Posted on

Speeding Up to Slow Down

Sometime in the early 1980s, while researching a play, I spent an afternoon talking with a Nebraska State Trooper about the border between local law enforcement and the state patrol. We covered jurisdiction, drugs, homicide, and how causes of death get decided in a county with more cattle than people. By then he had worked those highways for twenty years. He was a careful man with a careful voice, and when the talk turned to death on the road, he lowered it. When you read about a one-car crash that kills the driver on a Nebraska highway in the middle of the night, he said, you are usually reading about a suicide. The car alone, the road empty, the bridge or the embankment at full cruise.

Continue reading → Speeding Up to Slow Down

Posted on

Rudy’s Library Is Open

The key to the public library in Monowi, Nebraska hangs on the wall of the town’s only tavern, within reach of the bartender. Ask and she hands it over. Then the shed a few steps from the bar is yours for the afternoon: five thousand books and magazines, floor-to-ceiling shelves, and a sign painted by grandchildren on the side of an old refrigerator that reads Rudy’s Library. There are no library cards and no overdue fines, and there is no librarian at a desk, because the librarian is the woman who just handed you the key. She is also the mayor. You borrow on honor and you return when you can. That is the whole system, and it has held for twenty-two years.

Continue reading → Rudy’s Library Is Open

Posted on

What the Spray Allowed

On the night of the fourteenth of September, 1997, in the first squall band of a blow that never got a name, a man went over the rail of a shrimp boat working the inside grounds off Cameron, Louisiana. The boat was the Coralee B, sixty-two feet of wood and rust out of Cameron, named for the captain’s mother. Junius Hebert was the man: twenty-nine, out of Hackberry, the lead deckhand, with a wife and two little girls and a laugh that carried over the engine. The sea that took him did not splash. He was working the winch on the starboard side, and the first green sea stood on the deck amidships, and the second one came over the rail where he was standing, and when the deck cleared the winch was running empty and Junius was gone.

Continue reading → What the Spray Allowed

Posted on

Raise Your Right Hand: The Blind Oath

First, swear. Then we will tell you what you are accused of. Sit with that order of operations for a moment, because the order is the whole instrument. A man is summoned before the court. He is not told the charge, because there might be no charge to tell. The summons brings him in, the book is offered, and the oath is administered before any indictment is read: swear to answer truthfully every question this court intends to put to you. After that, if anything is coming, it comes inside the interrogatories he has just sworn to answer. He has pledged his answers before the questions exist.

Continue reading → Raise Your Right Hand: The Blind Oath

Posted on

Preplay: The Courtroom in the Wings

The news of my removal from my own show came from the producer. I had obtained the rights, signed us to a first-class theatrical option, and written the book and lyrics, all of it inside the year the rights contract granted to us. The director hired to stage the all-or-nothing reading was not my choice, and he was friends with my collaborator. After the failed previews, I was unceremoniously let go. When I asked my composer collaborator why this had happened, the director called me instead, and said that nobody wanted to talk to me. I had no choice but to sever the show, and my attorney fought to get me paid, credit on show. Everyone stonewalled him as well. That is the whole record, at the width the print ruling allows, because the identifying details of the production and the collaboration stay blurred in print for the privacy of the living, and the blur is logged in the specimen record beside its telling.

Continue reading → Preplay: The Courtroom in the Wings

Posted on

The Viking Funeral and the Us of Us

On the last Saturday of August 2019, in a valley that had already lost the assembly plant and the regional medical center, the daily newspaper of Mahoning County, Ohio, printed its final edition. The Vindicator was a hundred and fifty years old. It had celebrated its sesquicentennial the week before it died. The announcement had come on June 28, in a letter signed by the publisher and the general manager, members of the family that had owned the paper since 1887, and the record of the letter is exact about the cause: the paper was hemorrhaging money, the family had looked for a buyer, and there was none. The letter’s close is in the record too. “It is with broken hearts that we say goodbye and a final thank you.”

Continue reading → The Viking Funeral and the Us of Us

Posted on

The Censor Keeps a Copy

Twenty years ago, give or take, a friend told me a story he expected me to admire. He was a Latter-day Saint who worked in technology, and he was, as I understood it then, the bishop of his ward, an unpaid office the church gives to laymen who keep their day jobs, so he kept a company’s hours all week and presided over a congregation on Sundays. There was a Mormon bookstore he went into often, and one day he walked in and found a new display for Goosebumps, the paperbacks with the dripping green logo about haunted masks, a ventriloquist’s dummy with a mind of its own, and a werewolf in a Florida swamp. He spoke to the owner. The owner told him the books were selling well and that those sales were keeping the store alive. My friend pressed him on content, judged the whole series blasphemous, an invitation to the occult at a child’s price, and let it be understood that if the titles stayed on the shelf a report would go to the stake president. A week later he came back. The books were gone, the owner was distant and cold, and my friend bought a couple of books, in his own phrase, to make up the difference. He told me this the way another man might tell you he had coached his kid’s team to a championship. He was proud. The word I have settled on, twenty years later, is forensic: he had investigated, prosecuted, and won, and he walked out of that store on the high of it.

Continue reading → The Censor Keeps a Copy