The dystopic stories-- in which salesmen are socially sanctioned rapists/criminals and the government enforces a policy of patricide-- are good, and generally satisfy with their classic O. Henry twists. But Boudinot is at his best when he plays it straight, like he does in "So Little Time," in which the earnest voice of a thirteen-year-old boy with a Dr. Who obsession, a shitty summer job, and a dorky mom and dad, captures the deep, sad space that exists even (or especially) between best friends. Also, this story contains one of the greatest litanies of adolescently-imagined violence ever:
"I could only imagine the worst scenarios: a whiskey bottle broken over his head, teeth punched out, kicked in the groin, baseball bat shoved into his gut, throat slit, hand stomped by a steel-toed boot, eye gouged out with a spoon, stabbed in the ribs, nose sliced like Jack Nicholson's in Chinatown, acid thrown in face, rapidly punched in nads, arm chopped off with a machete, head shoved through particle board wall, spike through hand, ear severed with an axe, chainsaw to the face, drowned in bathtub."
I feel like I understand my husband's inner life a little better after reading that.