Executive Times






2006 Book Reviews


In Persuasion Nation by George Saunders








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The short stories in the new collection by George Saunders titled, “In Persuasion Nation,” pack a wallop. Most readers will want to savor these like vitamin does: never more than one a day. Saunders satirizes the excesses of our commercialized and media overwhelming society, and reveals our humanity in ways that are refreshing and hope-filled. Here’s an excerpt, all of the story titled, “My Flamboyant Grandson,” pp. 13-22:


I had brought my grandson to New York to see a show. Because what is he always doing, up here in Oneonta? Singing and dancing, sometimes to my old show-tune records, but more often than not to his favorite CD, Babar Sings!, sometimes even mak­ing up his own steps, which I do not mind, or rather I try not to mind it. Although I admit that once, coming into his room and finding him wear­ing a pink boa while singing, in the voice of the Old Lady, “I Have Never Met a Man Like That Elephant,” I had to walk out and give it some deep thought and prayer, as was also the case when he lumbered into the parlor during a recent church Couples Dinner, singing “Big and Slow, Yet So Very Regal,” wearing a tablecloth spray-painted gray, so as to more closely resemble Babar.

Being a man who knows something about grandfatherly dis­approval, having had a grandfather who constantly taunted me for having enlarged calves—to the extent that even today, when bathing, I find myself thinking unkind thoughts about Grandfather—what I prayed on both occasions was: Dear Lord, he is what he is, let me love him no matter what. If he is a gay child, God bless him, if he is a non-gay child who simply very much enjoys wearing his grandmother’s wig while singing “Edelweiss” to the dog, so be it, and in either case let me com­municate my love and acceptance in everything I do.

Because where is a child to go for unconditional love, if not to his grandfather? He has had it tough, in my view, with his mother in Nevada and a father unknown, raised by his grandmother and me in an otherwise childless neighborhood, playing alone in a tiny yard that ends in a graveyard wall. The boys in his school are hard on him, as are the girls, as are his teachers, and recently we found his book bag in the Susque­hanna, and recently also found, taped to the back of his jacket, a derogatory note, and the writing on it was not all that childish-looking, and there were rumors that his bus driver had written it.

Then one day I had a revelation. If the lad likes to sing and dance, I thought, why not expose him to the finest singing and dancing there is? So I called 1-8OO-CULTURE, got our Promissory Voucher in the mail, and on Teddy’s birthday we took the train down to New York.

As we entered the magnificent lobby of the Eisner The­ater, I was in good spirits, saying to Teddy, “The size of this stage will make that little stage I built you behind the garage look pathetic.” When suddenly we were stopped by a stern young fellow (a Mr. Ernesti, I believe) who said, “We are sorry, sir, but you cannot be admitted on merely a Promissory Voucher, are you kidding us, you must take your Voucher and your Proof of Purchases from at least six of our Major Artistic Sponsors, such as AOL, such as Coke, and go at once to the Redemption Center on Forty-fourth and Broadway to get your real actual tickets, and please do not be late, as latecomers cannot be ad­mitted, due to special effects which occur early, which require total darkness in order to simulate the African jungle at night.”

Well, this was news to me. But I was not about to disap­point the boy.

We left the Eisner and started up Broadway, the Everly Readers in the sidewalk reading the Everly Strips in our shoes, the building-mounted miniscreens at eye level showing im­ages reflective of the Personal Preferences we’d stated on our monthly Everly Preference Worksheets, the numerous Cybec Sudden Emergent Screens out-thrusting or down-thrusting inches from our faces, and in addition I could very clearly hear the sound-only messages being beamed to me and me alone via various Casio Aural Focusers, such as one that shouted out to me between Forty-second and Forty-third, “Mr. Petrillo, you chose Burger King eight times last fiscal year but only two times thus far this fiscal year, please do not forsake us now, there is a store one block north!” in the voice of Broadway star Elaine Weston, while at Forty-third a light-pole-mounted Fo­cuser shouted, “Golly, Leonard, remember your childhood on the farm in Oneonta? Why not reclaim those roots with a Starbucks Country Roast?” in a celebrity-rural voice I could not identify, possibly Buck Owens. And then, best of all, in the doorway of PLC Electronics, a life-size Gene Kelly holo­gram suddenly appeared, tap~dancing, saying, “Leonard, my data indicates you’re a bit of an old-timer like myself! Gosh, in our day, life was simpler, wasn’t it, Leonard? Why not come in and let Frankie Z. explain the latest gizmos!” And he looked so real I called out to Teddy, “Teddy, look there, Gene Kelly, do you remember I mentioned him to you as one of the all-time greats?” But Teddy of course did not see Gene Kelly, Gene Kelly not being one of his Preferences, but instead saw his hero Babar, swinging a small monkey on his trunk while saying that his data indicated that Teddy did not yet own a Nintendo.

So that was fun, that was very New York, but what was not so fun was, by the time we got through the line at the Re­demption Center, it was ten minutes until showtime, and my feet had swollen up the way they do shortly before they begin spontaneously bleeding, which they have done ever since a winter spent in the freezing muck of Cho-Bai, Korea. It is something I have learned to live with. If I can sit, that is help­ful. If I can lean against something, also good. Best of all, if I can take my shoes off. Which I did, leaning against a wall.

All around and above us were those towering walls of light, curving across building fronts, embedded in the sidewalks, custom-fitted to light poles: a cartoon lion eating a man in a suit; a rain of gold coins falling into the canoe of a naked rain-forest family; a woman in lingerie running a bottle of Pepsi be­tween her breasts; the Merrill Lynch talking fist asking, “Are you kicking ass or kissing it?”; a perfect human rear, dancing; a fake flock of geese turning into a field of Bebe logos; a dying grandmother’s room filled with roses by a FedEx man who then holds up a card saying “No Charge.”

And standing beneath all that bounty was our little Teddy, tiny and sad, whose grandfather could not even manage to get him into one crummy show.

So I said to myself, Get off the wall, old man, blood or no blood, just keep the legs moving and soon enough you’ll be there. And off we went, me hobbling, Teddy holding my arm, making decent time, and I think we would have made the cur­tain. Except suddenly there appeared a Citizen Helper, who asked were we from out of town, and was that why, via remov­ing my shoes, I had caused my Everly Strips to be rendered Inoperative?

I should say here that I am no stranger to innovative ap­proaches to advertising, having pioneered the use of towable signboards in Oneonta back in the Nixon years, when I towed a fleet of thirty around town with a Dodge Dart, wearing a suit that today would be found comic. By which I mean I have no problem with the concept of the Everly Strip. That is not why I had my shoes off. I am as patriotic as the next guy. Rather, as I have said, it was due to my bleeding feet.

I told all this to the Citizen Helper, who asked if I was aware that, by rendering my Strips Inoperative, I was sacrific­ing a terrific opportunity to Celebrate My Preferences?

And I said yes, yes, I regretted this very much.

He said he was sorry about my feet, he himself having a trick elbow, and that he would be happy to forget this unfortunate in­cident if I would only put my shoes back on and complete the rest of my walk extremely slowly, looking energetically to both left and right, so that the higher density of Messages thus re­ceived would compensate for those I had missed.

And I admit, I was a little short with that Helper, and said, “Young man, these dark patches on my socks are blood, do you or do you not see them?”

Which was when his face changed and he said, “Please do not snap at me, sir, I hope you are aware of the fact that I can write you up?”

And then I made a mistake.

Because as I looked at that Citizen Helper—his round face, his pale sideburns, the way his feet turned in—it seemed to me that I knew him. Or rather, it seemed that he could not be so very different from me when I was a young man, not so different from the friends of my youth—from Jeffie DeSoto, say, who once fought a Lithuanian gang that had stuck an M-80 up the ass of a cat, or from Ken Larmer, who had such a sweet tenor voice and died stifling a laugh in the hills above Koi-Jeng.

I brought out a twenty and, leaning over, said, “Look, please, the kid just really wants to see this show.”

Which is when he pulled out his pad and began to write!

Now, even being from Oneonta, I knew that being written up does not take one or two minutes. We would be standing there at least half an hour, after which we would have to go to an Active Complaints Center, where they would check our Strips for Operability and make us watch that corrective video called Robust Economy, Super Moral Climate!, which I had al­ready been made to watch three times last winter, when I was out of work and we could not afford cable.

And we would totally miss Babar Sings!

“Please,” I said, “please, we have seen plenty of personal­ized messages, via both the building-mounted miniscreens at eye level and those suddenly out-thrusting Cyhec Emergent Screens, we have learned plenty for one day, honest to God we have—”

And he said, “Sir, since when do you make the call as far as when you have received enough useful information from our Artistic Partners?”

And just kept writing me up.

Well, there I was, in my socks, there was Teddy, with a scared look in his eyes I hadn’t seen since his toddler days, when he had such a fear of chickens that we could never buy Rosemont eggs due to the cartoon chicken on the carton, or, if we did, had to first cut the chicken off, with scissors we kept in the car for that purpose. So I made a quick decision, and seized that Citizen Helper’s ticket pad and flung it into the street, shouting at Teddy, “Run! Run!”

And run he did. And run I did. And while that Citizen Helper floundered in the street, torn between chasing us and retrieving his pad, we raced down Broadway, and, glancing back over my shoulder, I saw a hulking young man stick out his foot, and down that Helper went, and soon I was handing our tickets to the same stern Mr. Ernesti, who was now less stern, and in we went, and took our seats, as stars appeared overhead and the Eisner was transformed into a nighttime jungle.

And suddenly there was Babar, looking with longing toward Paris, where the Old Lady was saying that she had dreamed of someone named Babar, and did any of us know who this Babar was, and where he might be found? And Teddy knew the answer, from the Original Cast CD, which was Babar is within us, in all of our hearts, and he shouted it out with all of the other children, as the Old Lady began singing “The King Inside of You.”

And let me tell you, from that moment, everything changed for Teddy. I am happy to report he has joined the play at school. He wears a scarf everywhere he goes, throwing it over his shoulder with what can only be described as bravado, and says, whenever asked, that he has decided to become an actor. This from a boy too timid to trick-or-treat! This from the boy we once found walking home from school in tears, padlocked to his own bike! There are no more late-night crying episodes, he no longer writes on his arms with permanent marker, he leaps out of bed in the morning, anxious to get to school, and dons his scarf, and is already sitting at the table eating break­fast when we come down.

The other day as he got off the bus I heard him say to his bus driver, cool as a cucumber, “See you at the Oscars,”




When an Everly Reader is Reading, then suddenly stops, it is not hard to trace, and within a week I received a certified let­ter setting my fine at one thousand dollars, and stating that, in lieu of the fine, I could elect to return to the Originating Lo­cation of my Infraction (they included a map) and, under the supervision of that Citizen Helper, retrace my steps, shoes on, thus reclaiming a significant opportunity to Celebrate My Preferences.

This, to me, is not America.

What America is, to me, is a guy doesn’t want to buy, you let him not buy, you respect his not buying. A guy has a crazy notion different from your crazy notion, you pat him on the back and say, Hey pal, nice crazy notion, let’s go have a beer. America, to me, should be shouting all the time, a bunch of shouting voices, most of them wrong, some of them nuts, but please, not just one droning glamorous reasonable voice.

But do the math: a day’s pay, plus train ticket, plus meals, plus taxis to avoid the bleeding feet, still that is less than one thousand.

So down I went.

That Citizen Helper, whose name was Rob, said he was glad about my change of heart. Every time a voice shot into my ear, telling me things about myself I already knew, every time a celebrity hologram walked up like an old friend, Rob checked a box on my Infraction Correction Form and said, “Isn’t that amazing, Mr. Petrillo, that we can do that, that we can know you so well, that we can help you identify the things you want and need?”

And I would say, “Yes, Rob, that is amazing,” sick in the gut but trying to keep my mind on the five hundred bucks I was saving, and all the dance classes that would buy.

As for Teddy, as I write this it is nearly midnight and he is tapping in the room above. He looks like a bird, our boy, he watches the same musical fifteen times in a row. Walking through the mall, he suddenly emits a random line of dialogue and lunges off to the side, doing a dance step that resembles a stumble, spilling his drink, plowing into a group of incredulous snickering Oneontans. He looks like no one else, acts like no one else, his clothes are increasingly like plumage, late at night he choreographs using plastic Army men, he fits no mold and has no friends, but I believe in my heart that someday something beautiful may come from him.


The power of the short story form of fiction rests in its ability to condense so much. Saunders masters this form, and the stories of In Persuasion Nation are each as good as the excerpt. If you liked this one, buy the book and read the rest.  


Steve Hopkins, August 25, 2006



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The recommendation rating for this book appeared

 in the September 2006 issue of Executive Times


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