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528 pages, Paperback
First published September 6, 2016
Nobody on the road
Nobody on the beach
I feel it in the air
The summer's out of reach
Empty lake, empty streets
The sun goes down alone
I'm driving by your house
Though I know you're not home
But I can see you
Your brown skin shining in the sun
You got your hair combed back and your
Sunglasses on, baby
I can tell you my love for you will still be strong
After the boys of summer have gone
I never will forget those nights
I wonder if it was a dream
Remember how you made me crazy?
Remember how I made you scream?
Now I don't understand
What happened to our love
But babe, I'm gonna get you back
I'm gonna show you what I'm made of
I can see you
Your brown skin shining in the sun
I see you walking real slow and
Smiling at everyone
I can tell you my love for you will still be strong
After the boys of summer have gone
Out on the road today
I saw a Deadhead sticker on a cadillac
A little voice inside my head said
"Don't look back, you can never look back"
I thought I knew what love was
What did I know?
Those days are gone forever
I should just let them go but
I can see you
Your brown skin shining in the sun
You got the top pulled down
Radio on, baby
I can tell you my love for you will still be strong
After the boys of summer have gone
I can see you
Your brown skin shining in the sun
You got your hair slicked back and those
Wayfarers on, baby
I can tell you my love for you will still be strong
After the boys of summer have gone
Just finished my final read of the year, The Boys of Summer (2016), by Richard Cox. A couple of weeks ago I added the novel to my Christmas book wish list at the last moment, having come across it on Amazon while looking over stuff about another book. A suspense novel drawing heavily from the Don Henley song of the same title—its haunting melody a perpetual part of the soundtrack of much of my life in the decadent 80’s—as well as from one of the fixtures in my life since teenhood, the immortal Stephen King, the story’s setup appealed to me. And it still does, though the meta-narrative aspect gradually revealed and then overtly exposed by the end feels cutesy and a tad forced.
A novel about the sinister gravitational pull a middle America home town has on its residents (a pull this reader sure experienced), the book is set on the north Texas prairie in the town of Wichita Falls (not to be confused with the more familiar city of Wichita, Kansas)—tornado country. And the tornado motif plays a key thematic/symbolic role throughout. Well, two tornadoes do: they link the central characters when they’re young teens and near-forty adults. As kids in 1983, these characters form a friendship and give themselves the name of the song that one of them, the talented Todd, plays and sings. From the outset, Cox gives us lyrics from the piece over and over, and readers (at least readers of a certain age, readers who lived and listened and loved through the 80’s, ahem) recognize it soon enough as the Henley hit noted. The thing is, said Henley song didn’t appear until the next year, in the fall of 1984. This discrepancy had this reader scurrying to the internet to confirm, but author Cox advises us eventually of the impossibility. Todd (as well as another key minor character who becomes important later) experiences a blow-to-the-head-induced walking coma from the opening tornado that somehow allows him to tap into the future. This knowledge drives the narrative.
It’s a pretty cool setup, and we get to know these characters well. They each experience their troubles with the town and their families, and Cox brings out the interrelationships keenly. The boys (along with a girl—the similarities to SK’s monolithically seminal It (1986) are unavoidable), urged on by the prescient Todd, get into some big trouble (the fire on the cover should signal what kind) as kids, trouble that tracks them into adulthood. Flawed as adults, they all converge back to Wichita Falls twenty-five years later to finally face that trouble.
I was pulled along fluidly with the story and enjoyed the book overall. However, I wanted more on Todd’s connection to the time paradox. It is simply described as a “white void,” which is way too generic. [Also, the parallels to the driving structure of another iconic King novel, The Dead Zone (1979) are obvious. Cox seems to assume that if he references that book (which he does so not once, not twice, but three separate times), then readers will give him a break. Hmmm. This reader is not so sure.] Sure, readers can fill in details for themselves, but given the importance to the story overall that Todd’s void plays, especially to the climax (which includes some good twists), more clarity is needed. The tornado symbolism with its fantasy-lit overtness (think The Wizard of Oz, think King’s The Dark Tower saga, in particular The Wind Through the Keyhole)—the big bad storm transports us into other realms—isn’t enough. We need clarity.
And speaking (further) of Stephen King, there’s a scene midway through wherein aspiring writer Jonathan, arguably the group’s leader, gets inspired to write his best work, a story identical (Cox gives us excerpts) to one of King’s earlier famous novels (which I won’t spoil here, except to say that it’s neither It nor The Dead Zone). Jonathan’s draft gets ruined, and the matter is dropped. What? This, combined with the aforementioned metafictional element (which King also has mined to great effect in the Dark Tower cycle), confuses more than thrills.
And really, thrills are what readers of books like The Boys of Summer are looking for, right? Entertaining events that bring shivers and sighs, that transport us away from our mundane lives? Cox’s novel, as noted, builds and builds, and matters get wrapped up okay—but ideally no “however” should exist.
I liked the book, and I recommend it. Except for the noted issues, the climax fulfills; in particular, Cox’s descriptions of the tornadoes are awe-inspiring. I really liked the connection to my own life and interests, also noted. The idea of how a home town can haunt you for the rest of your life resonates. But still. The story ultimately didn’t grab me by my lapels and shake me—didn’t grab me the way tales of another certain author always do.