Toward the tail end of June, I found myself with a rare gap in my reading schedule. So I began to scroll through my handy-dandy TBR looking for something fun, and this book seemed to fit the bill nicely. I don’t recall exactly how this initially found its way onto that mountainous pile, but I can totally blame a couple of the usual suspect for bringing it back onto my radar.
The premise here is fairly straightforward - after a repo job goes sideways, a couple of buddies set off on a road trip through the Deep South in an attempt to recover a stolen mint-condition calypso coral ’69 Ranchero. Comedic escapades ensue.
The problem I ran into was that comedy, for me at least, dried up rather quickly. I’ve seen this redneck buddy spiel done a few time before. The obvious comparison would be to Lansdale’s Hap and Leonard series, or his even better Thicket one-off (can’t wait for the movie!). However, the difference between those Lansdale works and this book is rather striking. Lansdale excels at characterization. Hap and Leonard or Shorty and Eustace (take your pick) feel like fully fleshed out, relatable characters, with a ton of heart. Even when the adventure side of things is lacking, you’re still more than willing to tag along for the ride with such compelling leads. Lansdale also has a great ear for dialogue, which is often a hilarious back and forth where the barbs and insults fly. By the end of those stories, those boys feel like a couple of old friends. Whereas here, our intrepid narrator was so memorable that I couldn’t even recall his name a week later. He does almost all of the talking while his buddy Desmond sits in silence, or grunts out a few responses every now and again. Desmond can’t be bothered to get too involved when his hunger is overwhelming, and his desire to stuff his fat face with more of those Sonic Coney Islands is all-encompassing.
The Sonic is brought up so often throughout the story you’d swear they gotta be lacing those coneys with crack cocaine. How anyone could be that mesmerized by a fucking hotdog is beyond the grasp of my understanding. Some of Desmond’s other endearing (?) traits, besides being the muscle in the outfit, are his numerous phobias—from doctors, needles, and medicine, to his irrational fear of nearly the entire natural world. Snakes and gators and spiders I get, but trees and bayous and harmless little old dogs? That’s nuts. He also displays some remarkable driving skills, as he drifts his tiny Geo all over the road, thumping over all the roadkill for no apparent reason.
This Desmond is such a bland character that they’re forced to pick up a few frenemies along the way to liven things up. These are essentially only slight variations of the exact same character. Dimwitted, shiftless, “Delta crackers” who carry some piece of the puzzle our boys need to track down that car. All of whom are roughed up and threatened, then somehow coerced into tagging along for the ride. Each one evolves from a bitter enemy to a helpful crew member in the blink of an eye, which doesn’t make a lick of sense. But then, neither does the contrived side plot concerning the “muscle-headed cracker cop.” All of these shiftless morons have the mentality of little kids, as they constantly bicker and fight until whatshisname slaps the shit out of ’em and/or hollers to STFU!
There’s just something completely off about this story. Even the cover is wrong—there’s no mystery here. The narrative shifts are a bit jarring, from the occasional masterful literary phrasing to this simplistic writing, which labels people as cracker fools or swamp trash. A Caucasian so often tossing around the term “cracker” seems strange to me. I could be off-base, but it sounds more like someone aping the lingo, than actually hip to it.
In summary: If you’d care to spend some time with a couple of no-account repo men, as they journey from Sonic to Sonic out on the back roads of Mississippi; traveling across trash strewn landscapes filled with rundown, dilapidated buildings, abandoned downtowns, low-income housing, trailer parks, and meth dens all rife with domestic squalor; encountering shiftless idiots, swamp trash louts, wannabe gangsters, meth heads, crooked cops, and porch shitting toddlers (?); in their quest to reacquire that oh so sweet, mint-condition calypso coral ’69 Ranchero then, by all means, delve in.
As for me, I’ll call a spade a spade. No matter how much this wants to be another Hap and Leonard, it pales in comparison. This is Dude Lit, plain and simple. For all those people who find the WWE storylines too hard to follow, you’re in luck!
1 Star: Cue the Benny Hill music