Water & Power

by Greg Boyd

From the Minor Russian Classic in highly-condensed form to the updated re-telling of the Lone Ranger tale in Tonto to the tabloid satire of I Married Elvis, the stories in this collection celebrate the unexpected, often unraveling in the process the threads of contemporary American myth and culture.

Genres: Short Stories, Fiction

128 pages, Paperback

First published December 1, 2004

Reviews

[Glenn Russell]

Water & Power - seventeen short-stories by contemporary American author Greg Boyd, stories ranging from Richard Yates realistic to Nikolai Gogol fantastic.

Patricia Eakins writes how the stories in this collection "perch on the edges of cultural faults where sets of assumptions, ways of being, or layers of civilization collide and tremble. The imitation and counterimitation of art and life is profoundly interpenetrative in the various worlds of these stories by a writer whose postmodernism is as meditative as it is playful."

How true, Patricia. In these pages we'll encounter a writer on the way to the liquor store who finds a student's short-story in a brown paper bag that leads to an explosive face-off with the student herself, the fate of Tonto after the death of his dear friend, the Lone Ranger, a man seeking enlightenment dreams he grows an enormous third eye in the middle of his forehead and a woman meets and eventually marries a man who looks and performs like Elvis.

There's also the one where the narrator wakes up to the sound of a woman screaming and another one recounts a highly disfunctional family on vacation and still another where a Nick Adams-like character attends his high school reunion and is more than willing to share his tales of high adventure.

How I enjoy Greg's storytelling. Here's one unforgettable yarn from the book about the rebirth of a man's love life by way of an unexpected and exceptional transformation. Spoiler alert: I recount the entire story, beginning to end:

ANGEL
The story begins: Dear Hotstuff, signaling that the entire six-pager we're about to read is, in effect, a letter the unnamed narrator writes to a newspaper's racy gossip columnist.

Our narrator, let's call him Todd, starts off, "I never thought I'd be writing to your "letters" section, as my sex life over the years hasn't been particularly exciting." Todd realizes what he has to say is "a bit unusual" but he hopes Hotstuff will believe him since, after all, judging from the other letters gracing her column, she's quite open-minded.

It all started, Todd writes, about a year ago when he and his wife (out of respect for privacy, Todd calls her Susan, although this isn't her real name) took a vacation in Hawaii. When they hit the beach, Susan accused him of ogling all the young girls in bikinis. And then, as a consequence of one particularly intense ogle, he accidentally slopped sunscreen goop in Susan's hair. Ahhh! Susan jumped up, threw her sandy towel in his face and stomped across the hot sand to their hotel room.

By the time Todd made it back to the hotel, he could see Susan had already had a shower, changed her clothes and gone out without leaving a note. After spending some time on the balcony looking down at all the cleavage and bare thighs on view by the hotel swimming pool, Todd decided to search for Susan in the hotel lounge.

Todd can't believe his eye: Susan's sitting in a dark booth at the back, her head on the chest of some guy wrapping his arms around her. Long, lonely night for Todd. And Susan didn't return until the next day and never said a word about it. Worse, she hadn't allowed Todd to touch her ever since.

Over the next couple of months, their relationship continues to quickly unravel. At one point Susan even tells Todd that sex disgusts her and just the thought of sex makes her sick to her stomach. Todd decides it's time to separate.

Poor Todd. He tries everything, chatting up the pretty gals at the office, frequenting clubs, even going to a massage parlor. Nothing works. Todd has to admit he never was blessed with any real charm or sex-appeal. He becomes desperate and calls Susan to tell her how crazy he is about her. Susan suggests he go to church.

Todd does exactly that. During the Sunday mass, the priest takes a time out to inform everyone there's a social group for singles that meets every Wednesday night in the school library next door.

Todd attends the group and actually has a good time, even going out for coffee with some of the people afterwards. The third time he attends the meeting, there's a new member in the group: tall, very thin, wearing a bulky ski sweater with a turtle neck, Todd beholds the most beautiful woman he's ever seen in his life. "Her skin seemed to shine and her eyes were a pale blue color I'd never seen before in a pair of eyes." She introduces herself to the group as Angel but doesn't tell her last name.

Todd figures what the heck and after the meeting plucks up the courage to ask Angel if she'd like to go out for a cup of coffee. Angel smiles, takes his hand and off they go. Todd can hardly believe his good luck.

Over coffee, Angel asks Todd all about himself. Todd feels quite natural and opens up immediately, all the while Angel staring into his eyes. Afterwards, more good luck: Angel gives Todd her telephone number.

Two days later, when Todd gets up the nerve to phone her, Angel asks if he would like to come over. Upon arrival, Angel fixes tea for both of them. They sit on the couch to talk and Angel holds his hand and gently, very gently, touches Todd's face. It's like nothing Todd ever felt before. And then Angel asks if Todd would like to take a bath with her.

Once in the tub with Angel, Tod feels the greatest joy he's ever felt in his life. Angel's body is perfectly smooth, her chest flat and unmarked - and she has no sex organs. Afterwards, Angel and Todd go to bed and sleep together throughout the entire night. Todd wakes up calm and refreshed and goes off to work smiling, his heart singing.

When Todd returns to Angel's apartment that evening, she hands him a wrapped gift. Inside the box is a shiny pair of scissors. Later, Angel cuts and shaves all the hair off his body. When she's finished, she kisses him all over and tells him "that's better." Moments later, they are back in the bathtub.

The following night Angel gives Todd another gift, a bigger box to open. Inside there's a black leather bag. And inside the bag, Todd can see a set of surgical tools glittering, scalpels of all sizes.

Todd closes his letter to Hotstuff by letting her know that "Tonight I'm anticipating what Angel's promised will be the greatest ecstasy I've ever known."

Sacrifice and bliss, anyone? Any takers for Angel's phone number?

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I relish a short-story where the closing sentences serve as the clincher, the ironic smack in the kisser, the unexpected move that catches a reader in checkmate. This Greg Boyd blaster is one such story. Here it is in its entirety. Bop, bop, bop, bop, pow!

THE LADDER
I go next door to borrow a step ladder. No big deal. But deal. It's gone, my neighbor says, stolen or borrowed by my son or my son-in-law or some cheap crook, loaned by me to a neighbor, i don't know, but gone either way. Sorry. Okay, I say. But I still need a ladder. I get on the phone, try the hardware store. All out of stock. Take a raincheck? No thanks. Next the rental place. They've got everything. Extension ladder? How big, 18 or 24 or 30 feet? A step ladder. No steps right now, except for a kitchen two-step for changing light bulbs and reaching the top shelf if you're short. Try tomorrow morning early. Need it now. I think of the swap meet. Drive out there. Pay for parking and admission. Everything's for sale; people's lives are spread out on blankets and card tables: clothes, furniture, car parts, junk, kitchen utensils, framed posters, tools, jewelry, hot dogs, knives, bird cages, bicycles, toys, books, plants and aquariums, everything except a step ladder. On the way back I pass a garage sale. Slam on the brakes. There it is. Old wooden one with paint dripping on the rungs. A little paper sign on it: NOT FOR SALE. How much will you take for the ladder? Not for sale. Give you more than it's worth new. Don't want to sell it. Fifty bucks? Ain't selling. Will you rent it to me for a day? Garage sale not rent, but I'll tell you where I got this one. Paint supply place downtown. Good deals. Below retail. Open Sundays? Don't know. Worth a try. I try. Out of business. But down the street I find another hardware store. And they've got a ladder. New aluminum job with ribbed steps and red warning stickers that say not to stand on the top step. Already sold, says the manager. Last one we got. Customers coming back for it any minute now. I'll give you twice what it cost, I say. Can't do that, says he, an old guy, poking his ear. Gray hair in the ear, and lots of wax. Split the difference with the customer, I offer. Nope. It's already paid for. Bad business, dishonest, poor service, and other similar stuff. How about a quick rental? I flash a fifty. His eyes light up a little. Before he can say anything, though, the ladder's new owner walks up. I talk to him. Big guy wearing blue jeans and a flannel shirt unbuttoned over a sleeveless undershirt. Offer to buy. Need the ladder, he says. For a job. Me too. How about a loan. I mean a rental? I'm in the trades, he says. You rent the ladder, you rent me with it. Also my truck plus mileage. Union wages, of course. Deal, I say. I pay up front and we shake on it. A pleasure to work for you, he says. we get back to my place, he, I, the ladder, the truck. He unloads and carries the ladder inside, and down the stairs to the basement. He climbs up the ladder and unties the rope that is anchored to the high beam that supports the basement roof. The rope falls noose-end to the floor. That it? he asks. I guess so.


American author and artist Greg Boyd, born 1957