Seventeen short stories connected by the background of the 1950s, and by recurring characters.
A man with a tortured psyche keeps a pink teddy bear on his food tray as he watches the Olympics on television. A waitress in New Jersey puts a curse on a sailor; his behavior becomes increasingly irrational. Two shipmates learn firsthand about segregation in 1950s Savannah. A timid adolescent suffers the pangs of unrequited love. A sailor who wants no more complications in his life falls in love with a young prostitute in Cuba on the eve of the Castro Revolution. An academic meets Jorge Luis Borges and uncovers the mystery of an American writer with three different names. The seventeen narratives of this collection deal with love and death, triumphs and defeats, adolescent angst and the tension between ethnicity and assimilation against the background of the 1950s. Some present adventure on the high seas as well as a glimpse of Havana night life on the eve of the Castro Revolution.All but two of the narratives in this collection paint a picture of the 195Os. Many of the elements of this culture will repel: racism, sexism and homophobia, for example. Yet this was an era in which neither the threat of terrorism nor the scourge of AIDS existed for the average American.
Excerpt
So --now get this-- she lays the plate down, leans over him real close, her face no more than six inches from his, and says, real calm-like... Well, she seemed calm on the surface, if you know what I mean, but like she was kind of controlling herself, trying hard to control herself... She says, "Look. Either you take the hot turkey sandwich like a good boy, or I'll put a curse on you."
* * * * *
The overhead fans were slowly wafting the cigarette smoke around the room. The place was full of flies buzzing through the air or walking along the bar, eating crumbs of hardboiled egg or saltine crackers. There were coils of fly paper hanging from the ceiling, dead flies stuck to them like raisins on a fruit cake. Damn place smelled like a locker room.
The body builder turned to face the pool players, his elbows propping him up against the bar behind him. He called out, slow and sarcastic-like, "Looks like we got us some company, boys, now don't it?"
One of the pool players spat on the floor. The others gave us a blank stare. Andreotti pushed back his black hair, and muttered into his beer, kind of disgusted-like, "Shit!"
The body builder flexed his right biceps, inspected it carefully and felt it with his left hand. Still looking at his muscle, he said, nice and easy, "What's that you said, boy?"
--- - - - -
When is she going to come?
It's been getting dark earlier. It's October, and the bitter smell of burning leaves makes me want to gag. The leaves on the trees in the park across the street are turning red and yellow, but not all of them. I usually like the Fall, but now it makes me feel strange, like everything's hanging by a thread and about to crash down. I'm glad there are still some green leaves left. Here I am, walking back and forth between Winfield and Bartholdi since school let out. It'll be dinner time pretty soon, and I'll have to go in and maybe miss her and the green leaves will turn brown... What's taking her so long?
* * * * *
Currents of cigarette fumes wafted through what passed for air. Attractive young women in bright-hued gowns glided through the streams of smoke like tropical fish in an aquarium. Detecting the white uniforms and leathery faces, they promptly approached the Navy men. Very pretty, Ed thought. But hungry. A school of piranha. Just what the doctor ordered: fun and games with no complications.
* * * *
When they reached their ship Ed gazed out at the bay. The bay was black. The sky was black, but the bay was even blacker. It was a slick, oily blackness, a shiny blackness that glowed and reflected the moonlight like a black jewel. Ed saw the tiny specks of light around the edges of the bay where he knew ships must be docked, and at different points within the bay where vessels would be anchored. The lights were pale and sickly yellow when compared with the bright blue-white sparkle of the stars overhead. But the stars glinted hard as diamonds, cold as ice.
* * * * *
"The boxers were banging away at each other. Go on, go on, go on, keep punching, Antonio, keep punching. I'm blasting away at the Cuban guy. He can't hurt me. I'm made of iron. His fists feel like friendly pats when he manages to land a punch, which he doesn't do too often, 'cause I'm fast on my feet, and I duck and weave. Jack be nimble, Jack be quick. But I'm punching the hell out of him. I'm creaming the bastard, creaming the Cuban, creaming my old man… What…?! Creaming my boss, I mean, that son-of-a-bitch Mr. Hanson. For an instant he saw Janey at the receiving end of his fists. Again."
The deep-dive literary meditations presented as stories, poems, and essays in The American Poet Who Went Home Again, A Mosaic of My Soul at Work, have captivated and inspired readers ever since its first paperback publication in 2008.
Major League ballplayer Justin Moore is kidnapped from his own ballpark and transported to a foreign land. It might take high-level international negotiations to free him. Or maybe he will take matters into his own hands.
