Another debatable claim is that the short story is likely to be more self-consciously crafted and “shaped” than the novel. Yet at least two of the most memorable stories in this volume — Edward Jones’s “Old Boys, Old Girls” and Scott Wolven’s “Barracuda” — defy expectations at virtually every turn, as willfully shapeless as life. “Old Boys, Old Girls” meanders like a river over a period of many years, following a vague and haphazard chronological movement; Wolven’s much shorter story cuts from scene to scene with the nervous energy of a hand-held camera. Equally memorable stories by Wolven have appeared in the last several volumes of The Best American Mystery Stories, each an exploration of violence among men who have become marginalized, and thus as dangerous as rogue elephants, in an economically ravaged society that places little value on traditional masculinity. For Wolven’s men — loggers, tree poachers, corrupt cops — the impulse to do terrible damage to one another is as natural as watching pit bulls tear one another to pieces for sport.
George V. Higgins (1939–1999) was a unique talent. His most acclaimed novel The Friends of Eddie Coyle (1972) has become an American crime classic. As guest editor of this anthology I’m grateful to have the opportunity to reprint what will probably be the last of Higgins’s stories to appear in this series. One might debate whether “Jack Duggan’s Law” is a story or a novella, but one can’t debate the verve, wit, authenticity, and wisdom of the world it memorializes: a Boston demimonde of harassed, overworked, yet quixotically zealous defense attorneys and ADAs. Higgins’s ear for the rough poetry of vernacular speech has never been sharper than in this posthumously published story from a collection titled The Easiest Thing in the World.
As a concluding note, I should add that reading stories for this volume was a pleasure and that decisions were not easy to make. Both Otto and I read and reread. (I’ve read “Jack Duggan’s Law” at least three times. It keeps getting better.) Each of us had the idea, I think, of wearing the other down by stubbornly clinging to favored titles. In some cases this worked, in others not. Where we couldn’t finally agree, we decided to include the story in question. Our principal disagreement was over George V. Higgins: Otto preferred the even longer “The Easiest Thing in the World” to “Jack Duggan’s Law.” In this instance, Otto graciously deferred to me, but readers may want to decide their own preferences.
Joyce Carol Oates
Richard Burgin
The Identity Club
From TriQuarterly
Sometimes you meet someone who is actually achieving what you can only strive for. It’s not exactly like meeting your double, it’s more like seeing what you would be if you could realize your potential. Those were the feelings that Remy had about Eugene. In appearance they were similar, although Eugene was younger by a few years and taller by a few inches. But they each had fine dark hair, still untouched by any gray, and they each had refined facial features, especially their delicate noses. Eugene’s body, however, was significantly more muscular than Remy’s.
At the agency in New York where Remy had worked for three years writing ad copy, Eugene was making a rapid and much talked about ascent. A number of Remy’s other colleagues openly speculated that Eugene was advancing because he was a masterful office politician. But when Remy began working with him on an important new campaign for a client who manufactured toothpaste, he saw that wasn’t true at all. Eugene had a special kind of brilliance, not just for writing slogans or generating campaign ideas, but a deep insight into human motivations and behavior that he knew how to channel into making people buy products. Rather than being a master diplomat, Remy discovered that Eugene was aloof almost to the point of rudeness, never discussed his private life, and rarely showed any signs of a sense of humor. Yet Remy admired him enormously and wondered if Eugene, who Remy thought of as one of the wisest men he knew (certainly the wisest young man), might be a person he could confide in about the Identity Club and the important decision he had to make in the near future.
All of these thoughts were streaming through Remy’s mind after work one night in his apartment when the phone rang. It was Poe calling to remind him about the Identity Club meeting that night. Remy nearly gasped as he’d inexplicably lost track of time and now had only a half hour to meet Poe and take a cab with him to the meeting.
The club itself had to be, almost by definition, a secretive organization that placed a high value on its members’ trustworthiness, dependability, and punctuality. Its members assumed the identities — the appearance, activities, and personalities — (whenever they could) of various celebrated dead artists they deeply admired. At the monthly meetings, which Remy enjoyed immensely and thought of as parties, all members would be dressed in their adopted identities, drinking and eating and joking with each other. As soon as he stepped into a meeting he could feel himself transform, as if the colors of his life went from muted grays and browns to glowing reds and yellows and vibrant greens and blues. To be honest with himself, since moving to New York from New England three years ago, his life before the club had been embarrassingly devoid of both emotion and purpose. How lucky for him, he often thought, that he’d been befriended by Winston Reems — now known by club members as Salvador Dali — a junor executive at his agency who had slowly introduced him to the club.
This month’s meeting was at the new Bill Evans’s apartment (who had patterned himself after the famous jazz pianist) and since Remy enjoyed music he was particularly looking forward to it. He had also been told that Thomas Bernhard, named for the late, Austrian writer, would definitely be there as well. As Bernhard was renowned for being a kind of hermit it was always special when he did attend a meeting and it made sense that as a former professional musician he would go to this one.
Quickly Remy dried off from his shower and began putting on new clothes. He thought that tonight promised to be an especially interesting mix of people, which was one of the ostensible ideas of the organization, to have great artists from the different arts meet and mingle, as they never had in real life. The decision facing Remy, which he’d given a good deal of thought to without coming any closer to a conclusion, was who he was going to “become” himself. He was considered at present an “uncommitted member” and had been debating between Nathanael West and some other writers. Nabokov, whom he might have seriously considered, had already been taken. At least, since he still had a month before he had to commit, he didn’t have to dress in costume — though he rather looked forward to that. Remy had been a member for four months and it was now time for him to submit to a club interview to help him decide whose identity he was best suited for. Sometimes these interviews were conducted by the entire membership, which reminded Remy of a kind of intervention, other times by the host of that evening’s meeting or by some other well-established member. The new member was never informed in advance, as these “probings” were taken very seriously and the club wanted a spontaneous and true response.