The Price of the Haircut by Brock Clarke

Published by Algonquin Books on March 13, 2018

The Price of the Haircut is a collection of tragicomic (or in a few cases, twistedly comic) stories that blend humor with perception. After the mayor in “The Price of the Haircut” tells the city that a race riot wasn’t caused by yet another shooting of an unarmed black man by a white cop, but by a quarrel over a barber’s racist remark after he gave an $8 haircut, the white narrator and his friends lament all the bad but expensive haircuts they’ve had. They want to save money and get a bad haircut for only $8, but can they patronize a barber who makes racist remarks? The frivolous logic they employ to wrestle with their moral dilemma is hilarious, but the story’s larger point concerns the willingness of white people to pretend that racism doesn’t exist while agreeing that if it did exist, it would be awful, a point they would happily make in a patronizing and self-congratulatory way to their black friends if they had any.

In the volume’s most bizarre story, “Our Pointy Boots,” young men and women ask the question: “How does the thing that promises to be different, the thing that promises to make you feel good, end up making you feel as bad as everything else?” After they return from war (except for the one who died), the same young men and women just want to march around the Public Square in the pointy boots they thought would make them feel good. This is a tragically funny story that lampoons all the clichés about returning veterans and reminds us that people are individuals, not clichés. Ultimately the story is about the importance of holding onto something that makes us feel good during all those times when feeling good seems very far away. And it’s about the importance of holding onto ourselves if all else fails.

In “The Pity Palace,” a man in Italy is too sad to venture outside of his home because his wife left him for Mario Puzo. After jettisoning the friends who warned him that he needs to go outside if he wants to keep his friends, he has no one to take care of him, compounding his desperate loneliness. His former friends have circulated flyers inviting people to visit the man’s home, which they have dubbed “The Pity Palace,” in order to pity him. Feeling pity for the man makes visitors feel better about their own lives (except for those who complain that he isn’t pitiful enough), which says something sad but honest about human nature. The story’s kicker lies in the growing realization that the man is even more pitiful than he appears to be.

“What Is the Cure for Meanness?” should be a sad story told by a young boy about his mean father and emotionally wrecked mother, and while it is a sad story, it’s also very funny. The son is trying to avoid his father’s meanness and is only partially successful, although he’s more insensitive than mean to his mom. But their life is filled with misfortune — everything the mother cares about dies or leaves — and maybe meanness is the natural response. Still, as the title suggests, meanness might not be inevitable.

The narrator of “Concerning Lizzie Borden, Her Axe, My Wife” is a research-obsessed husband who is afraid to lose his wife to her congenital heart defect and is instead losing her to his inability to give her the space she needs. That doesn’t sound funny, and it’s not, but the tour of Lizzie Borden’s house (which frat boys have mistaken for porn star Lezzie Borden’s house) is hysterical.

“The Misunderstandings” is narrated by an unemployed man whose takes his unhappy family to dinners at local restaurants, each leading to misunderstandings that lead to more family dinners at other restaurants, all paid for by restaurant owners in sort of a “pay it forward” spirit. Speaking of family dinners, one of my favorite stories in the volume is “That Which We Will Not Give,” a celebration of family stories that are repeated every year at Thanksgiving dinners and other barbaric family rituals.

“The Grand Canyon” is a five-page run-on sentence that describes a moment in a woman’s honeymoon when she considers how to paint the Grand Canyon and whether the painting should include her husband masturbating into it. “Children Who Divorce,” a story about jealousy, imagines that child actors reunite to act in updated, dinner theater versions of their original productions, minded by a doctor who tends to the actors with daily group therapy sessions (the current group suffers from Gene Wilder withdrawal).

Brock Clarke has a knack for creating strange — sometimes bizarre — situations or characters, and finding within them those things that are common to us all. The stories encourage readers not just to laugh, but to understand people and their lives in new ways, to understand how other people are, in fundamental ways, just like us, not matter how unlike us they might be.

RECOMMENDED

Semiosis by Sue Burke

Published by Tor Books on February 6, 2018

In its infancy (both in its Golden Age and for years thereafter), science fiction took human supremacy as a given. Humans were viewed as superior to aliens and were destined to prevail in conflicts. A few writers (Clifford D. Simak among them) took a contrary approach, writing stories in which aliens had a lot to teach stupidly aggressive humans, but even today, the notion of human supremacy is alive and well in science fiction.

The best science fiction asks us to question our assumptions. Semiosis questions the assumption of human supremacy without denigrating human nature. Two forms of alien life come into contact with a human colony. One faction of humans condemns both alien species because, well, they aren’t human. A competing faction argues in favor of mutualism. Neither perspective is presented in a simplistic way, giving rise to the kind of debate that invites the reader to decide how humans might best interact with intelligent nonhuman aliens, if and when we meet them.

The first alien life form is a sentient plant, or more broadly, the most intelligent plant in an ecosystem. Different kinds of self-aware plants with varying degrees of intelligence communicate with each other chemically. Other life forms on the planet (flippokats are fun, flippolions less so, and bats have rudimentary language) interact with humans, but only the plants manipulate them.

Fifty human colonists on a distant world called Pax want to create a place that exists in harmony with nature. Global warming is ravaging Earth, so the colonists are looking to do better than the humans they left behind. They have a fine constitution dedicated to peace, freedom, and equality. Of course, by the time the second generation matures, the first generation has become repressive, outlawing time-wasting notions like art and forcing women to breed. Such is the nature of humanity; fine ideas give way to our worst instincts when things aren’t going well.

The novel follows the human colonists through seven generations. Each generational chapter is narrated by a human from that generation. The question for each generation of colonists is whether the plants can be trusted. Plants can synthesize chemicals, but chemicals can be beneficial or toxic. Will humans control the plants, will plants control the humans, or will plants and people work together to attain their mutual goals? The reader is likely to revise tentative answers to those questions repeatedly as the story moves forward.

The second generation comes upon a city in which glass has clearly been shaped as art and for utilitarian uses. The colonists dub the city’s original inhabitants “the Glassmakers,” but humans do not encounter an actual Glassmaker until later in the story, after the first few generations have become part of colonial history. The Glassmakers are the second alien race to interact with the human colony, but they seem to be more primitive and confrontational than the beautiful city they left behind would suggest.

Whether the Glassmakers are good or evil is no more easy to answer than whether humans are good or evil. Forgiveness is, for some, a human virtue, but we sometimes find it easier to forgive ourselves and our friends than people who are not in our own circle. Can we learn to forgive aliens for their harmful behavior, even if their behavior was based on a misunderstanding of humans? Will they forgive us for misunderstanding them?

Understanding another human is difficult enough for humans; understanding an alien might be an impossible task. Semiosis suggests that it is a task that, at best, will require multiple generations of effort on the part of both humans and aliens. But in the end, understanding the universe and all of its inhabitants is worthwhile, and the need to pursue understanding rather than conflict is at the heart of the best science fiction. Semiosis easily falls into the category of “the best” science fiction. In the depth of its story and of its characters, Semiosis is award-worthy.

RECOMMENDED

The Disappeared by C.J. Box

Published by G.P. Putnam's Sons on March 27, 2018

Much like the current president, the new governor in Joe Pickett’s Wyoming is a wealthy Republican who doesn’t pay his bills and tries to sell himself as one of the common folk. Joe famously conducted investigations for the former governor, so the new governor decides to give him a try. A British CEO named Kate disappeared in Saratoga, Wyoming, and for reasons that have something to do with budget cuts and passive-aggressive bureaucrats, local law enforcement officers are dragging their spurs instead of finding her. The new governor wants Joe to track down the missing woman because the governor cares about getting bad press in British tabloids.

Kate was last seen at an expensive resort where (oh happy coincidence!) Joe’s youngest daughter Sheridan happens to be working. Nate Romanowski shows up to cause the kind of mayhem that soft-talking Joe doesn’t want to cause himself. As usual, Romanowski points his extra-large gun at everyone he meets and has to talk himself out of shooting them, unless he doesn’t. He commits a murder in just about every novel (this one included) while his law-and-order buddy Joe Pickett looks the other way. It is impossible to believe that someone as resolutely virtuous as Joe would befriend, much less enable, the psychopathic Romanowski. The hypocrisy of ticketing the governor for not having a fishing license (we hear about that in every novel) while letting Romanowski get away with all sorts of violent crimes is hard to swallow.

A subplot involves an industrial burner in which unauthorized and mysterious burning is taking place. Another subplot involves Joe’s reaction to Sheridan’s new boyfriend. I’ve learned to shake my head and ignore Joe’s antiquated notions about appropriate human behavior. There’s only one kind of “real man,” the shy but resolute cowboy who says “shucks,” rarely says more than “yup” or “nope,” and shows no hint of being a metrosexual. In other words, real men don’t have a personality. However, real men wear Carhartt coats, a brand name that appears so many times in The Disappeared I’m wondering whether C.J. Box got paid a product placement fee every time he mentioned it. Box even includes a discussion of how to dress like a real cowboy (hint: wear Carhartt). In any event, I’ve always admired Joe Pickett novels for Box’s storytelling skills more than for Joe, who is a stalwart but lackluster character, despite his choice of clothing.

As he did in Cold Wind, Box has his characters sermonize about the evils of wind energy, falsely claiming that it is more expensive than traditional fossil fuel energy while ignoring the benefits of a clean, renewable energy source. His characters are also upset that the wind-generated electricity is transmitted to California, which automatically makes it bad because California is full of metrosexuals. Box acknowledges that wind energy brings jobs to Wyoming, but one of his characters laments that wind energy cost him his job as a coal miner (clearly not true). Box ignores the fact that Wyoming coal is mined to provide power in other states. If it isn’t bad to transport Wyoming’s coal out of Wyoming, what’s wrong with transporting energy from Wyoming’s wind to other states? As anyone who has been to Wyoming knows, the state has wind to spare.

It is a legitimate concern that wind turbines kill birds (which angers Romanowski and his falconer friends), but coal mines kill people and fossil fuels cause global warming that is killing the planet. Life is full of tradeoffs. Wind energy isn’t perfect, but no energy source is. Still, don’t expect to find a balanced discussion of energy or environmental policy in Box’s books.

In addition to his disdain for clean energy, Box reprises another disappointing element of Cold Wind in The Disappeared, one that will apparently play an even stronger role in the next novel. For fear of spoiling what might be a surprise, I won’t mention it, but I will say that Cold Wind is Box’s worst novel, and he does his readers no favors by rehashing its worst plot elements in The Disappeared.

Fortunately, The Disappeared is a slightly better novel, in part because Box avoids the howlingly silly events that makes Cold Wind so utterly unbelievable. The part of the story that involves the missing Kate is interesting and credible, although it lacks suspense. Romanowski isn’t in enough scenes to ruin the book, and I can’t hold it against Box for ascribing ill-informed opinions about wind energy to his characters, given how many people have a distorted view of clean energy (presumably because they are spoon-fed their opinions by Fox News). However, the part of the story that involves mysterious activities at the burner is intended solely to advance Box’s political views by demonizing the people he disagrees with, and I regarded that as a cheap shot.

The novel’s ending is a cliffhanger setup for the next novel. I’m not sure I’ll bother to read it, as the Joe Pickett series seems to have passed its shelf life.

RECOMMENDED WITH RESERVATIONS

Gone Girl by Gillian Flynn

Published by Crown on June 5, 2012

One thing I’ve learned from reading Amazon book reviews is that many readers say they dislike books unless they like (or can identify with) a main character. Why, then, was Gone Girl such a huge success? The two principal characters, Nick and Amy, are despicable. They are selfish, self-absorbed, dishonest, and (at least with regard to one of those characters) totally evil. Yet readers love this book, and with good reason. Maybe Gone Girl will help readers understand that good fiction does not depend upon likable, virtuous characters.

I came late to Gone Girl. It’s likely that the basics of the plot are well-known but it shouldn’t be spoiled for those readers who haven’t opened the book (or seen the movie), so I will say little about it. Nick and Amy are married. Amy’s parents made good money writing a series of children’s books called Amazing Amy. Sales have dwindled in recent years and Amy’s parents have borrowed from her trust fund. Meanwhile, Nick and Amy both lost their New York publishing jobs. They move to Nick’s hometown in the Midwest, where Nick uses the last of their savings to open a bar with his sister Go. Financial burdens place a strain on their marriage.

And then Amy disappears. Disorder in the home suggests that she might have been kidnapped, but the police think the scene has been staged. A police investigation uncovers a series of clues that suggest Nick has done away with Amy. That’s all I’ll say about the plot.

The story is creative and original. It alternates point of view between Nick and Amy and, in so doing, causes the reader to reevaluate the two characters. Neither are people you’d want to have as neighbors, much less friends. But they are realistic characters, imbued with the kind of detail that brings them to life in a reader’s mind. At first, I disliked the two characters because one was too perfect and the other was too self-indulgent. Later I disliked them for entirely different reasons. The way Gillian Flynn transforms the reader’s perception of both characters as the story moves forward is the novel’s most impressive feature.

Flynn offers some strong insights into the nature of marital relationships, and more generally into the nature of men and women as they are and as they pretend to be. I also like the way she skewers self-righteous media stars (one is clearly a stand-in for Nancy Grace) who vilify men despite the absence of proof or a fair trial, happily destroying lives for the sake of ratings.

Flynn's prose is filled with wickedly clever sentences. This is an absorbing novel from start to twisted finish. If there are two characters in recent fiction readers might love to hate more than Amy and Nick, I don’t know who they are. Gone Girl is proof that readers don’t need to love the characters to love a work of fiction.

RECOMMENDED

The Girl in the Ice by Robert Bryndza

First published in Great Britain in 2016; published in paperback by Grand Central Publishing on April 24, 2018

The Girl in the Ice gives the reader a standard crime novel plot: intrepid investigator continues to pursue leads after being suspended for an insubordinate disagreement with the investigative choices made by her bureaucratic bosses, who avoid upsetting powerful people by focusing suspicion on an easy but innocent target. The plot also includes a human trafficking element, which is the current trendy crime novel crime. Standard plots and trendy crimes are fine if they are made fresh, and The Girl in the Ice manages to stand slightly above the pack of standard but trendy crime novels with interesting characters and a solid story.

When a fellow finds a dead woman in the ice, DCI Erika Foster is assigned to the case. Foster has recently transferred from Manchester to London, carrying with her some heavy emotional baggage. The dead woman is the daughter of a prominent politician (and a baron, no less). The politician happens to be the wealthy owner of a private defense contractor, so PR is important, as is a quick and favorable resolution of the crime. Foster’s Slovak background is considered good for PR given the similar heritage of the victim’s mother, until Slovak discovers that the victim’s mother considers herself superior to Foster based on the respective cities in which they were born.

The investigation leads to a pub where the dead woman met a man — a pub that people are afraid to discuss. One of the fearful witnesses ends up dead, but Foster’s superiors view that as a coincidence, not as evidence that a serial killer is on the loose.

Naturally, Foster disagrees with her superiors and concludes that a serial killer is, in fact, killing attractive young prostitutes. And naturally, the politician doesn’t want his dead daughter lumped together with prostitutes, which accounts for the reluctance of Foster’s superiors to pursue her theory. But even if the politician’s daughter wasn’t a prostitute, she might have had something in common with the other murder victims, so Foster ignores her superiors and her suspension and investigates the crime in her own way.

Despite my weariness with human trafficking plots, The Girl in the Ice held my interest. The focus is not so much on trafficking but on a murder investigation that branches in several directions, and the killer’s identity is nicely concealed until the big reveal. Robert Bryndza takes time to build his characters and establish atmosphere, but the pace picks up considerably as the novel enters thriller territory in its stretch run. Erica is a bit of a stereotype, but she’s likable, or at least sympathetic. The novel has obviously benefited from effective marketing by its original publisher, but I enjoyed it, even if some of the accolades it has earned are a bit suspect. The Girl in the Ice is the first in a series, and while I might not go out of my way to read the next one, I certainly won’t avoid it.

RECOMMENDED