|
Most people who develop critical faculties in college know
enough to leave them behind when they graduate, like the posters
in their
dorm rooms. Then there’s me, going out into the world like
an idiot, criticizing, critiquing every goddamn thing, doesn’t
matter if it’s a movie or a sunset or a blowjob. This novel, which takes place in the mid-1990’s, asks the question: now that you’re settled into a cozy, hopefully permanent relationship, what would happen if your sociopathic ex-lover tried to contact you, then disappeared? Would you go looking for him? What if you encountered strange people and places, and learned things you’d rather not know? What if you found that your “ex” might be involved in a murder? What would you do? Southmoreland Nights tells two gay love stories, one of them biracial. The narrative takes risks, yet offers a realistic portrayal of gay lives; the Kansas City setting provides a mirror in which young—and sometimes not-so-young—urban men can see themselves. Paul Lavarnway, the protagonist, is a sharp, amusing critic of his surroundings and, most tellingly, himself. Trying to put his past to rest, he nearly loses everything; it’s the redemptive power of love that keeps him from falling off the edge.
An Excerpt from Southmoreland Nights It was mostly a neighborhood of young black men, skulking past the broken storefronts of Troost Avenue, picking paths through vacant lots, roaming alone or, with strides carefully matched, in two's or three's. Paul joined them in the mornings, turning right from his front door to walk past apartment buildings like the Windemere, the Bainbridge, the Brownhardt, the Wrennmoor—swank addresses decades ago, now wrecked and weary sentinels under a gray Kansas City sky. On the cracked sidewalk, a wide array of leftovers: not just the usual litter of paper cups and styrofoam capsules from fast-food joints but also work gloves, crushed shoes, odd lengths of twine, unidentified rodent remains, and a few dribbles of unlikely-colored glass, like a broken gem. On the wide seats at the back of the bus Paul sat among these black
men, noting how each of them almost always guarded his crotch with
one or both hands as he stared out the window or eyeballed the women
getting on or off. Greeting each other, these men slapped hands or
moaned; they slept with their newspapers or lunch bags balanced on
the edge of their seats. And they looked back at Paul with no curiosity,
pegging him as… what? What did he look like, the white guy
with his trenchcoat and felt hat, his New York Times Book Review
held open at mustache level? The men were so bored when they looked
at him, they already knew all there was to know. But he could work
that to his advantage, keeping his expression deadpan as he stared
through his sunglasses, noting: their ears, which were so often small,
delicate as wafers pressed close to their hair. Sometimes they had
full beards and mustaches, sometimes not; but there was always some
facial hair, always dense, the same black as the pupils of their
eyes. When they laughed, their teeth showed highlights of gold or
silver, like the chains that contrasted so well with their dark throats
and chests. Read Part I of Southmoreland Nights |
 |
 |
|
