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Executive Times |
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2008 Book Reviews |
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Man Gone
Down by Michael Thomas |
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Rating: |
*** |
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(Recommended) |
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Click
on title or picture to buy from amazon.com |
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Intense By
reading Michael Thomas’ debut novel, Man Gone
Down, you’ll be spending four days in an intense and flowing stream of the
action and reflection of a 35 year old unnamed narrator, during one summer of
his discontent. This narrator is as complicated and as conflicted as our
world. Born poor, “Black Irish Indian,” and smart, he went to white schools
and was neglected by alcoholic parents. He abused alcohol himself, dropped
out of college, married a white woman and has three children. While his wife
is visiting her mother with the children, he’s trying to piece together enough
money for them to keep living in New York, and to pay the tuition for his
children’s education. Here’s an excerpt, from the beginning of Chapter 2, pp.
11-13: The last time I saw them was
late July at Edith's. The boys and I were in the kitchen. X was naked and
broad jumping tiles, trying to clear at least three at once. C had stopped
stirring his potion, put down his makeshift magic wand and was pumping up a
soccer ball. I was sipping coffee, watching them. We were listening to the
Beatles. C was mouthing the words, X was singing aloud while in the air. As
he jumped, he alternated between the lyrics and dinosaur names: Thump.
"Dilophosaurus." Jump. "She's got a ticket to ride
... " Thump. "Parasaurolophus."
His muscles flexed and elongated—too much mass and
too well defined for a boy, even a man-boy, especially one with such a tiny, lispy voice.
He vaulted up onto the round table. It rocked. I braced it. He stood up and
flashed a toothy smile. "Sorry, Daddy." X looks exactly like
me. Not me at
three years old, me as a man. He has a man's body and a man's head, square
jawed, no fat or softness. He has everything except the stubble, scars, and
age lines. X looks exactly like me except he's white. He has bright blue-gray
eyes that at times fade to green. They're the only part of him that at times
looks young, wild, and unfocused, looking at you but spinning everywhere. In
the summer he's blond and bronze—colored. He looks like a tan elf on
steroids. It would seem fitting to tie a sword to his waist and strap a
shield on his back. X
could pass. It was too soon to tell about his sister, but it was obvious
that C could not. I sometimes see the arcs of each boy's life based solely on
the reactions from strangers, friends, and family the reaction to their
colors. They've already assigned my boys qualities: C is quiet and moody. X
is eccentric. X, who from the age of two has believed he is a carnivorous
dinosaur, who leaps, claws, and bites, who speaks to no one outside his
immediate family, who regards interlopers with a cool, reptilian smirk, is
charming. His blue eyes somehow signify a grace and virtue and respect that
needn't be earned—privilege—something that his brother will never possess,
even if he puts down the paintbrush, the soccer ball, and smiles at people in
the same impish way. But they are my boys. They both call me Daddy in the
same soft way; C with his husky snarl, X with his baby lisp. What will it
take to make them not brothers? X was poised on the table as
though he was waiting in ambush. C had finished pumping and was testing the
ball against one of the four-by-four wooden mullions for the picture window
that looked out on the back lawn. Claire came in, holding the girl, and
turned the music down. "Honey, get down,
please." X remained poised, unlistening, as though acknowledging that
his mother would ruin his chance of making a successful kill. "He's a raptor," said
his brother without looking up. "Get down." She
didn't wait. She put down the girl, who shrieked in protest, grabbed X, who
squawked like a bird, and put him down on the floor. He bolted as soon as his
feet touched the ground and disappeared around the corner, growling as he
ran. "They'll be here
soon," said Claire. "Can everyone be ready?" "Who'll be
here?" mumbled C. His rasp made him sound like a junior bluesman. "The Whites." His
shot missed the post and smacked into the glass. Claire inhaled sharply. "Put that ball
outside." C looked at me. I pointed to
the door. He ran out. "No," Claire called
after him. "Just the ball." The girl screeched and pulled on her
mother's legs, begging to be picked up. Claire obliged, then looked to me. "Look what the new world
hath wrought, ' " I said. She looked at the table, the
ring from my coffee cup, the slop in the bowl C had been mixing, and the
gooey, discarded wand. I shrugged my shoulders. "To fight evil?" "Just go get him and get
dressed. I'll deal with the other two." I put my cup down and stood up
at attention. "The Whites are coming. The Whites are coming!" When
we moved out of Boston to the near suburbs, my cousins had helped. I'd ridden
in the back of their pickup with Frankie, who had just gotten out of Concord
Correctional. We'd sat on a couch speeding through the new town, following
the trail of white flight with Frankie shouting, "The
niggers are coming! The niggers are coming!" I snapped off a salute. My girl,
happy to be in her mother's arms, giggled. I blew her a kiss. She
reciprocated. I saluted again. The Whites were some long-lost Brahmin family
friends of Edith's. As a girl Claire had been paired with the daughter. They
were of Boston and Newport but had gone west some time ago. They were coming
to stay for the week. I was to go back to Brooklyn the next day and continue
my search for a place to work and live. "The Whites are coming."
Claire wasn't amused. She rolled her eyes like a teenager, flipped me the
bird, and headed for the bedroom. I went outside. It was cool for
July and gray, no good for the beach. We'd be stuck entertaining them in the
house all day. C was under the branches of a ring of cedars. He was working
on step-overs, foxing imaginary defenders in his homemade Ronaldo shirt.
We'd made It the summer before—yellow dye, stenciled, green indelible marker.
I'd done the letters, he'd done the number nine. It was a bit off center and
tilted because we'd aligned the form a bit a-whack. It hadn't been problem at
first because the shirt had been so baggy that you couldn't detect the error,
but he'd grown so much over the year, and filled it out, that it looked
somewhat ridiculous. He passed the ball to me. I
trapped it and looked up. He was stand-about ten yards away, arms spread,
palms turned up, and mouth ape. "Hello." Thomas
is a gifted writer, and he manages the intensity of Man Gone
Down with great skill. If there’s a first novel you’re willing to savor
this year as a way to meet a new writer, consider Man Gone
Down at the top of your list. Steve
Hopkins, March 21, 2008 |
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Go to Executive Times Archives |
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The recommendation rating for
this book appeared in the April 2008 issue of Executive Times URL for this review: http://www.hopkinsandcompany.com/Books/Man Gone Down.htm For Reprint Permission, Contact: Hopkins & Company, LLC • E-mail: books@hopkinsandcompany.com |
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