Morton Martin Spell -- a once-brilliant, now-infirm seventy-five-year-old writer -- is sliding into delirium. He thinks Mount Sinai Hospital is an exclusive golf course and his catheter is a gym bag. His only link to reality is his thirty-five-year-old nephew, who makes his living as a hired gun for thirteen softball teams and still goes by the name College Boy. But College Boy's body has begun to betray him -- almost as much as his lack of ambition. (His only legitimate paycheck comes from a gig as a laugher on a morning radio show.) Not only that, the Dirt King, a small-time gangster who controls all the replacement soil in Central Park, is after College Boy. As their lives collide, College Boy takes refuge in the arms of Sheila -- his uncle's cleaning woman and a part-time call girl. And then it gets weird.
Fast read, will have you laugh out loud, great for the commute to work. Its almost like two books in one. The first half follows the main charater as he basically just floats through life carelessly and then when everything suddenly changes he is forced to finally grow up.
Morton Martin Spell is seventy-five and in a serious state of decline. The book starts out very confusing which is appropriate because the story is being told from the perspective of a septuagenarian suffering from delirium. Mort's thirty-five year old nephew, Harvey Sussman, goes by the nickname "College Boy" which stems from his supporting himself as a paid ringer on no less than thirteen softball teams in New York. He claims to be an actor but his only role appears to be the laugh track on a drive time radio program. Add into the mix Sheila, Mort's gorgeous redheaded housekeeper who moonlights as a part time call girl and you have the three main characters in a story that is amusing and surprisingly touching.
I read this when it first came out about 20 years ago and I've long forgotten the jokes but I've never forgotten the touching, sincere transformation of the protagonist, from an average shlemiel hacking his way through life, into a mature man pursuing a hero's journey fueled by compassionate love.
The cover blurb from The New York Times Book Review reads, "the jokes are plentiful and very high in quality," which strikes me as a particularly straight-faced way to say something is funny. Having read 84 pages of The Ringer, I can see where the NYT is coming from. The book, or at least the 84 pages of it that I read, is full of clever turns of phrase and smart asides, but they're the kind of thing that make you nod and say, "oh. Yes, I see," rather than actually laugh. Scheft's narrative style requires a little work on the reader's part; for example, if the back cover of the book didn't tell you the protagonist has a job as a laugher on a morning radio show, chapter 6 would puzzle and annoy you. It's not that I'm opposed to smart writing, but this is more smartypants than smart. I got the feeling that Scheft was nudging me constantly and shouting in my ear, "you see? You see what I did there?" Yes, I see. Congratulations on being so painfully hip.
It's rare that I don't finish a book, even if I hate it, but I'm old and I have a lot of unread books in my house. Since I could never get through more than about ten pages of this book before starting to feel bored and irritated, this became one of those rare times. I didn't hate it, I just found in completely unengaging.
This is the second of Bill Scheft's books I've read, and I am definitely looking forward to reading more. Even when it wasn't clear where the book was going, it sucked me in and I didn't want to put it down.
I found it a little slow to read. The story was interesting but it left me wondering if there shouldn't have been more to the ending. Well worth the read though.
Guess I'm in the minority here, but I had to quit after 25 pages. I couldn't stand the writing and it's not funny at all. Maybe I'll come back to it someday.