Potts County has a small population, so small that one law enforcement officer is enough to keep the peace around. Keeping the peace is something High Sheriff Nick Corey tries to avoid as much as he can, preferring instead to complain about how little time he has for sleeping and for eating. The town leaders don't seem unduly disturbed by his laisez-faire philosophy, and he usually gets re-elected on his libertarian platform.
"I'll ask you just one question," Robert Lee cut in. "Are you or aren't you going to start enforcing the law?"
"Sure I am," I said. "I sure ain't going to do nothing else but."
"Good, I'm relieved to hear it."
"Yes, sir," I said. "I'm really going to start cracking down. Anyone that breaks a law from now on is goin' to have to deal with me. Providing, o' course, that he's either colored or some poor white trash that can't pay his poll tax."
In the introduction to this dark masterpiece plumbing the abyss of a twisted mind, Daniel Woodrell hits the nail of meaning squarely on the head : In this novel Thompson attacks just about all of the big ogres of American existence - poverty, racism, labor, social hypocrisy in general, and the relaxed enforcement of laws for those who have amassed gold, the brutal enforcement for those who haven't.
1280 'souls' are more than enough for Thompson to represent a whole society, one built on inequality and dissimulation, on envy and greed. Nick Corey might have cared about this society at one time or another, but by the time we make his acquaintance, he is as disllusioned and cynical as the rest of them. ( Me, almost anyone can make a better speech than I can, and anyone can come out stronger against or for something. Because, me, I've got no very strong convictions about anything. Not anymore I haven't. ) He is only interested in taking care of his well being, a ruthlessness of purpose that he has learned how to hide from the others behind a harmless bufoon persona, a down-to-earth humorous banter and a sly meekness that leaves him henpecked by a predatory wife, bullied by the town's two pimps and kicked in the behind by his best friend as a lesson in self-assertiveness. It is very easy to laugh at the self-deprecating manner of speaking and at the crazy situations Nick finds himself entangled in (like waiting outside an empty toilet cubicle), but there is a chilling undercurrent that will soon tranform the comedy routine into a devil's playground. I sort of wish for a movie adaptation with Heath Ledger in the role of the 'joker' Nick Corey. If he were still with us, Heath looks to me like the spitting image I have of Nick corey. Here's an early example of what I'm talking about, with Nick trying to wheedle some 'attention' from his wife:
"And just what", she said, "do you think you're doing?"
I told her I was getting ready to take a trip over to the county where Ken Lacey was sheriff. I'd probably be gone until late that night, I said, and we'd probably get real lonesome for each other, so maybe we ought to get together first.
"Huh!" she said, almost spitting the word at me. "Do you think I'd want you, even if I was of a mind to have relations with a man?"
"Well." I said. "I kind of thought maybe you might. I mean, I kind of hoped so. I mean, after all, why not?"
"Because I can hardly stand the sight of you, that's why! Because you're stupid!"
"Well," I said. "I ain't sure I can agree with you, Myra. I mean, I ain't saying you're wrong but I ain't saying you're right, either. Anyways, even if I am stupid, you can't hardly fault me for it. They've lots of stupid people in the world."
One of my friends in the Pulp Fiction group remarked that Nick Corey is a poster boy for the psychopatic criminal, showing all the symptoms associated with this deviant behaviour : always putting the blame for his troubles on the others, showing no remorse or empathy for the plight of these others, paranoia, selfishness, cunning at covering his thoughts behind an amiable public persona. Chillingly, his rants made me think of that Swedish guy who went on a rampage on an island, believing he will remedy in this way the ills of society. Any sympathy I might have had for a tortured mind was quenched when Nick started to hear voices from on high, telling him he is on a God given crusade to cleanse to world of sinners. He is guilty of picking and chosing from the holy texts only the parts that suit him, forgetting the parrable of the stone throwing and forgiveness.
It's what I'm supposed to do you know, to punish the heck out of people for bein' people. To coax 'em into revealin' theirselves, an' then kick the crap out of'em. And it's a god-danged hard job, Rose, honey, and I figure that if I can get a little pleasure in the process of trappin' folks I'm mighty well entitled to it.
Another chilling factor for me was the familiarity of the author with his chosen subject. So powerful was the presence of Nick Corey that it got me to wonder what kind of experience did Thompson had in his childhood with a vile tempered father, coincidentally a sheriff of a small southern town. And what kind of disillusionment crushed the young leftist author's dreams for a better society to turn him into the bitter writer who felt so comfortable writing about deranged killers in hellholes like Potts County. For me as a reader, the worst part of the novel were not the actual murders, but the casual, rampant racism ( ... no doctor is going to do a post mortem on a Negro. Why, you can't get a doctor to touch a live Negro, let alone a dead one. ); the cynicism of double standards in law for the wealthy and for the poor; the degrading atitude towards women, the readiness of those 1280 'souls' to believe and spread outrageous rumours about a political candidate competing with Nick for the sheriff post:
... and before long, there were plenty of answers; the kind of stinking dirty dirt that people can always create for themselves when there ain't none for real.
With or without Nick Corey, Potts County is not high on the list of places I want to visit and of people I would like to meet. I would like to be able to claim Thompson exaggerates, uses hyperbole and satire to lay bare what Woodrell calls 'the big ogres of American society', but I only have turn on the TV and scroll through the news channels to find racism and domestic violence, vile rumours presented as truth and corrupted justice alive and kicking strong into the third millenium. Nick Corey doesn't have the answers to the problems he sees around him, and I still believe in my heart that the decent people outnumber the ogres, but it saddens me that it is these ogres that make all the noise and get all the notice.
I figure sometimes that maybe that's why we don't make as much progress as other parts of the nation. People lose so much time from their jobs in lynching other people, and they spend so much money on rope and kerosene and getting likkered-up in advance and other essentials, that there ain't an awful lot of money or man-hours left for practical purposes.
Nick Corey made laugh, I admit, with his folksy, Bugs Bunny repartees, his pretend dumbness like the evil twin of Forest Gump, but the aftertaste of the novel is a bitter pill to swallow, a feeling of helplessness that make you reach for the hard liquor to drown your conscience and het ready to sink into a troubled sleep , ready to get up in the morning as if nothing was wrong with the world.
Because my labors were mighty ones - ol' Hercules didn't know what hard work was - and what is there to do but eat and sleep? And when you're eatin' and sleepin' you don't have to fret about things that you can't do nothing about. And what else is there to do but laugh an' joke ... how else can you bear up under the unbearable?
Most readers will probably remember the book for its scaringly realistic lead character. I believe what will stay longer with me is the portrait of a small towns beset by poverty and anger, by soul crushing pettiness and despair.
And suddenly the emptiness was filled with sound and sight, with all the sad terrible things that the emptiness had brought the people to.
There were the helpless little girls, cryin' when their own daddies crawled into bed with 'em. There were the men beating their wives, the women screamin' for mercy. There were the kids wettin' in the beds from fear and nervousness, and their mothers dosin' 'em with red pepper for punishment. There were the haggard faces, drained white from hookworm and blotched with scurvy. There was the near-starvation, the never-bein'-full, the debts that always outrun the credits. There was the how-we-gonna-eat, how-we-gonna-sleep, how-we-gonna-cover-our-poor-bare-asses thinkin'. The kind of thinkin' that when you ain't doing nothing else but, why you're better off dead. Because that's the emptiness thinkin' and you're already dead inside, and all you'll do is spread the stink and the terror, the weepin' and wailin', the torture, the starvation, the shame of your deadness. Your emptiness.
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