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James McKeogh
jhmckeogh@yahoo.com
Dinner in the District
My house stood nestled there among the other row houses, like a domino stacked too tight to fall. The real estate agent called the neighborhood, bounded by Rhode Island and South Dakota Avenues to the south and east, a burgeoning development. My bedroom window overlooks Freedom Spirits; its Syrian proprietor had just installed new titanium fittings to the window. Jake has finally settled in.
He moved in several months ago. After loading all the accoutrements of his trade into the kitchen, he proposed a house warming. We’d invite dates. My dollar, his swordfish steaks. We were inside that night, there were Christmas lights up; it must have been early January. Caitlyn, my current ex-something or other, leaned over the table to offer her friend the plate of finger food that was making the rounds. Avocado quesadillas, I think it was. Just before the plate touched down, she lost her equilibrium. The china tilted and the mango salsa slipped from the edge. The universe paused. The night all but destroyed for the embarrassed stains on the white blouse, the tan sarong. But there was Jake’s hand, stretched out into the most magnificent basket catch. Crisis averted. I told him later he saved the evening. “I just figured the salsa was going to end up on someone’s lap,” he responded. “I was keeping my eyes on it.”
The utility bills jumped after he took the second bedroom. He has a propensity to leave a trail of empty illuminated rooms, a swath of dripping faucets in his wake. Quarter loads of laundry, hot, extended spin. But the arrangement was working out. He can cook. He wields that chef’s knife over the seasoned cutting board like it’s a baton in front of the philharmonic, rendering passion and movement from the listless mise en place. His étouffée (last week’s included FedEx-ed alligator sausage) and yellowtail ceviche (he called it Triton’s Manna) assuaged any ill feelings lingering beneath the palate. Plus, his sister is forget-the-cable-bill gorgeous.
The first things you can’t help but notice are those gingersnapping eyes. A most strategically placed birthmark on her neck. An ethno-ambiguous Mediterranean finish to a complexion that leaves the passerby questioning whether it be Arab, Egyptian, or Grecian genetics responsible for that olive pout. Lips like they were stained in Shiraz. The smallest speck of a diamond stud in her stage-right nostril left you imagining, hoping, betting on, piercings hidden elsewhere.
Jake asked me to run out and pick up some basil. The mission was a success. Jake would have his garnish, and I would have my fruit for the week. Walking to my car a bearded transient locked eyes with me. He had a hitch in his stride, or it might have been some sort of nervous tick, I don’t know. I had one dollar in my wallet, I had had to pay for the food with my debit card. My hand was at my billfold before the bum was in hailing distance. “Operation Panhandle Freedom,” I thought.
“My name is Marvin,” he said. Jesus Christ, did this guy study rhetoric? Pathos first. Humanize the speaker. Pointless really, he was getting a dollar either way. “I’m hungry, can you help a friend.” Broach the issue.
I handed him the bill. He sized me up.
Let’s pretend for a minute that Marvin wasn’t about to buy a bottle of hooch. Let’s pretend he was actually hungry, that his only means for sustenance was to subject himself to the humiliation of begging for cash. I’ll give him that much. He had a gaunt look, even underneath that growth on his chin. It could have gone either way.
I fanned out the creases of my wallet, showing him he now had at least one more dollar than I did. What? Did he expect my MasterCard? “That’s all I have on me…”
“What? That’s it?”
He officially lost his audience. I went to walk past him but he stood in my path. He loomed much larger than I expected. We almost saw eye to eye. I could have faked one way and gone the other, but I think Marvin would have seen it coming.
“Listen, if everyone you saw gave you a dollar, you’d be eating better than me tonight.” Introduce a common enemy. I could play too.
“But everyone isn’t giving me a dollar. You’re not everyone. I haven’t eaten yet today.”
I pulled an apple out of my grocery bag, tossed it to him.
“What am I supposed to fucking do with this?” he asked I was already with my keys at the door to my car. I couldn’t find the open button, I hit the panic alarm by accident. Then I was in the car and the air-conditioner was blowing hot with the windows up. I was boxed in between two SUV’s, had to reverse parallel park. Marvin watched the whole time. He just kept staring at me. His eyes rolled off to the side before each spasm. I may have nudged the bumper of the rear Explorer before I came free of the parking space. As I pulled away, I opened the windows and saw Marvin sniff at the apple before taking a bite and moving on to the next victim.
I like my neighborhood. The neighbors, even if I don’t know their names, have kids and rose bushes they raise. You can’t drive more than 5 M.P.H. through the alley, for all the Tonka traffic. I get home from work, and guys drink from paper bags on the next-door stoop. They relax after a hard day, much the same as I do. Living in a place, you get blinded by your own optimism that it’s a good place. Kind of the same way you can’t tell your own house smells like dog.
I walked in through the patio door to Jake was toiling away, as he did, in the kitchen. “Hey, can you grab the door,” he said, zesting blood oranges with his favorite microplane.
Crowding the frame stood Dan “Meat” Melbourne, the college rugby player turned Mortgage Fraud Investigator. His nickname survived the transition from muddied kit to pleated khaki.
“For the chef, for the host, for the dog,” he said, handing me a brown grocery bag replete with imported aged balsamic, a bottle of ’94 Chateau Malescot, and a nearly empty jar of peanut butter. When he would tell the story of that dinner party, the Chateau would be the keystone, the saving grace. At least in Meat’s variant. “If you get that wine breathing now, it’ll be perfect after the lamb.”
With my marching orders, I motioned for him to set on the couch, threw the dog the peanut butter, and poured two glasses of a Chilean Carmenere. I offered one to Jake, but he had his hands gloved in cornmeal and buttermilk, breading the calamari nee fish bait. Wilde bounced around the house, fully occupied, with her Skippy muzzle.
In the living room, Meat was working the iPod wheel with those salami fingers of his. He liked to brag that nearly every knuckle on his right hand had been broken at one time or another during his playing days, and the only match he ever missed – begrudgingly, mind you – was for his grandmother’s funeral.
“So, will Tiz be joining us this evening?” Meat said, glancing from the door to the clock on the wall.
“Okay, buddy, you’re going to sit there with that Brüt lathering and pretend you don’t know she’s already on her way.” His mouth curved into that impish Caliban grin.
“She said she’s bringing a friend,” Jake threw in from the kitchen.
We topped our wine. Meat went out to the back patio to set the table and chew on one of his cigars. I rolled up my sleeves and entered the war zone. No sooner had I rinsed out the food processor than Jake had it loaded and churning again.
“What are you planning for the antipasto?” I asked.
“Olives and roasted red peppers in the fridge,” he said, replacing the sweat on his brow with flour and crumbs. “Throw on some of that portabella hummus from last night, the prosciutto is in the plastic bag at the bottom there.” It was amazing how Jake could use the stuff from last night’s meal – items I’d feed to Wilde or the garbage disposal – and reuse it in new ways. Whatever survived late night picking fingers, anyways.
Jake grabbed the tea-towel I had draped over my shoulder and used it to pull the dutch oven from the broiler. He tested the lamb with his thumb before placing it back into the heat. “I’m about ready for a drink. Meet me out back with a glass while I make nice with the grizzly bear.”
“Hey wait, who is Tiz bringing? Not that vegetarian I hope.” It was impossible to avoid global warming and electoral colleges when she was at the table. “I don’t care what she says. I won’t install water-free toilets.”
“Your safe, Deco. Tiz is watching her goddaughter tonight.”
Jake disappeared through the sliding glass doors and began nestling vegetable-oiled balls of newspaper beneath the coals of his Weber Grill. Meat pointed at something in the distance with the business end of his stogy. The hickory smoke came through the open window and mingled with the aromatics. The flames from the grill distorted the view of the Basilica Shrine; the church disappeared into some soap opera dream sequence. I held the two glasses of wine palm up in my right hand, answered the second knock of the evening with my left.
“Greetings Declan. Meet Annabelle.”
Tiz practically spun me around as she uncoiled a black scarf contraption from around her neck. She would have been offended if I didn’t watch. The scarf had been hiding a palm-sized octopus pendant, the placement of which I envied greatly. She helped herself to her brother’s glass of wine, still in my hand. I helped myself to the view.
Trailing behind, the unexpected Annabelle. All night, she was playing at one of her loose teeth, like her tongue was staging a prison break, and she didn’t disappoint at the opening. This is the only stage, in all the periods of human development, that missing teeth are aesthetically pleasing. I had wondered why there was a bottle of sparkling pomegranate chilling in the fridge. I thought maybe Jake was going soft.
I shook hands with Annabelle and asked her if she’d like a drink. She followed me to the kitchen and I poured her a flute of the sparkling. I tried to pass it to her, but her hands were busy at the scruff of Jake’s husky.
“Don’t give her too much attention or she won’t leave you alone all night,” I told Annabelle.
Meat and Jake walked in, and in turn, were granted pecks and hugs. I thought Meat lingered in the embrace a bit long.
“And who is this pretty lady?” Meat said, picking Annabelle up in the crook of his elbow.
“Don’t give her too much attention, she won’t leave you alone all night,” Tiz said. Annabelle stuck her tongue out as Meat put her down. She stationed herself at the desk where Tiz had set up magic markers and construction paper. Jake asked her if she thought Declan was a funny name.
“It’s a bit early to start trading shots, Jake. Drink your wine,” I nodded to where I had put down my own glass. He swooped it up as he went into the kitchen, did a little pirouette around the end table.
“Ten minutes,” he called.
Seats were assigned via placecards on top of napkins, and we sat down to the beginning of the meal. Served on the back porch with torches providing the ambiance. The porch dipped two steps down to a rectangle of grass that functioned as the yard. A wooden fence closed us in, higher than my head, with a gate dead center. My roommate walked out with a covered platter – we were already Pavlov salivating – and Jake “Can You Post Date This Check” diRaphael transformed into master artisan, displaying his craft.
“To start, something I like to call a Calamari Kiss. A lightly battered selection of the choicest squid, on top of which, a mild poblano pico de gallo.” He unveiled the amuse bouche, and with a quick glance at the working cauldrons through the kitchen window, dictated the rest of the fare.
Spring Greens with Papaya and Ginger.
Blood Orange Marinated, Peppercorn-Crusted Scallops with a Cumin Risotto. (he would grill the scallops as we dipped our warm marble rye in the olive oil and capers
Braised Lamb Shanks with a Rosemary Pesto Glaze, over Butternut Squash Mashed Potatoes.
To finish, Mascarpone Espresso Milkshakes.
Annabelle looked at the tentacles (my favorite part) in disgust. I sensed a proletariat rebellion. Jake retreated, and returned with gusto, “And for the guest of honor. Pretzel-Crusted Chicken Fingers with Sweet Potato Curly Fries. It would be nice if you tasted the calamari though, I think you’ll like it.”
Jake did not sit down until he served the lamb. Meat was sucking the marrow out of the lamb bone before the dish hit the tablecloth. Annabelle had long since befriended Wilde, what, with the cooperative plate cleaning effort.
I told the story of Marvin.
“Imagine waking up every morning and knowing that’s how you’re going to be spending your day. Begging. Sad, no?” Tiz said. When enough drinks had been conquered, her speech patterns reverted to the pigeon French she spoke while studying abroad.
“Where’d he wake up, I wonder,” Jake.
“He might not be homeless.” Meat said. “Maybe he just got nailed by the rate hike on his A.R.M. It’s Saturday, after all. He has a day job during the week, say, physical plant work at a high school. That direct deposit goes to the mortgage, the coins in the cup keep the collection agents from calling and the repo man from his Civic.”
I re-emphasized the smell of him: the overwhelming unkempt, his air of entitlement, and the perfection of his pitch. He didn’t have another job. He didn’t have a place to regularly bathe.
“Repo Man,” Tiz surrounded with finger quotes. “Who wakes up and decides that’s how they want to make their living.”
“It’s certainly a recession proof profession,” I said.
“More like recession dependant,” Jake again. “I know all work is noble, but really, what dignity can be drawn from that job.”
“Have any of you been driving up the beltway and seen the all the turkey buzzards circling overhead. You know death is around, whether its roadkill or something else away from the highway, and you can’t help but feeling they’re inherently evil. But they’re not evil. They play an intrinsic function for the food chain, the environment.”
“That doesn’t speak to where Marvin fits in,” Jake said, “What function does he have, other than keeping the vulture fed?”
The question went unanswered. Meat stood up his knees knocked against the table. The wine glasses wobbled like grazed ten-pins. “I’m gonna stretch my legs.” On his return from the bathroom, Wilde nuzzled at his hams. Meat carried four virgin wine glasses in one mitt, the bottle of Chateau Malescot in the other. “Start pouring these round. Me and Wilde are going for an evening constitutional.”
We set to that expensive red. Tiz filled the glasses. Jake relaxed, for the first time, with the cold dessert settling in the fridge. He broke into a sommelier-worthy filibuster on wine and legs and common presumptions. Legs, he told us, only indicated the wine’s alcohol content—more alcohol means more viscosity, hence the wine’s propensity to hang to the side of the glass. A 20% Port would have more legs than a 14% Chablis, but this reveals nothing of either wine’s quality. We digested this new bit of Jeopardy trivia. Tiz took a sip from her glass. My eyes, entirely on their own, settled again on that bastard of an octopus. His name, I decided, was Inkblot. She caught me, in my harmless naming, and smiled a smile beyond this mortal’s interpretation. I must have flushed a shade closer to the wine. Annabelle stirred. She climbed into Tiz’ lap and rested her head next to Inkblot.
“You tired, honey.” Tiz asked, brushing the bangs out of the child’s face. Annabelle held played at the softness of the table cloth’s velvety edge. I wondered if Tiz was planning on driving home.
The latch clicked behind me. I wouldn’t have paid it any mind had I not been looking in Annabelle’s general direction. She stopped fidgeting. Her eyes woke from their daze. I turned to look. It should have been Meat. It wasn’t.
“Give me your money,” our guest said to me, but he had the gun pointed at the child. The gun seemed an extension of his arm. Same effect Jake had holding a spatula. It was the color of charcoal and took a clip from the bottom.
We all stood up. Tiz held Annabelle’s hand. Meat. Where was Meat? At first, I was angry. No way would this guy mess with us if he saw that galoot, straining the legs of the plastic chair even as he sat. Then I grew worried. Worried, when Tiz asked the intruder to point the gun at her instead of the girl. He did, right at the octopus. I thought of all those westerns, where the bullet hits a metal lighter, a pocketed deck of cards, the hero is reborn. I quickly shook that thought. No Inkblot ex machina, not today. Then, I thought Meat might walk through the back gate with the dog. Would this spook the gunman into accidental discharge? Or would Meat tackle him into the table, saving the day, another dime novel account of Rugby Man About Town, Savior and Confidant… I doubted it.
“Empty your wallets.”
I heard myself say we didn’t have any money on us, although I can’t be sure, it might have been Jake. What time was it? How long was Meat gone? Would this black guy from the District God Forgot, believe that these people, these white people, these white people drinking red wine, didn’t have their money with them? A dragonfly met his inquisitive demise in the bug lamp. The sound danced around the backyard and sounded like a crumbling Chinese cookie. Where was Meat? Please God, don’t do anything heroic when you come through the back gate.
I measured the distances between Virgil (the gunman, a pseudonym, it makes it easier having something to call him), Annabelle, and Tiz. The gun seemed to be heavy, drooping down towards Tiz’s abdomen. Those jaundiced eyes. I remember them. Darting yellow pinpricks, where white should have been. He might have been on drugs. Are jaundiced eyes a side effect of meth, cocaine? Bloodshot eyes, dilated pupils, sure -- but yellow? This was a bit too much for one day.
“Don’t move. Slowly now, turn out your pockets.”
What could be done? I stared at Virgil, got a good look at the man attached to the weapon. He seemed to be about my age. Maybe a bit older, with more wear around the eyes. The hood itself was only slightly conspicuous, the evening had chilled the air just enough for that. His shoulders slumped, as if the weight of the sweatshirt, the pistol, took a toll on his body at large. The bottle on the table could easily become a club. If he had a knife in his right hand there may have been options. Not a gun. It could have been an icebeam he was holding, how it froze me in my place.
“Look, we don’t have anything on us,” Tiz again, hostage negotiating. How could she be so calm? Annabelle bit at her lower lip but otherwise remained stalwartly patient. My bladder, on the other hand, had shrunk to half capacity. Virgil looked again at Annabelle, the gun hovered between the women. “Did you know there’d be a little girl here?” she said.
I thought this would pull the gun back to that magnetic pendant, somewhere, a foot below that birthmark, center mass, fixated. I was wrong. Virgil seemed to pause. Like he didn’t understand the question. No, like the question mattered. He lowered the gun to his side, still gripping it tightly. His fingernails were bitten down to the quick, and just then he looked down at them and I could tell he was dying for a bite. Except his pinky finger, that nail was long and purpose serving.
The gun rose again, slightly. It wasn’t aimed at anyone in particular at the moment. Jake stepped in. I was surprised he had it in him. I certainly wouldn’t have thought of it.
“Hey, would you like a glass of wine? We have an extra one poured,” Jake asked. Two, maybe three, of Virgil’s possible responses came to mind. Each punctuated with a loud bang and distant ambulance sirens. Again, I was mistaken.
“Can I?” Virgil said, taking the glass from Meat’s vacated spot. He seemed to devolve into a fourteen-year-old. A fourteen-year-old being offered alcohol at a cousin’s wedding. A fourteen-year-old still holding a gun. And then, our guest – now taking a small and considered sip of the wine, now lifting his shirt to lay the gun between beltline and paunch – made a most surprising statement.
“This is really good wine,” he told us.
Looking back, I should have smiled. Amber-eyed Virgil, intent on robbery, murder if it came to it, and he knew his stuff. He wasn’t on any drugs. I must have misjudged the length of that pinky nail.
“Take the bottle, it’s yours,” I said, my only confirmed contribution to the ordeal. As if it was mine to give.
“Our friend, he’s out walking the dog. He should be back any second. I don’t want you to get startled if he walks in,” Jake said.
Forward thinking, Jake was.
“I think I’m at the wrong house…” Virgil said, his voice inflected just a bit at the end.
A half-minute pause. I could tell you dogs barked down the back alley, that Annabelle said her first memorable words of the evening, that Tiz and Jake exchanged a knowing glance, that I coughed or Virgil shifted his weight. But that would be a lie. In those thirty seconds, we were in purgatory. Sunburned mariners, praying for wind at the equator. To say the wrong thing… And who really knows what could be said? “I agree. You should try the Smiths two doors down.” Or maybe, “no, stay, we haven’t served dessert yet.” I didn’t say anything. I didn’t breathe. I tried to stare at something other than those honey-glazed eyes.
“I’m at the wrong house,” he said, this time with definitiveness. “I’m going to leave now.”
And with that, he walked out of the gate, taking the glass of wine with him. Tiz deflated into my arms. She had seemed so stoic before, but like a lot of Tiz, it was for appearances sake. Jake closed and latched the back gate before walking Annabelle into the house. Tiz and I, still conjoined, followed. We locked the front door and the sliding glass. We checked that the windows were secure. Meat knocked on the front door, thinking we locked him out as a joke.
“Why are you inside? It’s gorgeous out there. Have you seen the moon?” he said.
The rest you know from the news. We called 911. They came, searched the area, found the wine glass in an alley not too far away. It was empty and unbroken. They said we’d get it back after they dusted it for fingerprints.
There was something about that look as he tasted the wine. Listen. That was a sixty-dollar bottle. Or at least that’s what Meat quotes it at. Virgil, he knew it was good. How the hell would he have known such a thing? It’s not like he was born with that gun, those eyes, wearing that menacing drape of a hood. Virgil had tasted wine like that before, or maybe tasted wine in a similar situation, with good friends and happy children and that opiate nothingness that washes over you after you’ve eaten too much, had too much to drink. You don’t get that feeling from holding people at gunpoint. Here he was, a cliff diver, troubled by his own wake in the lagoon. Virgil saw that he had destroyed that blissful nothingness that had permeated the backyard. In that pause, just before he left, he was only thinking about how to back out quietly. He didn’t want to leave his imprint on the evening. I think it hurt him, to see the fear in Tiz’s eyes, to see an eight-year-old down the barrel of a gun.
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Lots in here works: tone, staging, dialog, etc. Lots of good metaphors to give the narrator a little bit of a “dandy” tone, but a few clunkers, too:
Even the blackest banana has its culinary applications. “Culinary applications” is a little over the top. Language too technical for a nice metaphor, and besides, this seems like something Jake would say.
the omega-3 laden fruit Not a metaphor, I know, but again, the technical language is jarring.
his sister is forget-the-cable-bill gorgeous I guess this is a stab at suburban domesticity or perhaps a comment on the shallowness of suburbia, but it’s an awful description and makes the narrator sound like a caricature.
Structure: At first I didn’t understand the scene with the transient, but then when “Virgil” shows up it makes sense. Still, the way that earlier scene is handled ends in an unclear manner. We learn on page 13 that a patrol car showed up. I think you’d gain clarity and closure if you added that in. Since you leave the scene and move on, leaving it in that moment of tension doesn’t gain you anything but confusion and lack of clarity.
Annabelle’s introduction is confusing. You’re being coy about revealing she’s a child, but you send mixed messages, saying she’s working on a loose tooth but then giving her a “flute of the sparkly” and then revealing its sparkling fruit juice. I like the idea of this little “gotcha” on the reader, but it needs to be done quicker and perhaps with a better clue than a loose tooth. Some adults have loose teeth, so you initially sent me down the path envisioning this weirdo adult woman with bad oral hygiene. And there’s not enough to the joke to justify drawing it out. Obviously the narrator knows immediately it’s a child, so being coy about it for too long is weird.
Finally, the scene with Virgil is a little odd. I like how it resolves, but it’s that pivotal moment of him saying “Can I?” that threw me out of the story. The narrator’s interior monologue prior to Virgil asking the question didn’t help, and it’s unnecessary. As a reader, I was having some of those same questions, but I wanted them to myself, not to have you hold my hand through the story, pointing out how your character’s action was this odd turn of events. Definitely cut/pare down the narrator’s color commentary about what Jake does (maybe he just blurts out, “What?” and leaves it at that), and don’t have Virgil ask permission. Also, cut the second person address. The final question needs to be revised. In fact, I’d really look hard at all the interior questions that the narrator has and sentence them for execution. The story’s tight, and his whinnying about this and that like J. Alfred Prufrock doesn’t add to the voice and it sometimes really detracts from the story.
The fact that the characters are all gourmands is interesting and a real plus for originality. Some of the food play, especially just the expository descriptions, could be pared down—a little goes a long way, and some of it felt excessive. The scene where the food is active, Jake smudging flour on his forehead for example, is more effective.
The opening page should also be revised. It reads like it’s something you needed to put down to get a sense of place, but the descriptions jump around quickly and make it hard to get settled. It’s fine to call it a mixed neighborhood, to give one concrete example of what it looks like, and stay within present action.
I think this is a draft or two away from being ready to submit, and I think it’s got a fair shot at publication. Nice, solid story. Good job and good luck.
A very moving story, and it certainly gets you wondering about Virgil.
But I felt it was disjointed. The episode with Marvin, although very well done (in fact, I liked this best), was totally irrelevant to the story. I kept reading, looking for the tie-up, but was disappointed when Marvin played no further part in the story.
One of Vonnegut’s rules for short stories is to start as close to the end as possible, and I suggest that everything up to the point where Virgil enters the back yard is superfluous.
I also feel that there is so much more that could be said about Virgil. As Declan stares down the barrel of the gun, he could use this time to reminisce, and to explore the possible motives of his antagonist.
I think this has the makings of a very interesting short story. Well done!
I do, despite myself, like the opening parts of this piece. Your style is very well suited to the setting; you’re a close knit set of professionals who, for all the little setbacks that may occur day to day, essentially have very successful and comfortable lives. The best way to convey this is with slick and urbane witticisms, and you’re pretty good at them. Most of yours are spot on; the only ones I feel didn’t quite work are “the omega-3 laden fruit” and “co-habitational transgressions”, because they happen to be clumsy and feel like they’ve been shoehorned in simply for the sake of trying to say something quirky. Everyone makes mistakes, and you have enough good lines here to take out the ones that aren’t – you just need to go over it yourself and ask that same question.
The narrator obviously knows his friends intimately, describing them all with pointed yet delicate wit. And although the foodie talk is somewhat technical and might be fairly mysterious to the uninitiated, your inventive and colourful phrasing really opens the reader’s mind up to it. You are perfectly fine at making inanities sound important, which is no mean gift in a writer.
And then you went and ruined it all. The world’s most inept robber makes his way in, straight out of nowhere – and he’s black, of course, this is very important – and tries to rob the party. Quite apart from the fact that you had absolutely no change in style or tone (how long do you think the smarmy self-absorbed inner monologue of a drunken yuppie lasts when you hold him at gunpoint? This is worse than Will and Grace.), from the very moment Virgil turns up you have ripped some catastrophic logic holes in your own plot. Did he want money? Why didn’t he follow someone down a dark alley, or rob a gas station? It would be the more regular procedure.
But the denouement is ludicrous in its forced implausibility. You cannot neutralise an armed robber, no matter how nervous or reluctant or regretful he may be, by offering him Chablis and canapes. I appreciate the absurd in fiction, I really do. But if you intended this to be absurd, you did a piss poor job of showing it. You kept on in this same tone, keeping the urbane bon mots coming, comparing Jake’s careful handling of the intruder with with his careful prevention of a dollop of mango salsa landing on the skirt of some pointless woman somewhere. Mango salsa does not matter in life and death situations. And frankly, there’s a strong implication that the only thing separating Virgil and the rest of the company is a bottle of ’94 Chateau Malescot once in a while. That’s naive, risible, and frankly sickening. Anyone reading this would think Al Quaeda probably have a point about the irreparable decadence of Western society.
I like this. I have a few stylistic critiques. Firstly, for a short story you spend a lot of time preparing the characters and not much time using them if you know what I mean? Virgil (good name) obviously has the least preparation and yet has the most impact.
Secondly the white/black divide is a bit assumed, a little more concrete and stereotyped than it needs to be. And the knowledge of many things in the story assumes prior knowledge… like watching the Skins in the National… if you don’t know what that means then you’re stuck, you know?
The only other point is a little grammar touching-up to make the story that little easier to read in parts. But as I said these are just stylistic points for the most part… on the whole I like the story and the way you present it. Nice!
There are many things I like about this story so far. You set up the sense of place quickly with specific imagery. Great tension created immediately. I expected conflict with the neighbors instead.
The one major change I suggest big time, take this from a former editor: delete the first 2 1/2 pages. It’s really not addressed anymore, the scene is the kitchen, the meal, and backyard
Subject/Theme: disparity, friendship, forgiveness.
Protagonist: I wonder if instead saying his white, you might describe his mannerisms, skin, hair, etc. instead and give the reader a visual.
Antagonist: Virgil
peripherals: running into problems with too many characters by 7/17. I know this is a “long” short story but characters should be limited to 2 maybe 5 at the most. Narrator, Beggar, Jake, Tiz, Annabelle, Melbourne, even mention of Clare, it’s getting difficult to keep track. Now Virgil.
Conflict/Crisis: besides the beggar scene I don’t see any pressing issue to be resolved. 11/17 crisis. Climax, Virgil leaving. Resolution: narrator’s change of thinking towards Virgil (possibly beggar).
Point of View: First Person
Plot: By pg.9 I am wondering where this story is going and what the plotline is. At this point: I wonder thep purpose for the beggar scene, and why so much has been devoted to the dinner. I can imply the contrasts of the two events. But I don’t know what your attention is.
setting: Eastern seaboard, neighborhood, apartment, dinner party
imagery: very good description of Jake.
“Salami fingers,” 5/17 great. I can see how Melbourne could fill the door frame.
“cliff diver, troubled by his own wake in the lagoon.” – 2nd lastL very nice imagery and metaphor.
Most of this can be applied throughout.
Nitpicker’s list:
1stL: in D.C. and Baltimore we referred the homes as “row houses.”
L3,2/17 delete wordiness for ease of reading, for example, “in my wallet, I had had to pay …”> “I had one … I paid with my debit card.”
Last 3rdL 2/17 This is tricky. “That’s all I have on me…” I began to say. If you said it, it would be in qoutes. If you were about to say it, then without quoutes. I would eliminate the ellipses either way, since the narrator didn’t address any further thought.
L10,5/17 “Jake threw in …”>>”flew in …”
L9, 8/17 typo “diRaphael.”
L3, 12/17 cut, “Was that echo foreshadowing our end?” Yes that was foreshadowing. Let the reader take that image in, don’t tell him.
Introducing Virgil as a psuedonym (by fictious name) seems like an unimportant side note, since now he is the antagonist and very powerful.
14/17 Nice twist to plotline. Reminds me of a real event just lately where basically the same thing happened and ended in a group hug, and I think an arrest.
“Eucharistic paten,” is a nice touch but so far I think the first religous symbolism, and since a paten is basically metal and holds communion wafers I think it is awkward with the stains. It just sounds confusing. Maybe Jake is holding some kind of serving dish or something?
Last 3rdL of 15/17 formatting ’, “I’m going to leave now.”
The neighborhood scene does play a part in Virgil’s thinking but it doesn’t greatly affect the story.
I hope you like this, I worked hard on it. Writing reviews helps me to create art. Blessings, Gregory. and please pardon MY grammar!
They didn’t know my name either. “Yo Big Guy,” they called. I threw up my arm up in the air as I walked to the car..” Take out a .
“Jesus Christ, did this guy study rhetoric?” I think you misspelled something.
“His etouffees (last week’s included FedEx-ed alligator sausage), mussels marinara (a la Diablo for the adventurous), and yellowtail ceviche (he called it Triton’s Manna), assuaged any ill feelings lingering beneath the palate.” Did you mean plate?
“He tested the tested of the lamb with his thumb – he knew the temperature by the bounce – before placing it back into the heat.” I think you put tested 2 times on accident
““Don’t give her too much attention or he won’t leave you alone all night,” I told Annabelle. ” You say her then he, I think you meant she.
“A short time passed, seats were assigned, placecards on top of napkins, and we sat down to the beginning of the meal.” I think you meant for the beginning of the meal.”
So far this is a good story, I can’t finish it unfortunately. I didn’t notice anything else wrong with it that I didn’t already mention, and I wish you the best of luck in your future writings.
I don’t get where the kid comes in in the story. Did you ever introduce a kid? Tiz is an adult, right?
A great deal of sensory details. Just when I was getting literary- and asking so where’s the climax- the gun toting Virgil walks in. Well done.
Great set of characters in a totally mapped out scene. Nice piece.
Your vignette with the beggar has great promise, but I think is cut off far too shortly to amount to more than a curiosity. I suggest you examine why that incident is in the story and really give it the space and words to explore that idea. At the least, carry it through to the police car scaring the bum away, to give the section a better since of closure and transition. Your initial passages describing Jake were, on the other hand very colorful, image-generating, and sufficiently brief to present an easily absorbed package.
I’m pretty sure you need to go over the manuscript and correct a bevy of self-contradictions or near-contradictions. At first I thought it was me and that I didn’t know how to cook or that I wasn’t clear on lingo, but by almost half way through it became clear that there really are contradictory statements strewn throughout the story. The clarity came when Annabelle met the dog, and the narrator refers to the dog as both a “her” and a “he” in the same sentence. Earlier, I was taken aback that the narrator was enjoying smalltalk with Meat, but maybe watching television? Not sure. And I was confused by the juxtaposition of lamb, fish and pepperoni at the same time in the same meal. Among other things. Broadly, I think you’re trying to be too clever in your use of language; that’s where most of my confusion is coming in. Either that, or I’m not nearly as sophisticated in my use of language as I ought to be. For instance, you describe a “stiletto glint of steel”, then present us with a gun. I was again taken aback, expecting to be presented with a stiletto, or something similar.
The story finds its heart when Virgil enters the narrative. The description of him is vivid and full of hidden meaning. His reaction to being offered a glass of wine is an entire story in itself. The narration recognizing that fact is its own encapsulated tale. I’m inclined to say you should have tied the Virgil incident and the panhandler incident more closely together thematically. They seem to beg comparison.
Overall, I think you have a very good idea of where you are going with this story and you’re rather pithy and interesting in the way you are trying to convey it. It seems you spent a pretty good amount of time putting in the details and developing your characters: they are very believeable as people and I enjoy how you rendered them.
The only thing I would really work on is tightening up the perspective which, let’s face it, many writers have a difficult time with! Perhaps, you could try beginning your sentences with ‘I’ less. In the beginning of the story, you start with ‘You’ an awful lot, but this lessens as the story continues on.
You definitely have the potential to get your work published, though, just work a few of those small things. Hope that helps.
Nice interplay with the characters and a well executed twist. It kept me interested until the end. I liked the fact you could feel empathy with all the characters even Virgil.
On a technical point, I found there were some strange comma usage especially towards the beginning. Sometimes you would put commas in places where they just don’t seem to fit. A couple of re-reads by you or friends would help rectify this.
Also this paragraph: “Forward thinking, Jake was. On another less calamitous occasion, we had a double date. My dollar, his swordfish steaks…” left me a bit confused. I was wondering if the story had just moved on or what. Doesn’t seem relevant to the story.
You have talent and this was on the whole well written.
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