Sometimes the gentle Allen would be inside there, too, indicating, with his eyes, Look, go away, please go away, I am trying so hard not to call you KANT! You didn’t do that out there, did you? He stayed on the ground, pulleying the smoking buckets up to us, muttering obscenities at passing grannies and schoolgirls. Weave-ceiling, Mom called it. They were sorry, they were saying with their bodies, they were accepting each other back, and that feeling, that feeling of being accepted back again and again, of someone’s affection for you always expanding to encompass whatever new flawed thing had just manifested in you, that was the deepest, dearest thing he’d ever—. On the roofs, we found weird things: a dead rat, a bike tire, somebody’s dragon-headed pool floatie, all frozen stiff. Somehow he’d got it all back. Coming around the pond was a silver-haired woman. Real thrashfest down there. The first New Yorker story for 2021 is Andrea Lee's "The Rivals." “Go home, man,” I said to John out on the street. He knew her so well. Really? He didn’t have the strength to flip him over, but, turning the head, at least got the mouth out of the snow. This is death? Bright, bright blue and cold. This guy looked sort of mental. He was. Vic caught it, kissed it, added it to his tremendous wad. But up close it was too scary. So I offered him a portion of mine in a way that simultaneously offered and made it clear I was not offering. It’s in their blood.” Then he put his wad back in his pocket. Like he’d lost steam crawling out. “Bring your lady.”. The Tenth of December by George Saunders, Random House, 2013. Tom was thirty. That is not the word I would use. The New Yorker has published more than fifty short stories by Alice Munro and more than twenty by George Saunders.Munro first made the cut in 1977. It was amazing. “We’re gonna see if John here is a better gambler than he is a roofer.”, “As a roofer, John, face it, you suck,” Vic said. What a thing. A real rescue, at last, sort of. And no one was going to fault anybody for avoiding THAT. As a group, all would look at Gzeemon’s butt, exchanging sullen glances of: Gzeemon shall indeed be limping for the next nine million years, poor bloke. The duck thermometer said ten. “Yes, I do,” he said. © 2021 Condé Nast. It would be done. “Maybe your mother roofs good,” John mumbled. Once John dipped below four hundred, he was dead. Little guy wouldn’t last long in this cold. The material on this site may not be reproduced, distributed, transmitted, cached or otherwise used, except with the prior written permission of Condé Nast. Then finally said, Well, honestly? We go out to dinner. His boots were ice sculptures of boots. He’d bolted on the old guy. If he sat anywhere else, there was the chance of a comment or two. And a green coat. I stumbled out to my Nova, putty-knifed myself a sight-hole, drove home. He’d just abide there, infuriating them with his snow angels. Perhaps this Nether was not all bad. “It was Lawrence hired me.”. “Nice guy, shit roofer.”, “Too fucking slow, John,” Gary said. More and more his words were not what he would hoped. Suddenly he was not purely the dying guy who woke nights in the med-bed thinking, Make this not true make this not true, but again, partly, the guy who used to put bananas in the freezer, then crack them on the counter and pour chocolate over the broken chunks, the guy who’d once stood outside a classroom window in a rainstorm to see how Jodi was faring with that little red-headed shit who wouldn’t give her a chance at the book table, the guy who used to hand-paint bird feeders in college and sell them on weekends in Boulder, wearing a jester hat and doing a little juggling routine he’d—. Now and then, he would hurl himself against the windshield, and somebody, festively, would fling at the windshield a plastic fork or a hamburger bun. He had on pajama pants that, tucked into some tremendoid boots, looked like clown pants. But the pond kept saying no. “What y’all are gonna find out is I’m a roofer and a gambler both,” said John. Probably he had some sort of old-guy plan. He’d kept waiting for some special dispensation. But could see every detail. It is but nothing. It was amazing. He wasn’t at his house. Mom treated him like a piece of glass. He walked fifty feet downshore, stepped onto the pond, walked a wide loop on the solid stuff, turned to shore, started toward the black water. Between him and the shore lay a grayish patch. Robin himself was not the fastest wicket in the stick. They had a strange bond with him. Then it was the Christmas party. The pines swayed. Saunders won the Man Booker prize in 2017 for his novel, “Lincoln in the Bardo.” He is the author of four story collections, including “In Persuasion Nation” and “Tenth of December.” He couldn’t live with that. Mostly they were dull, mundane, not about him at all. Kid seemed to be holding a jackhammer. His babies were waiting. He’d gone home and shared it with Mom. I was very excited for Lincoln in the Bardo, for example, but I didn’t like it the first or second time I read it. Soon, though. Dad had once said, Trust your mind, Rob. It was so cold my little mustache had frozen. He was fifty-three. Once everyone had seen me work, I became the Great White Dope. All the kids had come. It wasn’t far now. Today he had a feeling that the Nethers might kidnap Suzanne Bledsoe, the new girl in homeroom. Kip said. The New Yorker may earn a portion of sales from products that are purchased through our site as part of our Affiliate Partnerships with retailers. He was wily. I admire that.”. Even THAT understood the deal. If you close your eyes, that’s the end. If he made it. © 2021 Condé Nast. He put the hat and gloves on the kid, zipped the coat up. Thinks he can gamble because he says he can.”. Vic had gone to the bank that morning. No, no, no. The kids giggled that he’d said “damn.” He went around kissing them all as I paced and lectured myself in the hallway, trying to sober up for the long drive home. I don’t mean to continue being insolent, she said. That he’d got this far. Of course, not as freaky as a grimacing cross-legged—. Eber said. “I’m gonna get you and your lady some Sherman Juice so you can have a little party.”. Good God, there was so much to do. Why were we made just so, to find so many things that happened every day pretty? Poor guy. A breeze sent down a sequence of linear snow puffs from somewhere above. Biggest fuckup ever. Maybe you should turn back, Suzanne said. The pond was a pure frozen white. And also, yes to there being something to us. ON THE BACK: GROOVY! And now was in it. I followed him out. He was standing in the snow in his underwear near an overturned boat. “Just up and say it, get it over with: Baby, they ain’t no Christmas. That is, if you’re still set on the boulder idea, the other said. He got up. He found himself wrapped fetally around some tree. the Nether said. Judging by the single set of tracks, the Nether appeared to be carrying her. I was drunk. That was part of who he was. Past the bench and the trailhead and into the woods on the old familiar path. “But still she’s faster than you.”. And place at their doorway an implacable rock of suffocation, trapping them inside. “John’s a man.”. Was he doing this? He’d make it. Vic kept taunting. He’d have to try to get Molly to see—see why he’d done it. I’m here. What a thing. He didn’t even like to get a cleaning. Swimming was not allowed. To revisit this article, select My⁠ ⁠Account, then View saved stories. You had to do things right. “My friend’s place,” John said. He had to remember that. He got to his feet and, gathering his massive amount of clothes up like some sort of encumbering royal train, started toward home. Climbing plodfully, with tortoise patience, bare white arms sticking out of his p.j. Saunders began publishing short fiction in the magazine in 1992. Chubby kid in white. He had never known cold. All suited up now, NASA. It couldn’t seem like he’d done it on purpose. Later in the half, Eddie Blandik had found it. Down on the beach near an overturned boat was some ignoramus. I have by now repaid her for all the food she fed me those many months. What of it? Down he went. And that had never—, Sister Val had said, Why not shoot for being the next J.F.K.? He tiny-stepped up. Once, he’d run a half-marathon with a broken foot. It held maybe three thousand dollars. Got doggedly up. His kids had never come close to being abandoned. He wasn’t going to lose his legs. Oh, to hell with that! Like a football thing. You can do this thing.”. It took four distinct pulls. Can’t console anyone if not around? Couldn’t. Sign up for the Books & Fiction newsletter. I keep asking my self, is George Saunders fucking brilliant, or so erudite that his intent misses the mark? A house on the park. In his mind, the pond was not finite, circular, and behind him but infinite and all around. Gay swingers? The edge broke away. When he used to walk Sasquatch out here they’d do six times around the pond, jog up the hill, tag the boulder on top, sprint back down. She was strong as a bull. And this one looked like a potential biter. The other components of the festivity were a plate of cold cuts on the table where normally the gutters were pre-bent, a garbage can full of iced beer, and a cardboard box holding some dice. Eber dragged the kid out. He didn’t like the thought of them knowing he’d been scared. At this he remembered that the brown spot was as much in his head as ever. Warner was the owner, the big man. He also contributed a weekly column, American Psyche, to the weekend magazine of The Guardian between 2006 and 2008. John burned. And gave chase. That was something you could do. Holy moly. Like a tremor. Nobody asked why. Later, imagining them in their death throes, taking pity on them, he would come back, move the rock. That was a gift from Aunt Chloe. And swim? Back inside, Vic was protesting, though nobody was asking him to. No branches anywhere. But Mom was a good egg. Kind of scared and all. Somewhere there is a man who likes to play and hug, Suzanne said. Tenth of December was selected as one of the 10 Best Books of 2013 by the editors of the New York Times … But it doesn’t necessarily have to be terrible. Estimated time of overtaking the Nether, handing him his coat? ‎Show The New Yorker: The Writer's Voice - New Fiction from The New Yorker, Ep George Saunders Reads “Ghoul” - Nov 3, 2020 ‎George Saunders reads his story from the November 9, 2020, issue of the magazine. I’m so happy to finally be able to tell you this.”, Then it’s a few weeks later, after first payday, and I pull up to my girlfriend’s house, wearing clean clothes. He was young. Then there was a tree in his gut. As long as it didn’t snow, we could roof.

Is Down The Fence Still On Netflix, Lane Dharma Ottoman, Hearts Afire Youtube, 2005 Nissan Murano Engine For Sale, Broccoli Sprouts Nutrition, Talbos Ng Sayote In English, What Simple Machine Is A Screwdriver, Is Babybel Real Cheese, How To Drain Whirlpool Front Load Washer, Dash Appliances Reviews,