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Executive Times |
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2008 Book Reviews |
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God Is
Dead by Ron Currie, Jr. |
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Rating: |
** |
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(Mildly Recommended) |
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Click
on title or picture to buy from amazon.com |
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Satire Ron
Currie Jr.’s debut novel of connected stories is titled, God Is
Dead. In this satire, God comes into the word as a Dinka woman in the
Darfur region of Sudan, where she dies. The feral dogs who feed on her
remains play significant roles in the subsequent stories. The thoughts that
this novel brings to a reader are likely to be disturbing, especially to believers.
Satire, for all readers, can be a challenge, although God Is
Dead makes the experience proceed rapidly and easily, if not without heavy
doses of darkness. Here’s an excerpt, all of the story titled, “Grace,” pp.
81-86: Look not thou upon the wine when it is
red, when it giveth his colour in the cup, when it moveth itself aright. At
the last it biteth like a serpent, and stingeth like an adder. Yea, thou
shalt be as he that lieth down in the midst of the sea, or as he that lieth
upon the top of a mast. They have stricken me, shalt thou say, and I was not
sick; they have beaten me, and I felt it not: when shall I awake? I will seek
it yet again. —Proverbs
23:31—32; 34—35 I’m
riding with my father in his truck when I see the kid, lying motionless in
the grass, his head resting below a window of the house he’s crawled up
against. There’s a backpack there, and a crappy old ten-speed that’s been
half-propped, half-crashed against a tree. “There’s a kid hurt over there,” I say
to my father. We’ve been mowing lawns, so he doesn’t have his hearing aids
in, and I have to repeat myself. By the time he understands what I’m saying
we’re already past and down the hill. My father makes a wide turn, swinging
the trailer around, and heads back. We pull up in front of the house and
get out. As we cross the lawn I see that the figure lying there is not a kid,
but a grown man. He looks a little younger than my father, late forties maybe.
He’s lying on his side; the seat of his jeans is soiled with either dirt or
shit, I can’t tell. There’s a Bud Ice bottle on the ground near his head,
empty except for a bit of yellowish foam in the bottom, and a busted-up
placard that reads GOD LIVES. The man’s eyes are half-open and staring. He
might be dead. I’m always thinking the worst. To be on the safe side I let my father
take the lead. He just retired from thirty years as a paramedic, so he knows
better than I do how to deal with this. We stand over the man, and my father
says, “Hey.” He takes the man’s arm at the elbow. “Hey,” he says, shaking
him. “Wake up, buddy.” “His name’s Lou,” someone says. A woman’s face appears behind the
window screen. My father looks at me; he thinks I said something. I point to
the woman. “His name’s Lou,” she says again, to
my father. “What’s that?” my father asks. “Lou,” she half-yells. “Hey Lou,” my
father says. He takes Lou’s wrist between his fingers, counting the pulse
against the second hand on his watch. “You know him?” he asks the woman. She gives a
bitter smile. “That’s one way to put it,” she says. “I wouldn’t let him in.” “Does he have
any medical problems? He diabetic?” “He’s drunk,”
the woman says. My father
places Lou’s hand back on the ground, then loosens the shirt around Lou’s
neck, to let him breathe. Lou starts to snore. He sounds like an angry
rattlesnake. I stand there,
rubbing the grit on the back of my neck, staring down at Lou, thinking. “You should
call the police,” my father says to the woman. “He’s just
drunk,” she says. “What?” She repeats
herself, louder. “Call the
police,” my father says. “Tell them to send an ambulance. It’s better that
he go to the hospital. He can’t be left out here in this heat.” The woman
stands at the window a moment longer, then disappears into the darkness of
the house. After a while she comes back. “They’re on their way,” she
says. My father is looking down at
Lou and doesn’t hear her. “Okay,” I tell
the woman. “I’m going to shut the window.” “We’ll stay
out here until they come,” I say. She closes the window, glances once more at
Lou, then disappears again. My father and
I stand with our hands on our hips, squinting in the sunlight. I kick at the
grass, shifting my gaze around, trying not to look at Lou. My father bends
over to check his pulse again. Then my father
says, “Kind of reminds you why you quit, huh?” He doesn’t look at me when he
says it. For a minute I
don’t respond. Then I say, “I started drinking again a year ago.” He looks up.
“Hm?” he says. “I said,
‘That’s no way to live.” I form the words carefully so he can understand. Eventually the cop shows up.
He’s short and thick and has a crew cut. He knows Lou, but calls him
Preacher. “One of your regulars?” my
father asks. “Oh yeah,” the cop says. “We’ve
been looking for him today.” He and my father laugh knowingly. I don’t laugh.
Instead, I set my lips in a straight line against the front of my teeth. The
two of them crouch on either side of Lou, colleagues now. “I don’t like
his breathing,” the cop says. “Yeah, his
breathing’s good,” my father says. “His pulse is a little weak.” The cop looks
at my father for a minute, then reaches in and squeezes Lou’s nipple through
his shirt. “Come on, Preacher. Wake up, buddy.” But Lou doesn’t move. “You got an ambulance coming?”
my father says. “Yeah. I can take it from
here.” “Okay,” my
father says. He straightens up, stretches a bit. “We’ve got more work to do
anyway.” We start back toward the truck,
and the cop says, “Thanks for your help, guys.” I’ve got my back to him, and
I jump when he says it. It sounds funny: guys,
addressing both of us, though I haven’t said a word, haven’t been a help
to anyone. My father
turns at the waist and raises his hand. I keep walking, and don’t look back. I haven’t
thought of you in what seems like a long time, but for some reason I do now.
I see you knocking bottles off the coffee table with an angry sweep of your
arm. I hear your voice from behind a locked door, screaming there’s no God,
why can’t I just accept it like everyone else? I picture you crying so hard
and so long your eyes swell shut. I wonder where you are, who you’re with, if
you flinch every time he moves his hands, like you did with me. Currie’s
writing is expert, and that helps make God Is
Dead an enjoyable reading experience. If you’re up for the darkness, and
the challenge of darkness, you’re likely to enjoy reading God Is
Dead. Steve
Hopkins, January 22, 2008 |
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The recommendation rating for
this book appeared in the February 2008 issue of Executive Times URL for this review: http://www.hopkinsandcompany.com/Books/God Is Dead.htm For Reprint Permission,
Contact: Hopkins & Company, LLC • E-mail: books@hopkinsandcompany.com |
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