After suffering decades of neglect from the children who have forgotten him, Winkie summons the courage to take charge of his fate, and so he hops off the shelf, jumps out the window, and takes to the forest. But just as he is discovering the joys and wonders of mobility, Winkie gets trapped in the jaws of a society gone rabid with fear and paranoia. He (yes, he) gives birth to a cub, only to see the newborn captured by a bomb-building woodsman Unabomber. Winkie arrives at the hermit's cabin to save the cub, but the terrorist, who is surrounded with explosive devices and plans for attacks, has died of a heart attack. The clueless feds arrive and mistake Winkie for a dangerous, transgender teddy terrorist. Following are 9,678 counts of murder, sedition and filthy sexual activity.
This all sounds much more interesting and entertaining when summarized than it actually is when read. At the end of the day, Winkie amounts to a lot of empty promises and a frustrating lack of execution.
There are two narratives at play here: 1) a series of flashbacks that recount three significant memories in Winkie's life, and 2) the story that frames these reminiscences: Winkie's capture and subsequent trial at the hands of the hysterical American justice system.
Winkie is a teddy bear who has—through means that are never truly explained (divine intervention, manifest destiny, you decide)—developed the abilities to move and think and feel. At the beginning of the book he is living in a cabin in the woods, lonely and bereaved over the loss of his child. All of a sudden he is arrested by a small army of law enforcement agents for reasons he can't really understand and walked through a Kafka-esque nightmare of American jurisprudence.
The real beating heart of this book, though, is in the three vivid memories he re-lives throughout the story. Trapped and knowing his time may be over, Winkie goes over his life, trying to figure how he might have done things differently. He remembers his first owner and his last owner, and the days each of them stopped loving him.
While marginally affecting, and delivered with great sensitivity, these memories are cloying and emotional manipulative. They're also chock-full of lines like, "If only Cliff loved him like before, with the old fervor, Winkie could be happy being a toy forever."
In the third reminiscence, Winkie relives the discovery of his ability to move. The product of extreme isolation and boredom, Winkie's literal shelf-life makes Jean-Paul Sartre look like Liam fucking Gallagher. But this makes him a new being, a strangeness that isn't understood by the rest of the world, a man/woman (no one seems to know, not even Winkie) with his own cub and a life of his own making, a life that the human world is unwilling to leave alone.
But as smart and moving as these memories can be, the frame story undermines the whole thing with a ceaseless barrage of trivial, hyperbolic attempts at satire. Suspected of violations of the Homeland Security Act, Winkie suddenly finds himself in court, accused of every significant crime in Western history, including consorting with witches, the sexual quirks of Oscar Wilde, and even the transgressions of Socrates as related by Plato.
I understand the premise. Winkie is utterly powerless and is being trampled upon by a faceless, monolithic authority for no other reason than the fact that he is different. It's meant to satirize America's panic over terrorism post-9/11 and humanity's need to place blame on the likeliest of people: those we don't understand.
I get it. But this is, essentially, the sole point of the novel. Clifford Chase's satire strikes only this one obvious note, and he didn't need to take 256 pages to say it. A lesson in economy this book is not. Chase did with a novel what some people can do with a fortune cookie.
Some of it is excellent, but most of it is awful, and the sum total of Winkie ends up being a motley collection in which the good and the bad are bound together in a way that is memorable, yet wholly unsatisfying. A plot this bizarre needs to be handled with utmost skill in order to just break even, but Chase's inability to realize his insane story's potential makes the concept sound more like a homeless man's fever dream than the premise of a legit novel.
It's books like Winkie that make me wish that novels were occasionally re-written by more talented authors in the way movies (sometimes) are. Winkie has a good book inside it somewhere, but Clifford Chase has neither the subtlety nor knack for storytelling needed to pull it off. It's not an easy feat, granted, but Chase fails. Hard.