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Be Amazed By This Excerpt of Keith James’ “Community Pool”

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Keith James is a straight-up Humorist Books superstar. After we published his first novel, the ambitious and hilarious Greg Maxwell’s Inferno: The Erotic, Judeo-Christian Modern-Day Odyssey No One Asked For back in 2021, we were lucky enough to receive the manuscript for his follow-up, Community Pool. Boldly original and trapising through multiple genres, sometimes all at once, it’s a profane, funny, and moving story about family, stature, identity, the nature of reality, changing course mid-stream. I can’t really do it justice here. You’re just going to have to read the first couple of chapters or so, excerpted here, and then buy the rest of this unforgettable and astonishing novel. Community Pool and Keith James, everybody!

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ONE

Chubbuck. It’s in Idaho. It’s a city or a town, I’m not really sure. It’s on the southeast side of Idaho. Close to Utah. Kind of close to Wyoming. There was a guy who, I don’t know when, would load beets and potatoes and other shit onto a supply train that stopped around Chubbuck. But it wasn’t called Chubbuck then. It was just a place. Then in 1951, it became Chubbuck. Remember the guy who was loading shit onto the train? His last name was Chubbuck.

But who cares? It’s trains and a guy. Who cares about trains? No one. 

I don’t. I know I don’t. There are so many things I have to care about. To be stressed out about. Jesus, fuck. If you think I care about some guy throwing potatoes on a train, you are damaged. You have a brain problem. You have a priorities problem.

You know what I think? If a city gets started in 1951, I think that sucks. I think that means the city is a bad place. If people wanted it, they would have gotten it well before 1951. Every good city was started in the 1800s, minimum.

Chubbuck.

If you want to get to Chubbuck, you can drive. Take the I-15 north or south and get off when your phone tells you to get off. Or the I-86 east or west. I don’t care. I don’t know where you are coming from.

And if you are reading this and are thinking, “You know, I think I have been to Chubbuck,” you haven’t. If people say this to me, this is what I say: I say, “Oh, so you’ve been to the drive-in theater.” And they say, “Sure have.”

Bzzzt. Wrong. Thanks for playing, shithead. There is no drive-in movie theater in Chubbuck. You got one in Idaho Falls and one in Rexburg. Not Chubbuck. They might have been trying to be polite by saying they’ve been to Chubbuck for the purpose of bonding, but, I don’t know. You probably haven’t been to Chubbuck, so just say that. To be fair, I’ve never been to either drive-in movie theater. Seems like a waste of time.

I don’t know why I’m stuck on “ways to get to Chubbuck,” but you can also fly into Chubbuck. Sort of. You fly into the Pocatello Regional Airport, which is on the Chubbuck side of the 86. But that’s gonna be so expensive. That’s crazy. You are gonna get on a tiny plane in Salt Lake City and fly the worst flight of your goddamn life. For what? You cut an hour off your trip? Stop it. Fly into Salt Lake and drive up. 

But I don’t know. It all depends, you know? The roads suck in the winter and no one cares. Once you get past Utah and into Idaho, no one cares. The roads suck and fuck you. You’re gonna die and that’s your fault. You are gonna drive off the road passing Rigby. The hill is too steep coming down and if you are driving a rental, there is no way you have a feel of the brakes. You are going to be in a ditch. No one is going to stop. I might stop. I take that back. I’m not going to stop. Car in a ditch? I’m not stopping. You should have flown into Pocatello Regional Airport. I know what I said before, but you just gotta play it by ear and figure some stuff out for yourself.

But, whatever. That’s what Chubbuck is. That’s where I am. Fine. Okay.

TWO

At this point in time, I’m poolside. The pool is not mine; I mean it’s a community pool so I guess it’s mine. Cronke Community Center. There is a pool. Couple little clubhouse rooms. A little park with some trees. Whatever. Cronke Community Center is in Chubbuck.

I’m poolside, lying face up on my pool chair. Sunglasses off. I don’t even have sunglasses. If I buy sunglasses I will sit on them, honest to god. What’s the point?

It’s summer so this place is packed. Kids. Adults. Families. Single men. I don’t care. Everyone is walking, sitting, or running around and it’s a lot. You have to tune it all out. A few minutes ago it sounded like someone’s kid busted their head on the concrete, but I’m tuning that out.

Why? I’m staring at the sun. And I know it’s frowned upon to stare directly at the sun. And I’m not dumb, I get why. It hurts. The damage lingers. I should know, I’ve been doing this all summer. I pick the time when the sun is right over my pool chair, and I see how long I can go. Looking at the sun. That’s what I’m doing, that’s what I want to do.

What people won’t tell you is that you can develop a tolerance to the sun. If you work at it, you can go longer. At first, I was lasting a couple seconds. I mean at first I stared at the sun by accident. But then I thought, look, I’m going to be here all summer, might as well learn to live with the sun. Grow with it. Now I can go a full minute without having to blink or turn away. Today I go 57 seconds. It’s a setback, but you’re always going to have setbacks. Life beats you down for a bit as a way of saying it’s about to get better. That’s the god’s honest truth.

To be clear, I don’t have any personal examples of this truth. Life has kicked the shit out of me for a straight 58 years. Thorough ass beatings where every part of my spirit and physical body is destroyed. It’s caused me to develop big time mental problems that I don’t want to unpack because I’m too busy getting my shit wrecked. It’s like playing whack a mole, but every mole can whack you back. And, imagine if these moles also say terrible things about you. And let’s say you married one of these moles – I’m getting ahead of myself.

Life is going bad and it does not seem to be getting better. I have researched ways to end my life. I have developed a plan of action, and have made arrangements. But, I dunno. Sometimes you see an internet cartoon or some T-shirt and you say, “Wow, there is still a little color left on this painting. There are still dreams to be had.”

I look around the pool. I try to blink all the sun spots out of my eyes. Okay, so a kid did crack his head open. Looks like he is going to be fine. Lots of paramedics and concerned faces, but I don’t know. I’ve got a good feeling.

In my left hand I’ve got a Mike’s Hard Seltzer. Aside from looking at the sun, I’ve invested a lot of my time into the hard seltzer industry. I don’t work for a hard seltzer company or anything. No, I just spend a lot of time at the gas station looking at hard seltzers. Hours. Where did they come from?

I’m a Mike’s Hard Seltzer guy. I’ve had every seltzer available and Mike’s just does it right. As good as you can, which is not great, but it’s the best. I know I said internet cartoons and T-shirts keep me off the edge, but I should also tip my cap to alcohol. 

I’m on my eighth hard seltzer. Again, it’s a hot day. You have to drink these things fast or else the can gets hot and then you’ve got a hot seltzer. If you are drinking hot seltzers you have a problem. You have a brain problem. Seltzer has to be cold. The bubbles need to be painful and the coldness plays against the pain of the bubbles. Fire and Ice. If you have a hot seltzer, there is no relief. You’re just being stupid.

I try to limit my movement on the chair because my stomach hurts from the seltzers. It’s a very specific kind of hurt I only get from drinking seltzers. I don’t think we were supposed to make seltzers hard. We shouldn’t do everything we can do, if that makes sense. I love them, though.

I go into a little trance watching the sun reflect off the surface of the pool. In your head you might imagine a sparkle of light on the water’s surface, but you would be wrong. Don’t get ahead of yourself. No, the pool has got a dull thickness to it. The pool is a publicly-owned property. We do town votes on chlorine levels in public pools. Never enough chlorine. Chlorine can’t keep up with the sunscreen and piss and you’d be surprised — I was surprised — leaked breast milk. I’ve asked around on the internet and apparently its totally normal for a woman to leak at a pool. Kids screaming, crying. Who screams and cries? Babies. So yeah, we’re leaking. And there are a lot of mothers at this pool. 

If you came to me with decent odds that there is more breast milk than piss in this pool right now, I don’t know. God. I don’t know. I’d probably turn you down, but I’d think about it.

I trace the water up to where it meets the concrete edge and find myself in the crosshairs of my son Gabe’s big fat tits, wrapped up tight in a wet Hard Rock CafĂ© shirt he borrowed from his grandmother. Gabe is ten feet away from the edge of my pool chair in the shallow end. He’s bobbing up and down and when his tits get near the water they float a little. The Hard Rock CafĂ© shirt puffs out when he dips down, but sucks against his breasts when he comes back up. He dips and rocks and contorts his body so that maybe his tits will stop bobbing like tugboats, but he can’t help it. It’s physics. Gabe is trying to fight the laws of nature. It’s a fucked up sight.

Gabe is my youngest child. He is a teenager. Puberty. He’s in his awkward years and I’m starting to think they are all going to be awkward.

Gabe’s tits make him feel bad. He doesn’t like showing them, so if we’re at a place like the pool he wears a T-shirt to cover them up. I tell him, “That’s the problem. You’re not hiding these tits, you’re teasing them.” No one in my house agrees with me. I actually have no idea what my wife thinks. She’s a pretty hands-off parent. No knock on her. Just reality. 

My daughter Samantha jumps down my throat. Big time. She says that I’m not being body positive even though it is actually the opposite. I’m actually the most body positive. I’m the one saying that my son should show his tits to the world. All of Chubbuck knows that Gabe has a set of cans. Boobs. Let’s see them! 

When I say this? Fireworks. I am Hitler. “Gabe doesn’t have to show his body to anyone! His relationship with his own body is most important,” Samantha says. Sure. Fine. But settle down, tough guy. All I know is that when I walk into a locker room, I am naked before I am remotely close to my locker. I am nude, holding a newspaper, trying to make small talk. Why? Because who cares? It’s a body. We all have one. My body is nothing to brag about. I have a dick like a piece of Easter candy. I am uncircumcised, and I should have been. Someone should have intervened. It’s terrible. And I got fucked up pubic hair. But guess what? I’m still here. I’m not dead. 

The problem is that Gabe is making this a thing of mystery. Mystery gets attention. And you know, it’s strange because – well I should probably clear something up because it could be a point of confusion: Gabe is not fat. I mean, he’s not winning any bodybuilding contests but he’s not in any health danger either. It’s just, I dunno, the guy is busty. I’m not saying anyone should do this, but if you did a slow camera pan on Gabe’s body, starting from the ankles and moving up his body, by the time you got to his breasts, a record would scratch. I’ve said this to Gabe and he has taken it poorly, but he shouldn’t. It’s more like, hey, you have one part of you that is strange and bad. It’s not all bad. I don’t know. There is a nuance to this conversation that I know is required, but I just don’t have it. It’s like, some pitchers have a curveball, some don’t. Me? I am not a pitcher.

But here’s the major issue with Gabe’s tits and just Gabe in general. We are in a time crunch. This is Gabe’s last summer before high school. It’s going to be rough. He has no confidence, he’s got this curvy body, he still uses his finger to read books, and I think he’s gonna get the living shit beaten out of him. If I was Gabe’s age and we went to the same high school — it’s tough because he’s my son and I love him — but I think I’d beat him until both my hands were broken. And I was no big time jock. I was no Emilio Estevez. But Gabe would have been a low enough bar to clear. I would have seen him as someone that, hey, maybe I publicly beat him and who knows? Maybe I go one rung higher on the social ladder. You know? A lot of people are going to see him and think that.

Also, and I think it’s something you have to account for…maybe it’s low probability/high-risk, but could Gabe’s tits set off some type of hormone infused reaction from his peers? Like, you get some bully who gets a couple punches on Gabe, Gabe’s tits I don’t know, jiggle or something? Then what? What kind of fight is this? I just think, not good. Not good for Gabe.

Part of the issue is that he doesn’t have a pack. A crew. A similar species group. I watch a lot of shows where wild animals die. I got these new Bluetooth headphones set up and I go full volume on these wild animal shows. I also watch violent street fights, but the wild animal stuff relates more to Gabe. Sometimes an animal will survive only because their pack is big enough that the predator says, “If I go in there I am going to get my ass beat,” or the pack is so big that sheer odds alone are in a single animal’s favor to survive.

Gabe doesn’t have that. He is not a jock. You would think he is a nerd, but he can’t make nerd friends because he is kind of simple. Not a full blown dum-dum. Not at all. Just like, when he gets older, he is gonna need a job where they give him a list, or write down what he is supposed to do on a whiteboard. So he is not going to have that nerd pack. 

He has some weirdo aspects to him, so maybe he gets a weirdo pack, but that’s always a gamble. He’s always on Amazon buying camo and the camo never fits on his love handles right so it’s a major waste of money. 

If he’s not on Amazon he’s on YouTube just watching stuff. And he’s got his mouth open for breathing. Watching nonsense.

He — and I say this with love and also disappointment — is a dork. Just a big dork. And dorks don’t have packs. They fly solo. Breaks my heart but also makes me upset with him because I feel like he has something to do with this. He could take that shirt off and be fat tits guy for a couple hours and then we’d all move on. He would just be Gabe, a guy who happens to have fat tits. But it’s inhabited him. He is fat tits guy forever.

But you should notice when I said “we” as in “we are in a time crunch.” Gabe’s tits are a “we” issue. I’m his dad. I want to help. And unlike my wife, I’m a hands-on kind of parent.

So. What’s the plan? We go to the pool. Every day. We get comfortable with our bodies in public. We show the world that we don’t hide from anything. And, we do this as a family. Everyone goes to the pool. No excuses. Every day.

How is the plan going? Not great. Technically, everyone is going. Is it to help Gabe discover his body? No. I will say that with confidence. Everyone is going to the pool for their own reasons. Is Gabe getting comfortable with his body? No. Shirt never comes off. Sometimes there are two shirts. One time he tried to go in the pool wearing a sweatshirt and jeans and I had to get a little stern with him.

But whatever. We go every day. Same car. All together. Pool opens at 10 a.m. We get there at 9:50. Drives everyone crazy. But we have one car, I drive, and I have a very legitimate reason for getting to the pool 10 minutes early.

What are the reasons? Okay. We need five pool chairs. There are five of us. Names and my personal rankings come later, but there are five of us. One chair per person. I’m not sharing my pool chair, and I don’t expect anyone in my family to share. Do I expect anyone to use the chair at all times? Of course not. I use my chair almost at all times, but that’s because I feel a need to guard the other chairs. The other four don’t really use their chairs, but I can only imagine that one time I am not guarding their chairs, and they want a chair and it has been taken? They would make sure that my day was ruined.

Next, I need a spot that is NOT in the direct line of sight of BOTH the lifeguard and the towel kid. I’m drinking alcohol. Can’t drink alcohol at the pool. I know a lot of people are sneaking their alcohol inside using water bottles or Camelbacks, but I’m drinking hard seltzer. If you take the seltzer out of the can and transfer it to a water bottle it loses the initial bubbles. That’s why you drink seltzer! So I have to drink from the can and I need to hide the can. If I get my alcohol taken away from me, I’ll just go home. If I can’t drink at the pool what is the point?

It’s a lot of pressure on me. Everyone has said they don’t need a chair if it means we can leave a few hours later, but I don’t think they mean that. I think they are lying. I think they are all lying to me.

Everyone has to be in the car at 9:30 a.m. Everyone consists of my wife Michelle, Gabe, my daughter Samantha, and our neighbor’s kid, Ethan. Nobody ever asks, but I can rank them, and I keep the rankings updated.

Dive on in to the Community Pool right here.

Read an Excerpt from Our Latest: Sam Pasternack’s WALKER

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The book.

Here it is, Walker chapter one. Like it? Read the rest — buy WALKER now!

A tall, wiry man nattily dressed in a three-piece suit, leather shoes, and a top hat proudly strode down the countryside. A handlebar mustache framed his wide grin, and the rest of him was framed by desolate, dewy New England farmland. The sheer confidence and resolve on his face belonged to a man who knew exactly what he was supposed to be doing, with nothing that could stop him.

This was Preston Dilettante. On this journey in 1864, he set forth on the longest recorded walk in the history of the United States. At its conclusion, he met the President of the United States, The Great Emancipator —

“Abraham Lincoln himself!”

Walker Dilettante, wide-eyed and thrilled, stood under a door frame as he deftly weaved through the story of Preston, over a century and a half later. He had Preston’s tall and wiry physique, but he used it in a bouncier way than Preston did. Everything in Walker’s movements, mannerisms, and voice exuded the kind of sunniness you’d find on a children’s television show. Not that Walker would know much of children’s television shows, as he and Grandpappy never had a television or computer in the home.

As he told the tale of his great-great-grandfather, Walker felt at home. He had practiced telling this story countless times before, just as a teen would stare into the mirror practicing proper delivery of quotes from a favorite movie before going to school the next day.

“Shaking hands with my grandpappy’s grandpappy. Ain’t that somethin’? A trek from New Hampshire to the capital of our great nation made Preston Dilettante a hero! The best darn walking specimen in the history of our country!” 

Walker collected himself. Telling this story to a new audience was a rarity, and one that made his heart race. 

“Okay, now you go! Tell me about this Jehovah fella. How’s his walking gait?”

Three Jehovah’s Witnesses stood at the door. They slowly began to back away from the manically grinning Walker. 

“You know what?” one of them piped up. “Never mind.”

They quickly turned around to find the fastest route to escape Walker’s story. Fortunately for them, Walker’s home sat atop a small hill that was quite easy to sprint down when you’re hoping to avoid a story about the patron saint of 19th-century competitive walking, also known as pedestrianism, for those looking to save one word yet zero syllables. 

As the three stepped away from the doorframe, Walker realized he was losing them. He tried to get their attention the only way he knew how. 

“Well, hey, you don’t have to go! I could tell you more about Preston’s journey. The worst was the dogs that would chase him. He would shout, ‘Damn these dogs! Their graves await them!’”

The author.

Walker watched them reach a full sprint, then tumble down the hill, a more acceptable fate for them than hearing him continue to tell this story.

Walker sighed and retreated inside the two-bedroom log cabin that his Grandpappy had built many years prior. Preston Dilettante memorabilia lined the walls, the floors, and every end table. All these etchings, letters, and newspaper clippings would look like clutter to some and an archive to others. To Walker, each of these pieces of history represented hours of entertainment and the opportunity to learn about the country, with the added bonus of seeing it through Preston’s eyes. 

In the middle of the room, inside a small rectangular glass case atop a wooden stand, sat one old and deeply mud-stained leather shoe. Had Preston known his descendants would frame the one and only surviving shoe from his famed journey, he would have cleaned it more thoroughly.

Behind the displayed shoe, Grandpappy Dilettante sat in a comfortable yet tattered armchair. Despite possessing the kind of beard that, in a cartoon, would demonstrate that tremendous swaths of time had passed, Grandpappy still had the energy and enthusiasm that he’d passed along to his grandson. Walker always felt comfortable with the idea of aging, because he knew that in 55 years, he’d be just like Grandpappy.

Grandpappy lit up when he saw Walker re-enter the cabin. It was the same look Walker always had when telling Preston’s story. 

“Welcome back, youngin’! How were your three and a half hours at the front door?”

Walker sat in a small wooden chair next to Grandpappy, his perennial favorite seat. The chair wasn’t particularly worn in or scuffed, as Walker spent most of his life upright, standing and moving around. 

“Grandpappy, I’ve had a pretty crummy day. Those nice fellas left before I could finish telling them about your grandpappy’s travels.” 

Grandpappy’s face scrunched up, a look Walker knew as Grandpappy preparing to funnel some negativity into a positive slant. 

“Well
 at least you had an honest day’s work on your egg route this morning!”

Every weekday morning, Walker would take a six-mile walk to a large silo, where eight cartons of fresh eggs and a stack of ten-dollar bills would be waiting for him. Walker’s job was to carry those eggs to seven different silos in the general area and leave them in front of each silo. He was instructed to keep the last of the egg cartons for himself and Grandpappy. 

Grandpappy had gotten him the job years prior, and Walker had never interacted with anyone else involved in this business endeavor. 

“That’s the other problem! I don’t know why it is, but I just don’t feel like I’m doing what I’m supposed to be doing by being on that egg route. Heck, I even saw a hiker who told me I should be using one of those two-wheeled cycling contraptions to deliver the eggs!”

Grandpappy sighed.

“They don’t understand us, Walker. We come from the greatest pedestrian the world has ever known. And you know the only thing a good pedestrian needs to get from A to B?”

“His own two feet.”

“Darn tootin’ his own two feet!”

“Yeah! Things are gonna get better, Grandpappy!”

“You bet!” 

Walker sprung out of his chair. He’d sat long enough. 

“That makes me feel so much better! Thank you!”

“Walker?”

“Yes, Grandpappy?”

“I’m dying.”

“What?!”

“Yep. I’ve only got a few months left.”

Walker staggered backward from the sheer weight of this news. After taking a second to compose himself, he started pacing. Walking always helped in times like these.

“Grandpappy, how do you know? We haven’t had a checkup since that doc breezed through 15 years ago!”

“Well, that boy way, way, way down the road, he came to deliver the milk yesterday. He noticed I was coughing. He went home and used a WebMD and found out I was dying.”

“A WebMD? You told me we didn’t find any of those in Iraq.”

Grandpappy used to read the newspaper daily and relay select information to Walker. He canceled his subscription a few years earlier without providing an explanation. Walker assumed that Grandpappy just got tired of getting ink on his hands. 

“No, that’s a WMD,” Grandpappy explained. “This is a WebMD.”

“What’s a WebMD?”

“I don’t really know, but whatever it is, it’s got its MD, and that’s enough for me.”

Grandpappy folded his arms, seemingly at peace with this whole situation.

“But Grandpappy, you can’t die!”

“Sure I can! Everybody does it.”

“What I mean is I don’t want you to!”

“Well, there’s nothing we can do to change it. But Walker, you’ve always been a good grandson, and it’s about time I showed you my prized possession.” 

Grandpappy opened a slot on the end table beside him and flipped the small wooden switch inside, revealing a secret drawer that popped out. 

“There’s a drawer in that table, Grandpappy! What a prized possession!”

“No, Walker, it’s what’s inside the drawer.”

“Okay!” 

Grandpappy pulled out a rolled piece of paper that spanned the height of the table. He unfurled it and displayed it to Walker. On the front was a large old map of the United States, with black dots peppering over a dozen places across the country.

“Walker, this is a map of these here United States. Each of those black dots represents a direct descendant of your grandpappy’s grandpappy.”

Walker gasped. 

“That’s right, Walker. Preston Dilettante, The Great Pedestrian himself. We made this map at the last family reunion. Thirty years ago.”

Walker, doing the math in his head, realized that he’d missed being alive for this family reunion by merely a year. He sat back in his chair. 

“I thought we were alone, but there are so many of us! Why don’t any of them live here in the glorious hills of unincorporated Schnoors, Idaho? Why don’t I know any of them?”

“Because everybody walks their own path, grandson. And even those who walk together have a different gait. But we need to remember why we’re walking in the first place. And for that, we all have the same answer.”

“What’s that, Grandpappy?”

“To go somewhere, Walker. We all walk to go somewhere.”

He slapped his grandson’s knee, to dismiss him. Walker sat still.

“Grandpappy, I’m starting to feel like I haven’t walked anywhere.”

“Sure you have, you walk all over the hillside on your egg route. You’re an even better walker than I was when I was your age. Heck, your calves look like the baby cows from whence they’re named!”

“I mean out there,” he said as he took the map and unfurled it. “I haven’t been to any of the places where the other Dilettantes live. I’ve only ever been
 here.” 

A reticence that Grandpappy rarely showed to Walker crept into his voice. 

“I haven’t seen anyone from the family in years. Walker, I don’t know if our relatives have the same appreciation for your grandpappy’s grandpappy that we have.”

“Then I better go teach them what’s what!”

Walker hopped off his chair and knelt by Grandpappy’s side.

“Grandpappy, if you’re dying, well gosh, I want you to know how important it is that you’ve kept up your grandpappy’s legacy.” 

“Walker
”

“I’m gonna do it! I’m gonna meet my family. All of the people on these dots.”

“Walker, I don’t think you should do this. The world is different outside of this hillside. Heck, you’ve never left home before!”

“I have to. For your legacy, and for your grandpappy’s. I’ve gotta walk.”

Grandpappy thought for a moment. He looked around the room at all the memorabilia, then back at his grandson. His eyes brimmed with tears of pride. 

“Well shucks, I guess it’s time. If you want to walk, you should walk! Walk on, grandson!”

“I’m gonna meet every single one of our relatives, Grandpappy. I’m gonna tell them all about our great ancestor, and – ”

Walker stopped and thought. He carefully removed the glass case and grabbed the old shoe off the center of the mantle. This shocked Grandpappy.

“Walker! What’re you doing with Grandpappy’s shoe?”

“I’m gonna get a picture of each ancestor of Preston Dilettante holding his famous shoe. And I’m gonna make you a collage. And you’re gonna see it, and then you can die.”

Walker popped behind Grandpappy’s chair and pulled out a bindle, slinging it over his shoulder. Grandpappy was impressed.

“Boy, you had that bindle ready to go.”

“I’m off, Grandpappy! Tell your friends to find someone else for the egg route. I’m off to find our family!”

Walker walked out of the house. He called back to Grandpappy as he strutted down the hillside.

“Don’t die until I get back!”

Grandpappy opened the wooden window next to his chair and called out to him while he waved.

“Okey dokey!”

***

Buy WALKER now!

Langley Powell is Dead (An Excerpt)

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Here’s the first chapter of Humorist Books’ latest release, Langley Powell and the Society for the Defense of the Mundane by Jeff Giles. It’s out now, for after you read this and want to consume the next 270-odd pages.

“Death”

Death, thought Langley Powell, might be the most mundane thing on Earth.

To most people, “mundane” might seem like something of an insult, particularly in this context. After all, what kind of person could possibly contemplate the end of life and call it ordinary? Unless you’re a complete wacko, death is something to be feared and avoided, or at least staved off as long as possible. Deeming it mundane would seem to indicate a lack of respect for the sanctity of life.

Needless to say, Langley Powell was not like most people.

Not that he meant “mundane” in a negative way. Not at all — in fact, as any of the millions of people who’d attended his seminars, purchased his books, or watched his television appearances could tell you, for Langley Powell, mundanity should be held in the highest regard. When questioned, he was fond of reaching into his satchel and removing a pocket edition of the New Oxford American Dictionary, letting it fall open to a page that had been consulted so many times it no longer even needed a bookmark. “Here,” he’d say, pointing to the word. “Mundane. Of this earthly world rather than a heavenly or spiritual one.”

Of course, as the other person involved in these conversations invariably pointed out — and as you yourself might be noticing if you’ve opened your own New Oxford American Dictionary to see the definition of “mundane” for yourself — Langley Powell’s preferred meaning of the word is listed second after the first and most commonly accepted, which is “lacking interest or excitement; dull.” To anyone unfamiliar with Langley’s finely honed stage patter, this always sounded like a solid retort, but they quickly discovered that the whole thing was really just a carefully constructed opening for him to step through, explaining to an invariably enraptured audience that “earthly” and “dull” had only grown connected in the human imagination after centuries of slander by charlatans and scoundrels.

“To twist a phrase I loaned the great singer-songwriter Paul Simon, Earth is a place of miracles and wonder,” Langley would say at his seminars, pausing for a moment to soak in the applause that always greeted the photo of the two onstage during their joint appearance on Saturday Night Live. “What could be more wonderful than a resplendent sunrise to greet the day? What could be more majestic than one of our planet’s many natural monuments? What could be more soothing than the sound of the ocean? I could go on, but I’m sure you see my point: ‘Mundane’ is the furthest thing from dull. Our earthly surroundings are awe-inspiring — and they deserve to be defended from those who seek to distract us and enrich themselves with ideas of fantastical phenomena and unseen spiritual planes. The next time you see a person who claims to be able to tell fortunes, contact the dead, move objects with his mind, or anything else that flies in the face of established science, I implore you: think of the mundane. Remember, it’s all we have
 and it’s so much more than enough.”

After delivering that last line to thunderous applause, Langley would bow with a carefully practiced flourish and leave the stage, often heading directly to the airport to catch a flight to his next speaking engagement — and always thousands of dollars richer, an irony that seemed more or less completely lost to the attendees who’d paid handsome sums to hear Langley urging them not to give psychics and seers their money.

Not that Langley’s intentions were anything less than pure. The truth was that despite the fact that he delivered essentially the same performance every time he took the stage, and had rehearsed every moment of it so thoroughly that he could have gotten through a show without giving it much conscious thought at all, he really believed everything he told his audiences. Langley was genuinely convinced that people all over the world had long been lulled into a false belief that not only were there aspects of human existence beyond our understanding, but that they were often somehow preferable to observable reality itself. He saw himself as a general on the battlefield in the war against logic, and although he’d developed a keen sense of showmanship over the years, he took his self-appointed responsibility seriously.

To those who knew and frequently rolled their eyes at Langley, taking things seriously was something he excelled at to an exhausting degree. An only child, Langley had perplexed his parents in a variety of ways, none more so than the near-total lack of a sense of humor he’d grown into during his late childhood. His mother was a teacher and his father worked as a lineman for the telephone company — both solid, largely unexceptional careers that many would view as the less flattering variety of mundane, but well-paying enough to afford the Powells a comfortable suburban existence. A yard, a dog, a television in the living room — young Langley had all the perks of middle-class living in postwar America, and as a small child, he’d seemed to enjoy them all, adding to the robust soundtrack of the Powell household with all the cacophonous laughter, imaginary battle sounds, and slamming of screen doors that have gone along with young boys for generations.

In other words, by virtually any definition, young Langley Powell’s life was good, and the stage was set for him to grow into a man every bit as lighthearted and gregarious as his parents. He might very well have become that man, too — if not for the thrilling exploits and humiliating fall of Neville Pemberton.

He’s barely a cultural footnote to the audiences of today, but when Langley was a boy, Neville Pemberton was a major star of stage and screen — and whether he was wowing crowds at Radio City Music Hall or reducing Johnny Carson to astonished guffaws, there seemed to be no act of wonder too great for him to perform. Could he read minds? Absolutely. Bend spoons and move objects with the power of his mind? Just watch him. Card tricks and other acts of prestidigitation beyond compare? Child’s play. For decades, he was the world’s premier paranormalist, and despite the efforts of countless would-be debunkers, no one had ever managed to find a rational explanation for Pemberton’s amazing abilities.

For the kids of young Langley’s generation, there wasn’t anything quite as exciting as a Neville Pemberton appearance. His guest spots on talk shows were not to be missed, his television specials were always cafeteria conversation fodder the following day, and if you were lucky enough to have parents who were willing or able to score the family tickets for a live show, well, you were a legend of the playground. The youth of America were enraptured by Pemberton, and Langley Powell was no exception: From the posable Pemberton action figure to the lunchbox and thermos set emblazoned with his name, face, and colorful logo, from the Pemberton magic set to a lifetime membership in Pemberton’s Association of the Inexplicable, he had it all.

So ardent was Langley’s hero worship that when Pemberton was challenged to a test of his powers on live television, it scarcely even occurred to him that the outcome would be anything but yet another humiliating defeat for the latest non-believer. So certain was Langley in his idol’s abilities that he agreed to wager every penny he’d stored up in his piggy bank against Orson Mead, a third-grade classmate whose scornful dismissal of Pemberton’s might had been a source of irritation all school year. And when, on the fateful night Neville Pemberton confidently strolled out before a live studio audience and faced his challenger, only to stutter in red-faced astonishment as he failed test after test, Langley resolutely believed it would all be explained as a terrible mistake of some sort, or the result of underhanded behind-the-scenes trickery. Standing lone and defiant before his peers, he insisted the mighty Pemberton had been framed.

It was not to be. The following day, Pemberton faced a throng of reporters at a press conference and admitted that the jig was up — all of his amazing feats had been carefully orchestrated tricks, and while he would never reveal how he’d done it, his career as a full-time source of wonder was officially over. As Neville Pemberton stepped away from the podium and out of the public eye, Langley’s shock and horror quickly curdled into a deep-seated disillusionment that would permanently alter the course of his life. He handed his money over to the hated Orson, mutely accepting the mockery that would become his birthright for the rest of his youth and adolescence. Never again simply Langley, he would always be greeted with snorts of “hey, Merlin” or “well, if it isn’t the wizard.” He stopped wearing hats after being asked for the hundredth time if he had a rabbit hidden in them. He couldn’t so much as pick up a pencil without some idiot screaming “alakazam!” and triggering uproarious laughter from the rest of the class. In high school, other boys joked that they needed to keep their girlfriends away from Langley lest he attempt to saw them in half.

The great irony here, not that any of his doltish classmates ever bothered to notice, was that after Neville Pemberton’s disgrace, Langley lost all interest in magic and the supernatural. In fact, the more he was taunted, the more he hated anything to do with any of it — and by the time he collected his high school diploma, he’d long since vowed to leave town, reinvent himself at a college several states away, and never lay eyes on one of his youthful tormentors ever again. In a critical thinking class the following fall, Langley’s heart was struck like a bell by the professor’s opening lecture; listening to the man’s impassioned defense of reason, he knew immediately which path he was destined to follow. He nearly wept.

Like so many college freshmen, Langley quickly learned firsthand how satisfying it can be to find yourself in a different place among different people, and in many ways, he flourished — freed from the burden of his misguided faith in a laughingstock, he made friends, joined clubs, and quickly rose to the top of his class. He even started wearing hats again. But whenever he returned home for a holiday or school break, it was as if he’d never left — Orson Mead, by now a college dropout who worked nights at the local bottling plant and lived in a one-room apartment over a laundromat, still hurled the same old insults at Langley whenever they crossed paths. Eventually, much to his parents’ confusion and chagrin, he more or less stopped coming home at all.

But while Langley’s relationship with his parents was strained during his college years, things improved after he entered the professional world and started building a career for himself as a professional debunker. His business grew slowly at first, with his first couple years of clients coming from aggravated relatives of people who’d been fleeced by overpriced psychics or alleged spiritual mediums who’d made off with great chunks of their marks’ savings, but he soon developed a reputation as someone who could quickly and persuasively undermine and expose his targets; before long, he was making talk show appearances of his own, trading barbs with indignant clairvoyants and eclipsing their celebrity, one television spot at a time. By the time he was 30, Langley could afford to fly his parents wherever he wanted to meet them rather than enduring another return visit to his hometown; by the time he was 40, he was able to purchase a Brooklyn brownstone, remodeling it into a duplex he shared with them. He’d grown into a doting son, albeit one who was also definitely something of a party pooper.

By the time Langley’s parents passed away, they’d been able to watch him ascend to full-blown celebrity status, embarking on a series of sold-out seminars while continuing to maintain regular appearances on late-night talk shows. He was the subject of a documentary, Langley Powell and the Defense of the Mundane, that broke box office records when it was picked up by a studio after screening at Sundance; when Langley’s publicist talked him into launching his own website, the members of his robust online forum christened themselves the Society for the Defense of the Mundane. Decades after Neville Pemberton had ceased to be anything more than a faint memory for most of the public, the young boy who’d been humiliated by Pemberton’s debunking had grown up to be the world’s foremost debunker, exposing countless frauds along the way.

All of which is to say that on the last afternoon of Langley Powell’s life, as he was strolling down his street, tossing a grapefruit gently up and down in one hand while listening to his latest podcast appearance on the walk back to his brownstone from the corner bodega, he was in a pretty good mood. It was a beautiful day, he’d just signed a lucrative new book deal, and he was right then having a piano hoisted up to the fifth floor, where he envisioned spending countless hours playing. Perhaps Paul Simon might stop by. And all of that is to explain why Langley, lost in his sunny afternoon reverie, didn’t hear the cries of “Oops!” and “Look out!” until it was too late.

Langley only had the briefest of instants to look up and realize what was about to happen to him — just enough time for the events we’ve just recounted here to flash before his eyes and to finally conclude that yes, death really might be the most mundane thing on Earth. With the exception of his years of torment at the hands of Orson Mead, who now rented shoes at the local bowling alley and worked part-time as an assistant to the high school wrestling coach, Langley had enjoyed a remarkably fortunate life, which is perhaps why he observed his impending demise with a surprising degree of bemused detachment. So this was the end. He’d had a good run. Also, the underside of a piano was surprisingly aesthetically pleasing from this angle. Who could complain?

And then, just as he closed his eyes, braced himself for the moment of impact, and prepared to say goodbye to existence forever, Langley heard the sound and felt the great relief of the largest flatulence he’d ever experienced. He’d never done anything so uncouth in public, but he couldn’t stop himself — the feeling was as blissful as anything he could remember. It seemed to go on forever — so long, in fact, that he wondered how he hadn’t already been crushed by the piano.

Feeling simultaneously lighter and immensely appalled, he opened his eyes to see his new piano shattered to pieces on the sidewalk, with some unfortunate person’s legs poking out from underneath the wreckage. A crowd had gathered, murmuring things like “So tragic” and “Unbelievable” and “What a stupid way to go.” Sirens blared from several blocks away. Looking around in stunned disbelief, Langley tried to piece together what could have happened. Had the person under the piano pushed him out of the way? Had he experienced some sort of strange vertigo and only thought he was in its path? And why was the corpse wearing his shoes?

Langley gingerly stepped closer to the gathering crowd, peering over the shoulder of a man filming the scene with his phone. Yes, those were definitely his shoes. And also his pants. And that was definitely — plop! — his grapefruit rolling into the gutter. “Excuse me,” he said to the man, determined to get closer. “I live here. That was my piano.”

The man didn’t move. Didn’t stop filming. Didn’t acknowledge Langley at all.

“Excuse me!” Langley repeated himself, louder this time. “I live here! That was my piano! Would you kindly step aside?” Once again, the man failed to register Langley’s presence. Outraged, Langley reached out to tap him on the shoulder — and watched in astonishment as his finger, followed by his entire hand up to the wrist, passed straight through the man without making any impact at all. It felt warm and moist, somehow simultaneously comforting and repulsive. Langley instinctively jerked his arm back and stared at it, gawping in horrified amazement.

Langley Powell had dedicated his entire adult life to honoring the observable, the provable, the known. He had urged millions of people to use their good senses to observe the world around them, draw rational conclusions, and reject the rest. By his own standards, there was only one possible deduction he could possibly make: Langley Powell had died and become a ghost.

He was, in a word, annoyed.

How to Spot Liberals and Conservatives: Let’s Take a Look Inside ‘Red Tie, Blue Tie’

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Our latest title is as prescient and vital as a book is ever going to be. You’re probably aware that it’s an election year, and that makes the political climate even more contentious and volatile than it usually is. Let’s deflate some of the hot air from that cultural balloon and kill some sacred cows and make fun of it all. That’s what writers (and best friends) Gary M. Almeter and Reese Cassard aimed to do with Red Tie, Blue Tie: How to Tell Whether Someone is Liberal or Conservative in Any Possible Scenario. And it’s exactly what the title promises: list after list, guide after guide, on how to comically and accurately identify strangers’ political leanings by their choices, behaviors, and overall vibes.

Here are some excerpts to explain it further. And if you want more, well, whether your tie is red or blue, the color we all like best is green — go buy the book and help support a couple of the most crackling comedy writers out there.

***

How to tell if Someone is Liberal or Conservative at the Grocery Store 

If someone refuses to use the self-checkout machine, that person is a conservative. 

If a person quietly sings along when the grocery store PA system plays “Iris,” the Goo Goo Dolls’ 1998 hit from the City of Angels soundtrack while the person compares pasta shapes to identify the best substitute for ziti, that person is a liberal. 

However, if that person loses their composure and loudly sings the “And I don’t want the world to see me, ‘cuz I don’t think that they’d understand” part, that person is an anarcho-communist. 

If a person quietly sings along when the grocery store PA system plays “Can’t Hardly Wait,” from the Replacements’ 1987 album Pleased to Meet Me while the person stands over the deli counter contemplating the difference between lacy Swiss cheese and regular Swiss cheese, that person is a conservative. 

If a person is stocking up on Lunchables, Cool Ranch Doritos, Funyuns, two-liter bottles of Mountain Dew, and Bagel Bites, that person is either a parent of several children they may or may not love or extremely high or both. 

If a person tries to steal cabbage by stuffing it into their jacket, that person is a liberal. 

If a person tries to steal cabbage by stuffing it into their purse, that person is a conservative. 

If a person buys something obscure (like coconut flour, gin and tonic salmon, pumpkin spice gouda) and it doesn’t scan at the checkout register and the person says, “well, looks like that item is free today!” then that person is a conservative. 

If a person says, “It’s real, I just made it this morning” when the cashier checks to see if their $20 bill is counterfeit, that person is a liberal. 

 

***

 

How to Tell If Someone is Liberal or Conservative in Pickup Basketball 

If anyone is playing in a Punisher tee, they’re conservative. 

If anyone is playing in a Phish tee, they’re liberal. 

If a man is playing with a bandana as a headband, he’s liberal. 

If a woman is playing with a bandana as a headband, she’s conservative. 

If a man is playing in Jordan 11s, he’s rich and liberal. 

If a man is playing in Jordan 9s, he’s rich and conservative.

If a man is playing in running shoes, he is liberal. Unless the shoes are grass-stained New Balances. Then he’s conservative. 

If a man is playing in Jordan 3s, baggy mesh shorts, and an even baggier pink polo, he’s Adam Sandler. 

If a man over 50 is playing in Chuck Taylors, he’s probably conservative and probably the best player on the court. 

If a man under 50 is playing in Chuck Taylors, he’s definitely liberal and definitely the worst player on the court. 

If a woman is playing in UGG boots, she’s conservative. And a great three-point shooter. Draft her early. 

If a man goes the whole game setting screens instead of shooting, he’s liberal and fun to play with, but there’s no need to use an early pick on him. 

If anyone goes the whole game without passing, they are the worst. Avoid drafting them at all costs. 

If a man is playing in rec specs, he’s conservative. Unless that man is Naismith Hall of Fame center Kareem Abdul-Jabbar. Then he’s very liberal. 

If someone calls a foul because you had your hand on his hip when he went up to shoot even though he’s been pulling your shirt all game, they’re just an opportunist who pretends to be liberal around other liberals and then flips when the crowd changes. Give them the call either way. They’ll probably miss anyways. 

 

***

 

How to Tell If Someone is Liberal or Conservative in Boston

If a person’s favorite Aerosmith song is “Dream On,” that person is a liberal. 

If a person’s favorite Aerosmith song is “Janie’s Got a Gun,” that person is a conservative. 

If a person’s favorite Aerosmith song is “I Don’t Want to Miss a Thing,” get that person’s contact information. The next time an asteroid is heading towards Earth and you need someone to fly to space, drill a hole in the asteroid, and plant a thermonuclear device, this person could come in handy. 

If a person has ever smoked a pipe with Henry Cabot Lodge or his progeny in a Ropes & Gray conference room, that person is a conservative. 

If a person has ever smoked anything with Evan Dando in Harvard Square, that person is a liberal.

If a blue-collar-looking man is outside of a Dunkin Donuts in Harvard Square asking a well-dressed man inside the Dunkin Donuts if he likes apples, that blue-collar man is Will Hunting, he just got Skylar’s number, and you wouldn’t know it by looking at him, but that man is a genius. All Over the U.S.A.

If you are in the Massachusetts State House and see a person with the best hair you have ever seen eating a hot dog and it’s sometime between 2003 and 2007, that person is Mitt Romney. 

If a person stops at Dunkin on their way to a Bruins game and you are in the Dunkin too and you look at that person wrong, you are about to get the shit kicked out of you. 

Red Tie, Blue Tie: How to Tell Whether Someone is Liberal or Conservative in Any Possible Scenario by Gary M. Almeter and Reese Cassard is now available wherever you get your books (no matter your affiliation).

An Excerpt from “The Vowels of the Earth” by Matthew David Brozik

/in /by

Comedy. Sci-fi. Wordplay. Aliens. The origin story of the letter H. The Vowels of the Earth is available now from Humorist Books. While you wait for it to arrive or download, read the first chapter, right here and right now, for free.

Chapter One

New York City

Late December 1948

When I decided the moment was right, I turned off Second Avenue—onto Seventy-Eighth Street, as it happened; I had been walking with no destination, just walking and trying not to screw up anything else terrifically—then stopped short, wheeled about, and addressed the man in the jet black fedora as he came around the corner.

“You’ve been tailing me all morning,” I hissed. I didn’t actually grab the lapels of his trench coat, but I did point an accusatory finger at him. “I’ve seen you. Let me give you some advice: When you’re stalking a man with one good eye, stay on his blind side.”

“I wasn’t trying to keep out of sight,” he said, unintimidated. “Trust me: If I didn’t want you to know I was there, you wouldn’t have known.”

“I don’t trust you,” I told him.

He didn’t respond right away, but when he did, he said, “I respect that.” It took the indignant wind out of my angry sails. “My name is Bradford,” he went on. “I’m with the federal government. And I’d like to talk to you about something important.”

“I’ve already given my testimony,” I said. “Under oath,” I added, unnecessarily. “I said everything important I have to say. And I even had some words put in my mouth.”

“I know, professor,” this government agent named Bradford said. “I was there. At the hearing. I heard it all. I even read the transcript afterward.”

“You must be my biggest fan,” I said. “What’s so interesting about me? Is it how passionately I incriminated myself? How decisively I dug my own grave?”

“Professor,” Bradford said, ignoring my histrionics, “I need your help. That is, I need someone’s help, and I think you might be that someone. What you did
 what you were involved in
 the hoax, the scandal, the scapegoating
 none of that disqualifies you. To the contrary, if it weren’t for all of that, I might never have identified you as someone likely to have useful insight.”

This brought me up short. I didn’t know what to say to that.

“Can we go somewhere and talk?” Bradford asked.

“There’s a greasy spoon I like near here,” I said, “and I haven’t eaten lunch yet.”

“I know,” Bradford said.

“TouchĂ©.”

We stepped into a joint called Leo’s. We seated ourselves at a booth toward the back. I let Bradford have the bench that faced the door, figuring a G-man would want to sit where he could see who came in and who went out. And for my part, I’d already been stabbed in the back several times that month, so I suppose I just didn’t care if it happened again.

After we’d ordered food and coffee—light and sweet for me, black for him—I commented on a compact man sitting at the counter. He was wearing a long, white lab coat, and his feet were nowhere near the floor. His hair was white and not what you would call kempt.

“Mad scientist at three o’clock.”

Bradford gave a slight laugh through his nose. “My father used to say it takes all kinds to make a world.”

“My father used to say that it doesn’t take all kinds, there just are all kinds.”

“Your father was
 from where?”

Pretty sneaky, Bradford, I thought. “Eastern Europe,” I said.

“And he came here because
”

“Because it seemed like a smart thing to do at the time. Bradford, are you trying to get me to reveal treasonous leanings?”

“No,” Bradford said. “We have no concerns on that point. But I do want to ask you just a couple more questions, if you don’t mind. Besides English, do you speak any other languages as well?”

“If you mean ‘in addition to’ English,” I answered, “then yes. If you really mean ‘as well as,’ then no.”

“Words are a serious matter to you,” Bradford commented.

“They used to be my career,” I reminded him.

“What other languages are you comfortable with?” Bradford asked, returning to what he wanted to know, changing his question to accommodate my pedantry.

“I can read classical Latin and Greek, I’m proficient in the major modern Romance languages and have a functional comprehension of some of the minor ones—including Galician and Aragonese—and I’ve spent time with several other members of different branches of the Indo-European family. Asian languages are completely foreign to me, though.”

“Do you speak Hebrew?” he asked me.

“I don’t,” I told him.

“But you are Jewish
?” It was a question
 and it wasn’t.

“I am Jewish. Most Jews born in this country don’t speak Hebrew,” I informed him. “A lot of them do speak Yiddish, though.”

“Do you speak Yiddish?”

“Ikh kenen,” I said. “But most of the time I don’t. There’ll be plenty of time for that.”

“When?” he asked me. He seemed genuinely interested in the answer.

“When I’m an old Jew,” I told him. The food arrived and I delivered a forkful of scrambled eggs into my mouth. When my head was down, I thought I noticed Bradford signal to someone, and I assumed he needed more coffee or another napkin. But it wasn’t a waitress who came to the table. It was the man in the lab coat, and he didn’t just come over, he took a seat on the bench next to Bradford.

“Hello,” he said.

“Hello,” I said, but I wasn’t so sure.

“Professor Carp,” Bradford said, “this is Doctor Martin Smith, a
 specialist on my team.”

“So it’s a science project you’re running?”

“After a fashion. It’s what you professors call ‘interdisciplinary,’” Bradford said. “And I thought you might as well meet Doctor Smith sooner rather than later. He’s much nicer than I am. You could actually enjoy working with him.”

“You know, you haven’t yet told me anything about what you’re working on.”

At this, Dr. Martin Smith, specialist in something or other, stood up from our booth again and excused himself. “I should be getting back,” he said. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Professor Carp.”

“Likewise,” I said as he left. Again, I wasn’t so sure. When I was reasonably confident he was out of earshot, I questioned Bradford: “Smith? Schmidt, I should think.”

“You’ve got a good ear,” Bradford said. “Smith fled the Fatherland when he saw the writing on the wall. I know a man whose father did the same.”

I was about to compliment Bradford again on making a good point, but something disturbing occurred to me.

“Hang on,” I said instead. “Sch
 mith was waiting here for us to arrive? You knew we’d be coming here? But
 it was my idea. How did you know?”

“You had lunch here yesterday too.”

Bradford handed me a card.

“Call me if you want to help,” he said.

“Help whom?” I asked.

“Everyone,” he said. “Including yourself.”

When the man who called himself Bradford—just Bradford—had departed, I lingered at the restaurant. I had nowhere to be and nothing to do.

I called over the middle-aged owner when he passed by my table. Leo and I were friendly, and he didn’t know or care about my recent troubles, public though they had been. “That funny little man at the counter. What did he order?”

Leo cocked his head to one side, then rattled it off: “French toast. Belgian waffles, sausages—”

“Italian or Polish?” I interrupted the restaurateur to ask.

“Both,” Leo said, matter-of-factly. “And a Danish pastry,” he added.

Typical German, I thought. Trying to conquer Europe before noon.

Then I realized that I was being indefensibly uncharitable. Hadn’t Bradford told me that Smith had been an expatriate for many years? Smith and I probably had more in common than I would ever have guessed. Maybe Smith had fled Germany because he’d embarrassed himself there, gotten himself fired from his job and declared a pariah in his field, and needed a fresh start in a country where he was unknown. Or maybe he was simply wary of being coerced into contributing his scientific knowledge and faculties to a wholly inhuman and inhumane cause. Either was a good reason.

“What’s new with you, Professor?” Leo was asking. I thought he had walked away while I was ruminating. Maybe he had and returned. Maybe I should have opened a small restaurant rather than doing all of the things that I had done to get me where I was just then: sitting by myself in a small restaurant, regretting several choices I’d made recently.

“Didn’t see you for a couple of days,” Leo mentioned.

“I was out of town,” I told him. “I had business in Washington.”

“Politics, Professor?”

“In a manner of speaking.”

“Always knew you had a good head on your shoulders,” Leo flattered me.

“Had my ass handed to me, Leo,” I said.

“Yeah? Well, welcome back.”

“Thanks.”

I paid my tab and went home, where I wouldn’t have to talk to anyone else for the rest of the day if I didn’t want to. And I really didn’t want to.

***

The Vowels of the Earth is out now.