March book: This is where I leave You by J Tropper
Join us for the funny, sad and at time moving moving book about Judd Foxmann and his family. This slice of life book captures Judd in mid life with a failing marriage, a dysfunctional family and the death of his father. Often laugh out loud hilarious. It is a characature of people we know and could be a screenplay of a TV sit com.
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Excerpt from This is Where I Leave Myself
Gen has a cookie in her hand and another mostly masticated. “Oh, hey,” she tries to say. “Hold on,” she says with a raised hand. I hold on while she swallows, poking her head forward and grimacing like a goose. If a goose could grimace. “You’re not going to believe this.” I hold on while she brings the next cookie toward her mouth and then lets it back down again. “I’m reading this book? Where I’m Calling From? No. Where I’m Leaving You. This is Where I’m Leaving You.”
“This is where you’re losing me.”
“Nyuk, nyuk,” she says. “OK, so this book? It’s totally your book. If you ever wrote it?”
“My book? How so?” I asked.
“OK, just the basics. It’s a big family, but instead of being Irish Catholic, they’re Jewish Jewish. But they drink a lot, or at least some of them do. It’s three guys and a girl are the kids, and instead of the dad being in a coma, he’s dead and they’re sitting Shiva.” I raise an eyebrow or two to indicate that she had me at “they drink a lot.” “So,” she continues, “one of the brothers is a former studly baseball player, but he’s not gay, one of the brothers is pretty good looking and can’t say no to the ladies, and the other is the classic third wheel, lovable loser type like yours truly.”
“You know that Yours Truly isn’t me, of course, right?”
Gen takes a meaty bite out of her cookie and smirks.
I say, “Just because you can’t write about anything without it being strictly autobiographical doesn’t mean other people can’t.” I sound a little whiny, must be jonesing for tea. “Is that second pot hot yet?” I ask, turning to Ken, our fearless leader.
“The what?” he asks.
“What the…?” I ask. I’m reading that 9/11 book with the precocious kid narrator and I say “what the…” all the time now. This, too, shall pass. “The tea. Is the water hot again yet?”
“Oh, yeah,” says Ken, scraping the bottom of a Colby College cup with the handle of a spatula. “Piping,” he says. “Steaming. Primed for steeping. You want a cup?” He holds out the Colby cup.
“I got one,” I say, reaching around Gen to take hers. Gen squeezes her forearms together in front of her and leans in towards me before skewing the other way. I’ve got a good decade or two on her, but she’s got a good month or two of thinking I’m kind of cool, so she’s sparked up my life on a bi-weekly basis for three or four bi-weeks. Speaking of which, she’s bi-sexual, or at least every single one of her narrators is, but she makes a point of saying that if she has to lean, she’ll always lean to the right, which I’ve always assumed meant towards the fellas, but others might interpret differently, depending on which side of the bed they sleep. On. “Can I share your cup?” I ask.
“If you have peppermint?”
“Is that a question or a demand because it sounds like a question but could be a demand or at least a request.”
“It’s the way I talk,” she says. “Like your Irish guys in the car that time? You could never tell if they were asking you a question or not. ‘That’s the Parliament Building?’ ‘Oh, I don’t know, I’m not from around… oh, yes, I see, that’s nice. Parliament Building. Mm-hmm.’”
“You’ve got me down,” I say, and she does. Could I be that easy to parrot, to parody? She makes a flirty face and I try to remember what I said.
“Where’s Trig?” says Gen. This time I know it’s a question. Trig’s a radiologist down at Bay Port Hospital and makes more on interest in the twenty minutes we spend writing than the rest of us do in a month. He’s good looking in the way that makes you want to wobble with him like a penguin, shoulder to shoulder, but then get yourself in position to cold-cock him when he’s most vulnerable, which hasn’t happened yet within my range. “He’s always here. I mean, he’s here earlier than Ken and it’s Ken’s house. He even starts the cookies. Ken,” she shouts.
“I’m right here,” he says.
“Oh. Did Trig make the cookies?”
“He started them,” says Ken. “But he had to go somewhere. Said he might be back for the discussion of Bernie’s latest.”
Bernie looks up from his chair. He sits all the time. I think his house must be full of furniture on wheels so he can mosey around like Barney Rubble. He’s still looking up at us from his chair. “We’re going to be talking about chapter 35 tonight?” says Gen.
“Is that a question?” asks Bernie. “I can’t ever tell with you.”
“Well, kind of yes and no,” says Gen. “Because that’s what we’re doing. Have you read this Where I’m Leaving You book, Bernie?”
“Yeah, it was OK. A little self-indulgent, but it was well-written and had a start and a finish, unlike some other people I know.” He’s not looking at me, but he would be if he had a pair.
“Har de har,” I say.
“Yeah, and it’s got a lot of sex in it,” says Bernie, “which seems to be a prerequisite for contemporary writing.”
“Yeah, but the sex in Terry’s story is better,” says Gen. (I’m Terry, for those of you who haven’t been paying attention in the earlier chapters.)
“You think so?” I say.
“Yeah?” says Gen, inflecting.
“Really?” I really want to know.
“Yeah, really,” she says, and she means it.
“Oh, get a room, for crying out loud,” says Bernie. “My stories have a lot of sex in them, too.”
“I think she’s talking about sex involving more than one person,” says Camille from the living room.
“He’s got of lot of energy,” says Bernie. “It’s a way he controls his violent impulses. You might want to try it sometime.” He’s simmering, then smiles. “Oh, that I’m Leaving You Now story?” he says, almost looking at me. “It’s got a guy named “Boner” in it.”
“Get out of here,” I say.
“Yeah, and the handsome priest with a past?”
“Yes?”
“Rabbi with a past.”
“Handsome?” I ask.
“I don’t remember,” says Bernie.
“I’m pretty sure he is?” says Gen.
People are sitting down in the living room, and as inviting as the fire and the couch with my butt dent in it might look, I don’t think I can manage an hour and a half of Bernie and Camille going toe-to-toe.
“He’s a wanker,” Camille will say.
“He’s a self-made man,” Bernie will reply.
“Self-done man,” Camille will retort and she’ll exhale sharply enough through her nose to leave tracers.
Gen will look over at me and mouth “Gross?”
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