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 a few 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 still had the Christmas lights up. 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 offered up 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 French inflections she pigeoned on her 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 a place to regularly bathe. He didn’t have another job. He was too good at the one he had.
“Repo Man,” Tiz surrounded with finger quotes. “Who decides that profession on career day?”
“It’s certainly recession proof,” 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’re just playing their part in food chain, the environment.”
“The analogy only works halfway.” Jake said. “Vultures, fine, I get it. But explain to me the importance of the possum carcass with the tread marks on its back.”
Meat stood up his knees knocked against the table, he took the request as rhetorical. The water 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 played at the softness of the tablecloth’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.
“Let me see your hands,” our new unexpected guest said to me, but he had the gun pointed at the child. It was the color of charcoal and took a clip from the bottom. The gun seemed an extension of his arm. Same effect Jake had holding a spatula.
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 (we didn’t get his actual name, it just makes the story better 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 two 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.
“Hey, would you like a glass of wine? We have an extra one poured,” Jake stepped in to say. 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 placemat. 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 is.
“I… 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’s front tooth popped out, that Tiz and Jake exchanged a knowing glance, that I coughed or Virgil shifted his weight. But these would be lies. 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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This short story is written in chronological form in what seems to be a short temporal distance from the event with the exception of a flashback of indeterminate distance.
The opening sentence is good. It’s a little prophetic and that’s a wonderful thing. Dominoes too tight to fall? Sounds like a dare. Very good. The next sentence is too much, the sun always sets in the west when it sets, otherwise it isn’t in the west. I’d leave that part out.
I’m a little in the dark as to the relationship of the people at the dinner party. Some small introductions wouldn’t hurt. I’d like to know what the evening’s about, who initiated it…Who is Tiz? Why is she there? Whose friend is she? Is she the narrator’s girlfriend? Jakes? Just tell us how old Annabelle is, it helps the setting.
OH MY GOD the food talk. I love the way you don’t talk down to us, you tell us about the amuse bouche without telling us what amuse bouche means; that’s great. People don’t know…they can look it up. If you were apologetic about your knowledge of fine cooking as a writer, it would have made a wishy-washy contrast with the attitude of the narrators’ perception of the gunman. Well done.
I got a little confused about Annabelle’s age…I see that “Tiz is watching her goddaughter tonight.” For a second I’m thinking she’s not coming. Then Annabelle shows up with a loose tooth.
I’m not thinking kid, yet, I’m thinking rickets, but other reviewers don’t seem to be having that trouble, maybe you could ask others specifically about that. Could just be me.
The writing is confident and palatable with the possible exception of a fondness for latinate word choices that can make it a little overdone. There is enough rich language here not to have to belabor a simple phrase. If you can make it simpler, it’s invariably better. “Like leftovers supplementing the bouillabaisse.” Supplementing could be made into a stronger verb.
Watch verb forms:
”With this, smiles abounded, we topped our wine, and toasted the Skins’ rookie quarterback.” Should be “smiles abounding,” if you really want to keep that verb. I’m guessing there is a stronger verb that would fit better.
Watch your rhythm: ”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.” All of these sentences are rhythmically similar, and that makes it stutter. Break them up. Something like
“Jake disappeared through the glass doors and began nestling vegetable-oiled newpaper balls under the coals of the Weber (do we care whose grill it is?). As hickory smoke puffed through the kitchen window it mingled with aromatics (tell us how this effects you here maybe? “At this point my stomach was twisting like that paper bag in American Beauty. Meat pointed with his stogy toward the Basilica. The heat from the grill made it shimmer like a movie mirage.”
Next paragraph: I held the two glasses of wine palm up with my right while I answered the second knock with my left. (foretells confrontation)
I measured the distances between Virgil (the gunman, a pseudonym, it makes it easier having something to call him), Annabelle, and Tiz. Naming this guy serves no purpose and intrudes a little on the story, taking the reader “out of the fictional dream”. You want to be wary of conveying false emotional closeness.
I like a deadpan delivery, but a hint of emotional reaction among the banter wouldn’t be a bad thing. Especially when you do it in that show-it don’t tell-it way you do.
Very good job. Really nice to read something with more sophisticated language and construction in here.
i just have a few questions for you. It’s not something I need answered, but something you as the author need to know. Who is this story about? Is it about Declan or another character? You need to know this because right now I’m not sure who it is about.
Also, other than this being a very scary event, why did you chose this night to write about? What changed about Declan or his friends that night? Did it do anything to what they had once thought?
I think if you look at your story with these questions in mind you might see more ways to delve into the characters and allow us to see more about who they are and allow us to connect to them.
Good luck!
The first sentence doesn’t seem to flow right to me. Maybe if you cut “row” it would read better.
“stage-right nostril” I think that confuses the matter more than if you just said “left” or “right” nostril.
You go from describing the neighbors to already having the herbs. Where did you go? The farmer’s market, the grocery store? At first I thought you got them from the neighbors, until you mentioned the debit card.
I like the inner commentary when Marvin approaches.
“Around my house, people live.” That seems like a pointless statement to me.
“kids, rose bushes” – nice and subtle. I like that. I like “Tonka traffic” too.
You have a good sense of humor.
“I walked in through the patio door to Jake was toiling away,” I think that would make more sense if you cut “was”.
“calamari nee fish bait” I don’t think “nee” is the right word there- it implies that it was born fish bait, but changed its name to calamari.
“like a crumbling Chinese cookie” nice touch.
“but the tone keeps its note.” How about “tone stayed constant” – I think you’re mixing metaphors.
“Your safe, Deco.” that should be “You’re”. I was kind of disappointed the vegetarian didn’t come. I wanted to see how she’d get along with someone named “Meat”.
Deco, Declan… is this the narrator’s name? I think you should make that clear earlier in the story.
Give us a clue why the narrator thinks of this gunman as Virgil. The scene with him is fantastic, by the way. Very well done. With a little polishing, I think you should be able to find a publisher. Good luck.
The narrative and descriptions on the first page are amazing. I like where you said “Jake occasionally pays rent.” The last paragraph of the first page is a wonderful discription of the is forget-the-cable-bill gorgeous sister. Great satire. Great dialogue with Marvin. Good gritty description of Brooklyn.
“zesting blood oranges with his favorite microplane.” Can i ask what this means, please?
You are an excellent writer. Your work is smooth. I can see Jake with his hands in cornmeal breading calamari. You are slowley starving the interviewer to death.
Annabelle—loose tooth hahahahaha. Amazingly clever and funny
wow, this is true literature. I am humbled and happy to see this kind of writing. What an ending. I never expected this. I am so glad i read this. It is amazing how you set it up. the food the wine the family atmosphere. The quick thinking of Jake was a stroke of genuis. “Did you know there’d be a little girl here?” she said How amazing was this? What this little girl said humanized the family and made them real to Virgil. The ending where Virgil may have saw something like this setting in HIS past was a great wonderful ending. THIS SHOULD BE PUBLISHED. I HAVE NO SUGGESTIONS. iT IS PERFECT THE WAY IT IS. KUDOS SANDI K.
I did review this once before, an earlier version. It came back to me as I read.
The story, the detail, and the sentiments I like. I have some problems with the presentation.
Some of your phrasing is probably deliberate style, but does not work for me.
You make your reader work hard, in some parts that is good, in others it is disruptive. You also like to leave out links and some of the details that would make for easier reading.
I’ll suggest changes, ignore them of course if you wish. My use of ”...” shows where I am saving you credits by ommitting words.
I’ll skip silly things, e.g. “to Jake was toiling away” (missing “to”), you’ll catch them as you edit some more. You also need to check some of the missing or misplaced commas.
Here we go:
“Jake occasionally pays rent.” I’d like this preceded by “I don’t live here alone”, introducing the concept of a Jake before naming him.
” The utility bills..He has a propensity..extended spin.” Join these three sentences, a list after a semi-colon.-> ” The utility bills jumped after he moved into the second bedroom, he has expensive propensities;...”
“But the arrangement..cook.” You promise us two reasons, but then apperently forget the second, it finally arrives as though an afterthought. – >
“However, the arrangement..reasons. First, he can cook, and I mean really cook.”
“The second reason..but notice” Start this with a new paragraph. ->”The second reason, though hardly less significant,...”
“The first things you can’t help but notice ” My suggested changes means driopping the “first things” However, this still needs changing – you are going from focusing on Jake (“his sister”) to directly discussing his sister.” -> “When loking at her, you can’t help but notice those questioning gingersnap eyes and that most strategically placed mole”....
“An ethno-ambiguous ” -> “She has an ethno-ambiguous”
“The mission was a success.” past tense, ” Walking to my car a bearded”, present tense. -> “Although the mission became a success…it wasn’t without incident”...
““Okay,” I said as I made my way…..Dan “Meat” Melbourne,”
You are asking us to backfill telling Jake about the incident, then suddenly “Meat at the door” is the subject. Very confusing. Introduce the change of subject. “I turned back to see Meat…”
“At least in Meat’s variant. “If you get that wine ”” – you are moving from future to present. Add something after “variant” to let us know we are back in the present.
“Wilde bounced ” – introduce her properly “Wilde, the dog, bounced “
” Tiz spun me around as she uncoiled ” Inconsistent, if you are opening the door, why does she need to spin you around?
“All night, she was playing at one” – > “All night, she would be playing at one”
(Skipping backwards and forwards in time again, confusing).
I think it would be better to directly let us know her age when you introduce her – but up to you, if you want us to have to work to find out.
“Wilde nuzzled at his hams.” Make this easy for us -> “Wilde nuzzled at his hams, as though in anticipation.”
““Give me your money,” our guest said ” -> ““Give me your money,” our new guest said “
“This was a bit too much for one day.” Again, make this easier (where were these guys) for us -> “First Marvin, now Virgil, this was…”
“that nail was long and purpose serving. ”. Explain this, for those that don’t know.
“end up in her lap.“I think I’m at the wrong house…”” – again, announce the return from past to present here.
“this time with definitiveness” – ugly! -> “this time definitively”
“he walked out of the gate” -> “he walked out of our lives, through the gate”
“The rest you know from the police report.” – > “The rest you can find out from the police report.”
Hope this is helpful.
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.
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 would like a little more background on the the author and how he came to know Jake and Tiz and Meat. What things do they share in common that shape thier reaction to the robber.
I read through this because I don’t like to start stories and stop in the middle. That’s not true of all readers. Not only is there not a hook in the first paragraph, there’s really nothing interesting going on until Virgil breaks in. Even then, I’m having trouble figuring out his motivation.
Don’t take this as a slam of the writing itself. Lyrically, it works. There’s a flow, a rhythm in the piece, and it will be even better with another editing pass to take out some superfluous words and phrases. That made it easy to get through. You didn’t drop big words. You just talked about what you know, in a language we can all understand.
Jeff is a great character. I love the descriptions of him, and like his actions even more. The way he handled Virgil was perfect. Fit right into the script. In fact, I had teh feeling that there was nothing else he could have done in the situation.
I can see the story appealing to foodies, obviously. And since that’s a current trend, the story works in that regard. However, as I said above, there’s just no hook for those of us who don’t like to read about food.
I guess the overall point is: why? Why all the detail, when all the action lies in the last 1/4 of the story? I don’t mean to sound harsh, but I can’t help but be honest.
Like the dominos stacked too close to topple analogy
The near spill crisis seems a bit overplayed unless meant to be comical, which it seems is what you’re going for
Transfer from beauty queen to errand seems too abrupt- add a line about paradise fading back to reality or something
Describe beggar more-homeless and dirty or lazy and shiftless? And how pray tell, you know his name-I see you discuss him a bit later-do like the anxious escape-I would have had him toss the apple after one bite-a distinguishing connoisseur
Patio door to see/find Jake toiling away
I would have to add some sort of meat-head comment
Water-free toilets-yikes!
Scarf-contraption a new fashion setter-hope not
More physical descriptions of your characters would help me keep track of who’s who-when they gather I get a bit lost
Such an elaborate menu makes it seem as if this is targeted for a fine dining magazine
Big galoot-or not
Didn’t expect gunplay in the middle of a rather high-brow comedy-kudos
I don’t know if victims, other than cops, can past the gun long enough to recall such vivid detail of assailant’s face-fear tends to make one avoid eye-contact
No watches-jewelry-what about prominent octopus pendant?
Bit fingernails nice touch
Seems to me Annabelle is of an age where she would have reacted by crying or screaming bang-bang cowboy or something
I feel as if there was a lesson to be learned, but can’t figure out exactly what it is-other than installing a peep-hole and keeping your doors locked
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