A Little More Human - Softcover

Maazel, Fiona

Softcover

ISBN 10: 1555977693 ISBN 13: 9781555977696

Verlag: GRAY WOLF PR, 2017

Inhaltsangabe

A dazzling new novel from the author of the “weird, thrilling, and inimitable” Woke Up Lonely (Marie Claire)

Meet Phil Snyder: new father, nursing assistant at a cutting-edge biotech facility on Staten Island, and all-around decent guy. Trouble is, his life is falling apart. His wife has betrayed him, his job involves experimental surgeries with strange side effects, and his father is hiding early-onset dementia. Phil also has a special talent he doesn’t want to publicize—he’s a mind reader and moonlights as Brainstorm, a costumed superhero. But when Phil wakes up from a blackout drunk and is confronted with photos that seem to show him assaulting an unknown woman, even superpowers won’t help him. Try as he might, Phil can’t remember that night, and so, haunted by the need to know, he mind-reads his way through the lab techs at work, adoring fans at Toy Polloi, and anyone else who gets in his way, in an attempt to determine whether he’s capable of such violence. A Little More Human, rife with layers of paranoia and conspiracy, questions how well we really know ourselves, showcasing Fiona Maazel at her tragicomic, freewheeling best.

Über diesen Titel

Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Fiona Maazel is the author of Woke Up Lonely and Last Last Chance. She is a winner of the Bard Fiction Prize and her work has appeared or is forthcoming in The New York Times Book Review, Harper’s Magazine, and Tin House. She lives in Brooklyn.

Auszug. © Genehmigter Nachdruck. Alle Rechte vorbehalten.

A Little More Human

A Novel

By Fiona Maazel

Graywolf Press

Copyright © 2017 Fiona Maazel
All rights reserved.

ISBN: 978-1-55597-769-6

CHAPTER 1

He came to on the back of a horse. Weeping into his chest. The dreams he'd had, the man he was. Where was the hurt today. The throb in his balls was disco. The throb in his head was science. He'd had too much to drink, and he felt like hell. Believed in hell. And there in the sky: a bird, a plane, or just the drone of his fantasy life taking flight.

It was nine a.m. in a park on Staten Island. The grass was splattered with light — first sun in days. He was wearing a Dodger-blue spandex bodysuit with built-in utility belt and a nylon cape hitched to his shoulders and mantled down his back. There was mud crawled up his legs and algae nooked in his gauntlets, as if he'd humped a swamp.

He popped the goggles off his face. Tears that had welled in the troughs slipped down his cheeks. Apparently, he'd been crying. He yanked at the fabric gathered around his groin. Something not right down there. A little sore. Also, the thigh of his suit was ripped, and there was blood dried along the seam and spotted down his leg.

He'd gone out last night and had arrived in the park by some means, possibly foot. But he couldn't say for sure. Actually, he couldn't say at all. On the bright side, he had to be here, anyway, in a glade where a banner flapped in the wind: Meet Brainstorm! He smiled a little. Not everyone had a weekend job as good as his. He spurred the horse toward a crowd waiting for him. Brainstorm was the season's box office hit. And his persona had been in such demand, the stores weren't all that rigorous about who they hired to play him. Hence Phil, who'd been doing this work for six months, though work made it sound like an obligation when it was more like a chance to be who he was in plain sight. Not some superhero but a guy who could do things other guys could not.

Kids in the glade, waiting. One brandished a lollipop the size of his face, another pitched his lips apart with pretzel sticks, while a third licked the powdered cheese off his snack food and flicked what was left at a bush.

Phil scanned their faces and took aim. He squeezed the canteen fastened to his hip, saw a boy in the crosshairs, and wham — nailed him in the chest.

"He got me!" the kid screamed, happy, happy, and clutched his breast and licked his palm because this brine was flavored sour grape.

One woman retrieved her Brainstorm authentication card from a plastic sleeve, as if to ensure its value years ahead of time. Another with a tripod shoved her daughter at Phil and said, "Smile! Oh, come on, baby, just smile."

The daughter looked about twelve. Braces and a palate spreader, because no way was that mouth accommodating her teeth-to-be. Phil shook his head in sympathy. He knew jaw nuts firsthand from when he was a kid, had overheard the dentist tell his own dad that he'd have to crank the winch, and had learned then that the people you loved most could betray you the worst.

He looked at this metal-faced girl and said, "Your thoughts are mine."

"Thweet," she said, and angled her forehead at him as if this made a difference.

He pressed his fingers to his temples. Closed his eyes and began his work of telepathy. It was always the same: He emptied his mind of its clutter, then ushered in what looked like a slate board, smooth and blank and ready for whatever glories wanted to alight there today. Words. Phrases. Sometimes whole paragraphs telling him what was what. The process always more beautiful than the result.

He opened his eyes and frowned. Sad. This girl — she wanted new parents for her birthday because her dad had skipped out, and now her mom slept nights in her bed just to have someone close. Phil said, "I'd better not say your thoughts out loud, little lady." She blushed and opened her mouth wide, saying thanks, and returned to her mom, who gave Phil a defeated look that said: You try raising a kid on your own.

Phil turned away. His skin felt like dried soap, and he seemed to know, even without the science, that more liquor would help. He'd gone out last night to forget his life, yes, but what he really wanted to forget was a life on the way. Any day now. Any minute. Nine months ago, his wife had bought a vial of sperm without telling him and had been counting down the days, which Phil had gotten so used to, he forgot to notice the number dwindling down to one, now none.

He checked his belt, but his phone was gone. He'd been away from home for hours and knew his wife would be thunderous with rage such that the relief of his return would still lose in magnitude to the diatribe she'd prepared for him.

Today's crowd was bigger than usual. Kids, teens. A German shepherd that wouldn't heel. A few grandparents pressed into weekend service. Sailor caps in the mix, Fleet Week. Phil looked to see if Ben was among them. He was his counterpart for these weekend shows, which was great because they also worked together at the SCET. Licensed nursing assistants: guys who had to put up with the most shit. They had a rapport.

They'd even been out together last night, but Phil had lost track of Ben somewhere between shots of Wild Turkey and "Wild Buck," a country anthem suitable for karaoke insofar as it had only one lyric: I. Am. A. Wild. Buck. No wonder Phil's balls hurt; singing that tune, you had to thrust a decent amount for showmanship and verisimilitude. Plus, he had varicoceles no one could fix and, this morning, a hide for cushion because Brainstorm road bareback. If Ben didn't get here soon, Phil would have to cancel the show. Hard to be a hero with no one to fight.

Also, he had about an hour before he had to return the horse. Phil had gotten this gig in the park only because he'd said he could supply his own horse, but this was a lie. Lulu belonged to the SCET, which was fancy, state-of-the art, and had an equestrian facility, where patients could plate a carrot for Lulu and pray something of her gratitude might contrive pleasure in the half brains they had left.

"Sign here and here," a woman said. She held out a card that fit in her palm. And then three more collector cards for the other Storms — Hail, Fire, Snow — and asked Phil to sign them all. Her son was paraplegic; he wanted his cards. She held out her phone like a mic. Said, "I'm making a podcast for my boy. So tell me, what's it like being able to read minds?"

"It's a responsibility," he said. "With great power, and all that."

"Any idea what I'm thinking now?"

He nodded. "Your son's going to be fine," he said, and put a hand on her shoulder. "The SCET does amazing work."

She put her phone in her bag. "I knew I recognized you from that place," she said. "You shouldn't be listening in on other people's business."

Phil's mouth opened slightly, but she walked away. "Next!"

The crowd thickened up, all eyes his way, so he did not sense one gaze in particular docked on him or the thrill of its landing because the guy had been waiting forever, and when the time was right: "You shitfuck," the guy said, and shoved past the sailor kids, who parted like the sea because the guy was military or ex.

"Can I help you?" Phil said, though he knew what this was about. One look at this ruin in camo shirt and cap, and he knew. The company that manufactured the Storms had realized its mistake re: Desert Storm and ditched the toy the way some buildings deny floor thirteen. But try telling that to the guys back from Iraq who'd left their...

Details zur Ausgabe

• Verlag: GRAY WOLF PR
• Erscheinungsdatum: 2017
• Sprache: Englisch
• ISBN 10: 1555977693
• ISBN 13: 9781555977696
• Einband: Taschenbuch
• Anzahl der Seiten: 304
• Kontakt zum Hersteller: Nicht verfügbar
• Verantwortliche Person: Nicht verfügbar