I find the most fascinating figure of this collection to be a small blue bird egg, delicately painted in gold Chinese characters. It is set in the center of a mandala - radiating steak tags and framed by white pebbles - that is arranged over raw meat at a Bonanza steakhouse. The characters etched on the egg translate as "banquet."
Fast Lanes takes the themes of fragmentation, desparation, and yearning that manifests in shapes of sex or violence or truncated transcendence and gives them a kind of delicate and exotic figuration: derringer pistols, rings inlaid with pearl, dancers reading Zola, a hundred high school girls moving lighted candles in a choreographed routine. The language too, tends to the achingly delicate and exotic, as in:
She fingers absently a spray of forsythia arched from a vase by the bed. It is the waxy deep yellow of butter melted to a puddle and then frozen. He feels it is violent.
or, better, what i take to be one of the highlights of all fast lanes:
Hello my little bluegill, little shark face. Fanged one, sucker, hermaphrodite. Rose, bloom in the fog of the body; see how the gulls arch over us, singing their raucous squalls. They bring you sweetmeats, tiny mice, spiders with clasped legs. In their old claws, claws of eons, reptilian sleep, they cradle shiny rocks and bits of glass. Boat in my blood, I dream you furred and sharp toothed, loping in snow mist on a tundra far from the sea...
Rayme, the story of a strange, dislocated girl who floats with the community housing set of the narrator's student days, is my favorite here. It is some of the very best of Phillips' mix of odd and poignant and painful and beautiful, that kind of "dream in jagged pieces." Rayme, so far gone yet so endearing, is the one who arranged the mandala, painted the perfect blue egg with gold Chinese characters. She was celebrating the feast, but Bonanza steakhouses don't much take to rituals of gratitude and spiritual connection.
Once she cooked soup. For an hour, she stood by the stove, stirring the soup in a large dented kettle. I looked into the pot and saw a jagged object floating among the vegetables. I pulled it out, holding the hot, thin edge; it was a large fragment of blackened linoleum from the buckling kitchen floor.
I asked Rayme how a piece of floor got in the soup.
"I put it there," Rayme said.
I didn't answer.
"It's clean," Rayme said. "I washed it first," and then, angrily, "if you're not going to eat my food, don't look at it."
That was her worst summer. She told me she didn't want to take the Thorazine because it made her into someone else. Men were the sky and women were the earth; she liked books about Indians. She said cats were good and dogs were bad; she hated the lower half of her body. She didn't have lovers but quietly adored men from her past - relatives, boyfriends, men she saw in magazines or on the street. Her high school boyfriend was Krishna, a later one Jesus, her father "Buddha with a black heart." She built an altar in her room out of planks and cement blocks, burned candles and incense, arranged pine needles and pebbles in patterns. She changed costumes often and moved the furniture in her room several times a day, usually shifting it just a few inches. She taped pictures on her wall: blue Krishna riding his white pony, Shiva dancing with all her gold arms adorned, Lyndon Johnson in a glossy cover from Newsweek , cutouts of kittens from a toilet paper advertisement.