As we all know, there is this patronizing line people use when they are ashamed of liking something. They may refer to is as a guilty pleasure, and then, as if to indemnify themselves from humiliation, will cowardly mutter something along the lines of ‘I liked it for what it was’. Well, no shit! Does anybody like something for what it isn’t? Perhaps they do. (Oh that Camus and his sanguine romps!) After all, the best thing about some books is that they aren’t by James Patterson, or one of his ghostwriters, or some new-same woke-and-heartbroke Instagram pseudo-poetry. But my point is easily understood, I think, and probably well advertised.
Having said all that, I do seem to employ different criteria for my pulpier selections, because I more-or-less have an idea of what I am indulging in, though Keene doesn’t always fit cozily in the exclusive Pulp description as I understand it, as his characters are often as authentically uninhibited as our childhood selves were. His situations as well, because although I reject (or am at least limitlessly skeptical of) any supernatural explanations of events, I am not detached from the frightened enticement of it in childhood when something mysterious happens, or when we swear to God that we saw a monster lurking about. That is the sort of affection I possess for this novel, and the writer over all. Who among us has not consulted our comics and accumulated imaginative bestiaries for interpretational guidance in strange goings-on? I won’t do the hackneyed thing, yet, and deem this a genre-defying work, but it is a solid genre piece that happens to contain people like yourself, or people you used to know, involved in situations you once thought your experiences may have been leading up to. Some aspects of a couple of the young characters were certainly not as typical (e.g. a mother’s incestuous drunkenness after being left by her husband), but other sad and harrowing aspects of the novel such as fathers abandoning their families, abusive fathers, dead grandparents, are often things that children have to face, and are treated with more delicate compassion than one might expect from their average pulp or exploitation piece.
Now, I’m afraid I do have to make a hackneyed pronouncement. This is a coming-of-age tale. The story is straightforward and linear (god should forbid such shameless pre-postmodernism) and even the allegory is explained through Timmy Graco’s thoughts; a pleasant, sci-fi-and-horror-obsessed-but-otherwise-mostly-normal, and kindhearted 12 year old boy who comes to fancy himself a modern-day (well, 1980’s) Tom Sawyer, with one significant alteration; a demonic, corpse-devouring, female-defiling, graveyard skulking, midnight-thriving fiend replacing the role of Injun Joe. I loved revisiting that adventurous-cum-slightly-mischievous spirit, which was so appropriately and reverently implemented. The other coming-of-age element is one that has been expressed most angstily—and perhaps poignantly—in The Breakfast Club, but again, the candor of it in the context of these boys’ journey just works: is there any way to avoid ending up like our parents? Returning to the cemetery where all the horror was experienced, not only to bury your father, but also to discover that your best childhood friend has been treating his son with the same cruel dominance that he experienced at the hands of his own father is a grim moment of clarity indeed. In preparation to battle the evil foe, Timmy quotes his late grandfather quoting, more like paraphrasing, Nietzsche (pronounced Nacho, he thinks), “When you battle monsters, you have to be careful or else you’ll turn into a monster yourself.” This is a convenient use for such a quote, but I can’t really think of a way to quote Nietzsche that isn’t. Literal monsters, societal monsters, inner monsters; they will eventually devour it all.