After the plague Stories

T. Coraghessan Boyle

Book - 2001

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New York : Viking 2001.
Main Author
T. Coraghessan Boyle (-)
Physical Description
303 p.
  • Termination dust
  • She wasn't soft
  • Killing babies
  • Captured by the Indians
  • Achates McNeil
  • Mexico
  • The love of my life
  • Rust
  • Peep hall
  • Going down
  • Friendly skies
  • The black and white sisters
  • Death of the cool
  • My widow
  • The underground gardens
  • After the plague.
Review by Booklist Review

Boyle is not only a master literary craftsman but also profoundly attuned to the here and now, writing with sharp wit, supple imagination, and acute emotional sensitivity about the peculiarities of our densely populated, technology addled, and precarious world. His eight novels, including A Friend of the Earth (2000), constitute a smart, provocative, and rollicking body of outward-looking work that is more than matched by the power of his superb short stories. Five previous collections were gathered together in the knockout volume, T. C. Boyle Stories (1998), and now a new assemblage arrives that is even more remarkable than its predecessors. Here Boyle burrows deeply into the psyches of disparate characters in crisis, balancing his gift for vigorous description with insights into seemingly inexplicable behavior, moments when a person crashes through the guardrail of reason. In "She Wasn'st Soft," the surfer-bum boyfriend of a fanatic amateur athlete, stoked by suppressed resentment, does exactly the wrong thing, as does the young, fresh-out-of-rehab protagonist in "Killing Babies," a steadily escalating, many-faceted story featuring a rabid mob of anti-abortion protesters. A connoisseur of the absurd and the macabre, Boyle is intrigued with new forms of mania. "Friendly Skies" is a creepy rendering of air rage. "Peep Hall" is a sweet brave-new-world love story about an admirer of a young woman who lives in a house rigged with cameras to provide cyber-voyeurs with 24-hour Internet access. Observant, empathic, and fresh, Boyle's stories affirm literature's vital and abiding role in our culture as the lights flicker on and off and dot-coms fizzle and die. Donna Seaman

From Booklist, Copyright (c) American Library Association. Used with permission.
Review by Publisher's Weekly Review

If Boyle's progress as a novelist has been uneven his more recent narratives have not managed to achieve the acclaim of 1990's East Is East his talent for crafting amusing and startling short stories has never been in doubt. This compilation (his fifth, not counting a collected volume) culls pieces published in the New Yorker, GQ and other outlets and showcases the signature elements of his fiction: darkly comic scenarios (a surly airline passenger goes berserk and a downtrodden elementary school teacher saves the day), pitiful and realistic characters (an Internet porn addict) and mundane but serious subjects (love, overpopulation, abortion). While there's not much new ground broken here, Boyle more than makes up for the relative lack of innovation by delivering his trademark dazzler endings. In "She Wasn't Soft," a triathlete's idiot boyfriend tries to atone for his wretched behavior by drugging her rival in a race, with potentially disastrous results. And in the title story, an apocalypse leaves only a handful of people on Earth; after a disastrous experience with another survivor, the narrator learns that, even in the worst of situations, love can prevail. Boyle has matured since 1995's Without a Hero: here he relies more on language than farce or shock value, describing the relationship between two lovers who "wore each other like a pair of socks," or, conversely, a college boy who enters a girl's room and feels "like some weird growth sprung up on the unsuspecting flank of her personal space." Boyle's imagination and zeal for storytelling are in top form here, making this collection a smash. Author tour. (Sept. 10) (c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved

(c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved
Review by Library Journal Review

Boyle is already up to his sixth collection, which contains 16 stories including three prize winners. (c) Copyright 2010. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.

(c) Copyright Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.
Review by Kirkus Book Review

Aging, estrangement, generational conflict, sexual rivalry, irrational violence-oh, and the destruction of the world as we know it: these are the recurring themes explored with mordant comic finesse in 16 exuberantly in-your-face stories. The predilection for daft high-concept premises displayed in such previous collections as Boyle's If the River Was Whiskey (1989) is still very much in evidence: a female triathlete's couch-potato boyfriend works out his hidden resentments ("She Wasn't Soft"); a divorced bartender succumbs to the charms of his nubile neighbors, a houseful of college girls whose intimate moments are broadcast for Internet subscribers ("Peep Hall"); and scattered survivors in a brave new world decimated by an Ebola-like virus reenact the idyll shared by Adam and Eve, complicated ever so slightly by the presence of an angry Other Woman (the lively title story). Boyle gives us his own jaded takes on familiar literary classics-Malcolm Lowry's Under the Volcano is amusingly skewered in "Mexico," and "The Black and White Sisters" impudently echoes William Faulkner's "A Rose for Emily"-and rewrites a lurid real-life tabloid story of several years ago in "The Love of My Life." Feckless under-40s undergo farcical comeuppances in such haven't-we-been-here-before productions as "Killing Babies," "Death of the Cool," and "Termination Dust." Most interestingly, there's a repeated focus on middle-aged and older protagonists rudely awakened to grim evidence of their failing powers and inescapable mortality-as witness to the stroke victim who lies undiscovered in his backyard even after his wife stumbles to his aid ("Rust"), the aging novelist who tries and fails to reconcile with his resentful estranged son ("Achates McNeil"), and the ghost who watches sorrowfully as his surviving spouse grows ever further distanced from reality ("My Widow"). A bit darker and harsher, perhaps, than earlier collections, but on the whole pretty much the same kind of thing this writer has been cranking out since the late '70s. If you like Boyle, you won't be able to resist. Author tour

Copyright (c) Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

After the Plague, Termination Dust TERMINATION DUST There were a hundred and seven of them, of all ages, shapes and sizes, from twenty-five- and thirty-year-olds in dresses that looked like they were made of Saran Wrap to a couple of big-beamed older types in pantsuits who could have been somebody's mother-and I mean somebody grown, with a goatee beard and a job at McDonald's. I was there to meet them when they came off the plane from Los Angeles, I and Peter Merchant, whose travel agency had arranged the whole weekend in partnership with a Beverly Hills concern, and there were a couple other guys there too, eager beavers like J. J. Hotel, and the bad element, by which I mean Bud Withers specifically, who didn't want to cough up the hundred fifty bucks for the buffet, the Malibu Beach party and the auction afterward. They were hoping for maybe a sniff of something gratis, but I was there to act as a sort of buffer and make sure that didn't happen. Peter was all smiles as we came up to the first of the ladies, Susan Abrams, by her nametag, and started handing out corsages, one to a lady, and chimed out in chorus, "Welcome to Anchorage, Land of the Grizzly and the True-Hearted Man!" Well, it was pretty corny-it was Peter's idea, not mine-and I felt a little foolish with the first few (hard-looking women, divorcées for sure, maybe even legal secretaries or lawyers into the bargain), but when I saw this little one with eyes the color of glacial melt about six deep in the line, I really began to perk up. Her nametag was done in calligraphy, hand-lettered instead of computer-generated like the rest of them, and that really tugged at me, the care that went into it, and I gave her hand a squeeze and said, "Hi, Jordy, welcome to Alaska," when I gave her the corsage. She seemed a little dazed, and I chalked it up to the flight and the drinks and the general party atmosphere that must certainly have prevailed on that plane, one hundred and seven single women on their way for the Labor Day weekend in a state that boasted two eligible bachelors for every woman, but that wasn't it at all. She'd hardly had a glass of chablis, as it turned out-what I took to be confusion, lethargy, whatever, was just wonderment. As I was later to learn, she'd been drawn to the country all her life, had read and dreamed about it since she was a girl growing up in Altadena, California, within sight of the Rose Bowl. She was bookish-an English teacher, in fact-and she had a new worked-leather high-grade edition of Wuthering Heights wedged under the arm that held her suitcase and traveling bag. I guessed her to be maybe late twenties, early thirties. "Thank you," she said, in this whispery little voice that made me feel about thirteen years old all over again, and then she squinted those snowmelt eyes to take in my face and the spread of me (I should say I'm a big man, one of the biggest in the bush around Boynton, six-five and two-forty-two and not much of that gone yet to fat), and then she read my name off my nametag and added, in a deep-diving puff of a little floating wisp of a voice, "Ned." Then she was gone, and it was the next woman in line (with a face like a topographic map and the grip of a lumberjack), and then the next, and the next, and all the while I'm wondering how much Jordy's going to go for at the auction, and if a hundred and twenty-five, which is about all I'm prepared to spend, is going to be enough. The girls-women, ladies, whatever-rested up at their hotel for a while and did their ablutions and ironed their outfits and put on their makeup, while Peter and Susan Abrams fluttered around making sure all the little details of the evening had been worked out. I sat at the bar drinking Mexican beer to get in the mood. I'd barely finished my first when I looked up and who did I see but J.J. and Bud with maybe half a dozen local types in tow, all of them looking as lean and hungry as a winter cat. Bud ignored me and started chatting up the Anchorage boys with his eternal line of bullshit about living off the land in his cabin in the bush outside Boynton-which was absolutely the purest undiluted nonsense, as anybody who'd known him for more than half a minute could testify-but J.J. settled in beside me with a combination yodel and sigh and offered to buy me a drink, which I accepted. "Got one picked out?" he said, and he had this mocking grin on his face, as if the whole business of the Los Angeles contingent was a bad joke, though I knew it was all an act and he was as eager and sweetly optimistic as I was myself. The image of a hundred and seven women in their underwear suddenly flashed through my mind, and then I pictured Jordy in a black brassiere and matching panties, and I blushed and ducked my head and tried on an awkward little smile. "Yeah," I admitted. "I'll be damned if Mr. Confidence down there"-a gesture for Bud, who was neck-deep in guano with the weekend outdoorsmen in their L. L. Bean outfits-"doesn't have one too. Says he's got her room number already and told her he'd bid whatever it takes for a date with her, even if he had to dip into the family fortune." My laugh was a bitter, strangled thing. Bud was just out of jail, where he'd done six months on a criminal mischief charge for shooting out the windows in three cabins and the sunny side of my store on the main street-the only street-in downtown Boynton, population 170. He didn't have a pot to piss in, except what he got from the VA or welfare or whatever it was-it was hard to say, judging from the way he seemed to confuse fact and fiction. That and the rattrap cabin he'd built on federal land along the Yukon River, and that was condemned. I didn't even know what he'd done with his kid after Linda left him, and I didn't want to guess. "How'd he even get here?" I said. J.J. was a little man with a bald pate and a full snow-white beard, a widower and a musician who cooked as mean a moose tritip with garlic and white gravy as any man who'd come into the country in the past ten years. He shrugged, set his beer mug down on the bar. "Same as you and me." I was incredulous. "You mean he drove? Where'd he get the car?" "All I know's he told me last week he had this buddy was going to lend him a brand-new Toyota Land Cruiser for the weekend and that furthermore, he was planning on going home to Boynton with the second Mrs. Withers, even if he did have to break down and shell out the one fifty for the party and all. It's an investment, he says, as if any woman'd be crazy enough to go anyplace with him, let alone a cabin out in the hind end of nowhere." I guess I was probably stultified with amazement at this point, and I couldn't really manage a response. I was just looking over the top of my beer at the back of Bud's head and his elbow resting on the bar and then the necks of his boots as if I could catch a glimpse of the plastic feet he's got stuffed in there. I'd seen them once, those feet, when he first got back from the hospital and he came round the store for a pint of something, already half drunk and wearing a pair of shorts under his coat though it was minus thirty out. "Hey, Ned," he said to me in this really nasty, accusatory voice, "you see what you and the rest of them done to me?," and he flipped open the coat to show his ankles and the straps and the plastic feet that were exactly like the pink molded feet of a mannequin in a department store window. I was worried. I didn't want to let on to J.J., but I knew Bud, I knew how smooth he was-especially if you weren't forewarned-and I knew women found him attractive. I kept thinking, What if it's Jordy he's after?, but then I told myself the chances were pretty remote, what with a hundred and seven eager women to choose from, and even if it was-even if it was-there were still a hundred and six others and one of them had to be for me. --From After the Plague: and other Stories by T. C. Boyle (c) September 2001, Viking Press, a division of Penguin Putnam, used by permission. Excerpted from After the Plague: And Other Stories by T. C. Boyle All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.