Isn't Sam Pink fascinating? I mean, what are his stories in Hurt Others about, really? Do they have plots? I don't think so. But could they be called "slice of life" stories? Maybe, but these are some very odd and specific slices. What is with the narrator that seems similar in each story but always a little different? Is he Sam? Does that matter? And what is with the spontaneous, shocking violence? Like:
"At one point today I was putting a wine bottle in a customer's bag and I had an almost unstoppable urge to hit the customer's child with the wine bottle, for no detectable reason.
I wanted to just take the wine bottle by the neck, then windmill it downward onto the top of the child's head, circle of glass at the bottom of the bottle landing hard.
A sound no one would want to hear.
Then blood." p. 18.
And like:
"...he stomped down hard, missing the bulk of the toad, but snapping both its hind-legs under his Velcro boot.
And the hind-legs hung there, stripped and broken.
Soft-looking bones came out of the skin.
Trying to move, the toad could only circle." p. 111.
Sam Pink's fictions (and his plays and his poems) are raw presentations of living. It's the kind of living that gets done behind broken doors with shiny padlocks in run-down neighbourhoods. The kind of living that gets done on the street, but that doesn't get noticed because it makes people like you and me turn away until we've walked past. The kind of living that makes you uncomfortable, so when you hear about it, you pay a few seconds of attention to it in your mind and then you push it away, focusing on other things, on other kinds of living. But Sam Pink is not turning away. In fact, he's crashing on the couches of the people who do this kind of living. He's going to the parties, drinking the moonshine, talking to the "crackheads" and feeling positive sometimes. He's getting the jobs no one else wants and talking to the co-workers who seem a bit too strange.
There are plenty of writers who write well about living on the wrong side of the tracks (Denis Johnson just came to my mind) but the unique thing about Sam Pink's writing is his narrator. The narrator here is not entirely passive, but he is quiet. He observes, but he doesn't think much. We as readers get a keen-eyed glimpse into some pretty ugly places, but it's the narrator's occasional participation that pushes us into Sam Pink-land. The things the narrator does are not wrong or evil, in fact they seem to take place outside of a moral sphere, or at least in a brand-new one that I don't understand yet. There's just no concern with wrong or right here, it seems. Just concern with living. Living wherever and whenever possible. And maybe getting a laugh out of it, a smile, even. Or just a good story. Or a hug.
"Alright, I'm late," she said. "Bye sweetie."
She turned toward the store.
"Wait, let's get a hug," I said.
She looked at me.
"Come here," I said, with my arms out.
She said, "Yeah, alright."
We hugged.
I had to bend down a little to properly hug her.
My right ear touched her right ear.
We let go of each other and she walked towards the store.
The front door opened out towards her and almost hit her.
She sidestepped it, coughing into her hand, her other arm holding down her purse." p. 27.