From: Uncage Me ed. Jen Jordan. Bleak House Books, 2009.
Leading off an anthology on the many forms of transgression, this story follows Amos, a college kid willing to work at a porno theater to accumulate the hours he needs to join the projectionist's union. Amos's wry narration reminded me of Lawrence Block's Chip Harrison, his voice so engaging as to almost make smut palatable.
One of Amos's friends, Tad, works at a funeral parlor and carries on an affair with his boss's wife, Beth. One night, Tad takes Beth to the theater, followed shortly by a man with a gun. Flustered, Amos lets the armed man into the theater, and he proceeds to shoot himself. Though the man's name is never mentioned, it's implied he is Beth's husband, Tad's boss. That this shooting is the only act I considered a crime in this story testifies to the persuasive power of Phillips's writing.
You can also hear Phillips read this story at Seth Harwood's CrimeWAV.
Showing posts with label Scott Phillips. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Scott Phillips. Show all posts
Friday, September 25, 2009
Thursday, December 11, 2008
"Babs" by Scott Phillips
From: Las Vegas Noir ed. Jarret Keene & Todd James Pierce. Akashic Books, 2008.
From the author of The Ice Harvest comes the story of Tate, a good-natured pothead originally from Kansas who, as a favor to his friend Skip, agrees to pick up some crystal meth from Skip's friend Babs, and bring it back to L.A. Babs, described by Skip as "a stripper", is nothing like Tate expects. Falling a little in love with her, he agrees to back her up retrieving the meth from a dealer.
I'm not a fan of first-person present-tense narrative as a rule, but the style works here to set up Tate's sensibilities. I was as disarmed by Babs as he was, even as I realized Tate was getting in over his head.
From the author of The Ice Harvest comes the story of Tate, a good-natured pothead originally from Kansas who, as a favor to his friend Skip, agrees to pick up some crystal meth from Skip's friend Babs, and bring it back to L.A. Babs, described by Skip as "a stripper", is nothing like Tate expects. Falling a little in love with her, he agrees to back her up retrieving the meth from a dealer.
I'm not a fan of first-person present-tense narrative as a rule, but the style works here to set up Tate's sensibilities. I was as disarmed by Babs as he was, even as I realized Tate was getting in over his head.
Wednesday, November 14, 2007
"The Emerson, 1950" by Scott Phillips
From: Murdaland,Issue 2.
Some might find life in small-town Kansas in 1950 dull,but not the narrator of this story. He's a newspaper photographer on the local crime beat, so it's his job to run around town taking pictures of killers and their victims.
He enjoys that job a lot more than his unofficial one: helping out his great aunt Ivy and her husband Pell. When Ivy has to leave town for a funeral, the job of taking care of the elderly, cranky, alchoholic Pell falls to him. And speaking of falls, that's about the first thing Pell does when he's on his own, landing him in the local Veteran's hospital.
Once the nurses get tired of Pell and give him the boot, and Ivy gets home, reuniting the happy family, Ivy discovers that her candlesticks - jealously guarded, and the only thing she owns of any value - have disappeared. At the top of her shrill voice she lets her great nephew and the rest of the block know that she think's it's those rotten neighbors of hers that took it. And things go downhill from there.
It's tough to explain the appeal of this fine story. Like much of Phillips' work, especially his first novel The Ice Harvest, the plot just seems to amble along from scene to scene, not building up much momentum, but by the end you can't stop reading. The Kansas town and its inhabitants are sketched in quickly but vividly, and each vignette has enough packed into it for its own story.
The narrator, like the narrator of Phillips' earlier story "Sockdolager", seems like a nice guy, and has some wit and keen senses of humor and irony, but in some ways he's scarier than the noirest villain. Because when it gets right down to it, he doesn't care what happens.
Some might find life in small-town Kansas in 1950 dull,but not the narrator of this story. He's a newspaper photographer on the local crime beat, so it's his job to run around town taking pictures of killers and their victims.
He enjoys that job a lot more than his unofficial one: helping out his great aunt Ivy and her husband Pell. When Ivy has to leave town for a funeral, the job of taking care of the elderly, cranky, alchoholic Pell falls to him. And speaking of falls, that's about the first thing Pell does when he's on his own, landing him in the local Veteran's hospital.
Once the nurses get tired of Pell and give him the boot, and Ivy gets home, reuniting the happy family, Ivy discovers that her candlesticks - jealously guarded, and the only thing she owns of any value - have disappeared. At the top of her shrill voice she lets her great nephew and the rest of the block know that she think's it's those rotten neighbors of hers that took it. And things go downhill from there.
It's tough to explain the appeal of this fine story. Like much of Phillips' work, especially his first novel The Ice Harvest, the plot just seems to amble along from scene to scene, not building up much momentum, but by the end you can't stop reading. The Kansas town and its inhabitants are sketched in quickly but vividly, and each vignette has enough packed into it for its own story.
The narrator, like the narrator of Phillips' earlier story "Sockdolager", seems like a nice guy, and has some wit and keen senses of humor and irony, but in some ways he's scarier than the noirest villain. Because when it gets right down to it, he doesn't care what happens.
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