When I was applying to an elite yet funky liberal arts college in New York State as a senior in high school, I went for a campus tour with my parents. Our guide was an ethereal, nose-ringed nymph with close-cropped hair and a casual and confident manner. I was immediately smitten, but I could sense more skepticism from my parents. Our guide enthusiastically described her senior thesis--a temporally-limited, site-specific art project in a tree on campus--and when my dad asked her what she planned to do after graduation, she said that she was moving to San Francisco to work in a gallery there. When we drove away from this bucolic campus, my dad told me very seriously that after I graduated college, he and my mother would not be able to support me, that if I wanted to go to a glamorous and expensive city, I'd have to find a way to pay my rent there. He pointed out that it was likely that the tour guide, who seemed so hippie-ish describing her sylvan senior thesis, had parents' money facilitating her West Coast migrations. I had missed the financial implications of her plans altogether. Dad did not.
I relate this anecdote because this novel is basically about that dynamic. At the center of the novel is the relationship between Martin, the working-class dad who has been a super for an apartment building, hence obtaining free NYC housing for his family, for decades, and Ruby, the college-educated daughter who would sort-of like to be an artist and yet doesn't fully understand why she is under a mountain of debt (and struggling to conceptualize her dioramas) while her friend Caroline, who lives in the penthouse in the building, thrives and turns spork sculptures into decor for her parents' wealthy friends. The novel features the micro-divides of social class and its relationship to spending money, debt, and real estate. In a significant example, Caroline gets an interview for Ruby that turns out to be for an unpaid internship, and she is nonplussed to realize her friend is annoyed about it and doesn't plan to take the position.
Both families are Jewish, yet only Caroline and her family narrate their Holocaust history like a status symbol. Their position of privilege turns their ancestral suffering into something to be celebrated. Martin, by contrast, doesn't narrate his life with a long view; instead, he hears his humiliating daily actions narrated by a voice-over from his dear friend and dead tenant Lily who offers an unrelenting (and acccurate) critique of capitalism and his obeisance, which begins to fray over the course of the day that Conell narrates.
The interpersonal dynamics are believable and deeply felt, particularly the resentments between Martin and Ruby. Conell also makes connections between wealth and the displacement of living beings, the treatment of bodies as pests, which extends from the rats and pigeons to the homeless. The book is frequently funny and often moving. As a middle-class kid who went to an upper-class college (albeit not the one that I described in the opening anecdote), a lot of these subtle tensions between people who have cultural capital and people who have both kinds really spoke to me. I felt like the resolution of the plot and the themes got a little muddled. I'm not sure that Conell should have committed herself to the unity of telling the story all on a single day, and some of the more dramatic elements towards the end felt contrived.
That being said, Conell captures some of the intensity and troubles of long-standing friendships as well as parental aspirations, anger, and expectations.