Upton Sinclair’s novels are “preachy” with their socialist idealism and relatively predictable plots. But from my high school experience with The Jungle through my college exploration of The Goose Step: A Study of Higher Education to my occasional forays into King Coal, Oil!, The Moneychangers, and snagging an old copy of Co-Op at a used bookstore, there has been a definite attraction to his passionate propaganda as novels, even though I am not a socialist and don’t think socialism works. So, when I read that U.S.! begins with the corpse of Upton Sinclair in the backseat of a car, I was intrigued and immediately sought this strange literary work of Chris Bachelder.
Unlike Sinclair’s work, Bachelder’s novel doesn’t seem to have any expectation of enlightening the reader on socialist ideals. U.S.! is a parody with supernatural overtones and the overall effect of a black comedy. If you didn’t like Catch-22, you won’t like U.S.!. And while Bachelder seems sympathetic toward Sinclair’s efforts, he makes no effort to hide the flaws of this prolific activist of the early 20th century. He notes the failures of most of Sinclair’s novels (with a few notable exceptions, of course). This was particularly vivid on pp. 78-84 when he lists real and imagined novels of Upton Sinclair as if on a web page full of book reviews. Though there are some clever faux-reviews, what is telling is the number which have the typical web comment: “Be the first to review this book.” At one point, Sinclair (more accurately a “reboot” of Sinclair) is imprisoned and, with a delightful inside joke to the reader, his cellmate confuses him with another muckraker, Sinclair Lewis (of Main Street, It Can’t Happen Here, Babbit, Arrowsmith, Dodsworth, and Elmer Gantry fame). At another point, we read the history of the cacophonous rock band, Ezra Pound Postcard, named after an ALL CAPS and profane screed from the poet which was directed at Sinclair (pp. 113-115).
I mentioned the supernatural overtones and, at the risk of spoiling, I need to explain that Upton Sinclair keeps being dug up from his graves by well-intentioned activists. The hope seems to be reigniting a socialist revolution, but the overall effect is that he keeps getting assassinated over and over again, like a video game reboot where one has multiple or infinite lives. In fact, with Bachelder’s amazing satirical power, one chapter is even a rejection letter of a video game with the same basic concept as the novel. For me, having covered the computer game industry for so long, it was spot-on hilarious with its too close for comfort depiction of the shallowness of focus groups (I saw this on both the computer game side and the board game side) and callous cowardice of what I once called the “Merry Marketeers. In fact, I once remember sharing with the Microsoft Flight Simulator team that the core gamers in our audience didn’t consider their product a true game because you couldn’t shoot anything.
I loved his categorization of the type of semi-friends that you call up in the middle of the night because you’re in “a little trouble.” He writes of those who have to ask, “What kind of trouble?” that those, “…whose response is conditional, tentative, based on some if-then ethical matrix and an overriding respect for authority—these are not the people you ever want to tell that you are in a little trouble, if you can help it.” (p. 41) In the same chapter, I couldn’t resist noting how the puns in the following sentence reflect the overall atmosphere of the book (despite its dark but effective humor): “The car broke down in Montana and we spent two nights in the sort of dumpy hotel whose name is a euphemism for death. Journey’s End or Dun Rovin or End of the Road.” (p. 43) Later, I laughed at the unexpected when Sinclair admits he didn’t want another child and supposed his son, Albert, the folk singer, could have turned out worse. To which, his secretary responds, “He could have been a banker.” (p. 252)
In between the narrative accounts, Bachelder has placed intriguing bits of creative weirdness. Earlier, I mentioned the non-book review book reviews, but there are also Upton Sinclair haiku (from an imagined fad in Japan—pp. 100-101), a parody of Robert Browning’s “My Last Duchess” (pp. 92-93), an Internet interview with a contemporary artist named Treadway who had created a pop culture installation of nude paintings of Sinclair displayed as a centerfold (pp. 87-91), a television show transcript of a panel discussions on experts on Sinclair assassins (pp. 147-155), a “map” key to the imagined Museum of Upton Sinclair Assassination (pp. 165-167),
Fiction, even fiction loosely constructed around historical figures or situations, has a remarkable tendency to uncover unexpected facts for the curious reader. In my case, a reference to Lt. Frederick Garrison as a nom de plume Upton Sinclair allegedly used when writing pulp adventures before his more well-known muckraking novels (p. 257) surprised me enough to discover that Upton Sinclair wrote pulp adventure stories for juveniles under both the Lt. Frederick Garrison and Ensign Clark Fitch bylines. I found one called “Author’s Adventure” and plan to look for more.
Except for the epilogue, the last portion of the book is straight narrative. Sinclair believes he is attending a 4th of July picnic in his honor while he is really headed toward a book burning of his latest book. I saw a blurb on this book that labeled it hopeful. The book ends in a bittersweet with a sliver of hope like daylight seeping into my basement. To be honest, I enjoyed U.S.!, but Bachelder is not the kind of writer from whom I’d like a steady diet of his work.