The first time Lt. Finnegan pulled me over, I actually thought he was a pretty decent guy. I mean, there's no question I was going over the limit, maybe thirty-five in a residential zone, so I can't say I was surprised to see the lights flashing in my rearview mirror. I was mostly just frustrated--disappointed in myself and worried about what Eddie would say when he found out I'd gotten a speeding ticket in the company Prius after just a few weeks on the job.
The cop who tapped on my window was older than I expected, a big, white-haired guy with a white mustache, probably not too far from retirement. He looked a little bored, like he'd asked a few too many people for their license and registration over the years.
"What's the hurry, son?"
"Just running a little late." I glanced at the insulated pouches stacked on the passenger seat, in case he'd missed the magnetic decal on my door: SUSTAINABLE PIZZA...FOR THE PLANET WE LOVE. "I got stuck at the railroad crossing...."
Tom Perrotta wins attention every other minute: "Little Children" and "Election" became big-deal movies, and "The Leftovers" spawned a major prestige-TV series. But I want to put in a good word for "Nine Inches." That is Perrotta's one and only true story collection. ("Bad Haircut" is a series of stories, but the stories are linked, making the book novel-ish.) "Nine Inches" tends not to get the love it deserves, I think, just because people don't get very worked up about short stories. People want the long-term satisfaction of a novel. A short story feels too much like poetry; you have to work too hard. It seems to me that the shorter a piece is, the more its impact depends on language. And the truer that is, the harder you have to focus if you're a reader. If you have a thick mystery, you can read on autopilot, at times, and it's still likely you'll feel "sated" when you reach the end.
All that said, Perrotta holds my attention, even in the short-story form. I like how unpretentious and silly he is. Even the title of his story collection--"Nine Inches"--seems a bit sophomoric. I like that very much: This is a guy who doesn't take himself too seriously. (The cover image--a man holding a ruler in a suggestive way--also appeals to the adolescent in me.)
The first story in the collection--"Backrub"--shows off Perrotta's celebrated compassion for the losers of the world. It's about a guy who applies to several reasonable colleges and gets admitted to zero. Not because he's a slacker, not because he strategized irresponsibly. It's just a freakish once-in-a-generation occurrence: It's like getting hit by lightning. Because of this random spot of bad luck, the narrator has to live at home and deliver pizza for a year. That's the setup. (The fact that the narrator is, to some extent, simply a grade-grubbing robot...is also important. The narrator is adrift, without a passion: Nothing really "sparked joy" for him in his obedient high-school-kid years. That's easy enough to relate to, if you ask me.)
Beyond the genius of the initial idea, there's more to love in a Perrotta story. Notice the title and the first sentence: "Backrub" plus "Officer" immediately makes us feel ill-at-ease. Are we entering soft-core-porn territory here?" Also: "The first time." Why is this guy running into legal trouble more than once? And then I love the subtlety of the boy's half-nod toward his pizza boxes, because spelling out "I'm a deliveryman" might possibly insult the cop's intelligence. (And the absurdity of "SUSTAINABLE PIZZA....FOR THE PLANET WE LOVE." A smart comment on the faux-mission-driven quality many businesses feel compelled to flaunt today. What is a "sustainable pizza"?)
Being alive can be a dull and mystifying and aching experience, and Perrotta knows that, and he captures that truth for us, again and again. Literature as therapy. The stories are just as strong as the novels. Food for thought.
The cop who tapped on my window was older than I expected, a big, white-haired guy with a white mustache, probably not too far from retirement. He looked a little bored, like he'd asked a few too many people for their license and registration over the years.
"What's the hurry, son?"
"Just running a little late." I glanced at the insulated pouches stacked on the passenger seat, in case he'd missed the magnetic decal on my door: SUSTAINABLE PIZZA...FOR THE PLANET WE LOVE. "I got stuck at the railroad crossing...."
Tom Perrotta wins attention every other minute: "Little Children" and "Election" became big-deal movies, and "The Leftovers" spawned a major prestige-TV series. But I want to put in a good word for "Nine Inches." That is Perrotta's one and only true story collection. ("Bad Haircut" is a series of stories, but the stories are linked, making the book novel-ish.) "Nine Inches" tends not to get the love it deserves, I think, just because people don't get very worked up about short stories. People want the long-term satisfaction of a novel. A short story feels too much like poetry; you have to work too hard. It seems to me that the shorter a piece is, the more its impact depends on language. And the truer that is, the harder you have to focus if you're a reader. If you have a thick mystery, you can read on autopilot, at times, and it's still likely you'll feel "sated" when you reach the end.
All that said, Perrotta holds my attention, even in the short-story form. I like how unpretentious and silly he is. Even the title of his story collection--"Nine Inches"--seems a bit sophomoric. I like that very much: This is a guy who doesn't take himself too seriously. (The cover image--a man holding a ruler in a suggestive way--also appeals to the adolescent in me.)
The first story in the collection--"Backrub"--shows off Perrotta's celebrated compassion for the losers of the world. It's about a guy who applies to several reasonable colleges and gets admitted to zero. Not because he's a slacker, not because he strategized irresponsibly. It's just a freakish once-in-a-generation occurrence: It's like getting hit by lightning. Because of this random spot of bad luck, the narrator has to live at home and deliver pizza for a year. That's the setup. (The fact that the narrator is, to some extent, simply a grade-grubbing robot...is also important. The narrator is adrift, without a passion: Nothing really "sparked joy" for him in his obedient high-school-kid years. That's easy enough to relate to, if you ask me.)
Beyond the genius of the initial idea, there's more to love in a Perrotta story. Notice the title and the first sentence: "Backrub" plus "Officer" immediately makes us feel ill-at-ease. Are we entering soft-core-porn territory here?" Also: "The first time." Why is this guy running into legal trouble more than once? And then I love the subtlety of the boy's half-nod toward his pizza boxes, because spelling out "I'm a deliveryman" might possibly insult the cop's intelligence. (And the absurdity of "SUSTAINABLE PIZZA....FOR THE PLANET WE LOVE." A smart comment on the faux-mission-driven quality many businesses feel compelled to flaunt today. What is a "sustainable pizza"?)
Being alive can be a dull and mystifying and aching experience, and Perrotta knows that, and he captures that truth for us, again and again. Literature as therapy. The stories are just as strong as the novels. Food for thought.
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