins,” and Ron Hogan, creator of Beatrice.com. 7:30 PM.
Tuesday, June 25
Girls Write Now is an organization that helps NYC teen girls learn how to write, which teaches them how to be empowered women. You probably want to be aware of them. Swing by McNally Jackson for the launch party of their anthology, New Worlds, which features work by the girls themselves and their mentors. Refreshments by Brooklyn Brewery. 7PM.
A few avenues over at St. Marks Bookshop, Akashic Books hosts “The Marijuana Chronicles,” a selection of readings from their Drug Chronicles series. Lee Child, Thad Ziolkowski, and others will be in tow. St. Marks Bookshop is another organization you want to be involved in. 7PM.
Wednesday, June 26
GUILLOTINE is a revolutionary nonfiction chapbook series, whose previous issues’ themes include violence, apoplexia, and troubleshooting silence in Arizona. Tonight, they launch their fourth chapbook, PUNK, with Mimi Thi Nguyen and Golnar Nikpour at WORD in Greenpoint. 7PM. (Keep your eyes on GUILLOTINE; they’re releasing a previously unpublished essay by the late Eve Kosofsky Sedgwick on censorship this winter. F yes.)
Greenlight Bookstore is hosting a very exciting event tonight: Sheila Heti, author of How Should a Person Be?, will be in conversation with Kenneth Goldsmith, a poet, author of Uncreative Writing, and founding editor of UbuWeb. Both of these people are really smart and really important. 7:30 PM.
Thursday, June 27
Tao Lin is at McNally Jackson tonight to read and discuss his new novel, Taipei, with Christian Lorentzen, an editor at the London Review of Books. Check out the rest of Tao’s ‘warped tour 2013’ dates here. I’m sad Green Day is not going to be at this event. 7PM.
Saturday and Sunday, June 29–30
Literary weekenders of NYC, have you gone to this? “Writing On It All” is a series of events that emphasizes context, history, and form, and takes place on Governor’s Island. Participants interact with artists, writers, and other creatives by writing on the interiors of out-of-use houses. On Saturday, the Bellevue/NYU program for Survivors of Torture will be writing on it all in a closed session. But on Sunday, come and collaborate with heavyweights Anne Carson, Robert Currie, and Ebauche. Registration and attendance are free, so you should RSVP here.
Thank you. Please remember that Michiko Kakutani’s favorite word is still “limn,” and the inside of a banana peel alleviates mosquito bites.
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