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A small group of men sat orderly within a small semi-circle, sequestered in a corner of a large, expensive house.
Pushed off of the side by their wine-drinking wives, they had attempted to plow into yet another book club
selection but were failing miserably. An official afterthought, the husbands were hauled along to the
semi-monthly book club but were consistently banished to various remote regions when they had become too
interested in discussing the assigned book or by showing a lack of requisite passion when the topics turned
estrogenically bewildering. The chosen book lay in their hands like heavy meals while they tried to digest
the newest selection; which had been dramatically presented to the group only two weeks before by their
technically literate wives.
Hardbound and reluctant to give up its perceived secrets, this seven hundred plus page recap of all things banal deflected all honest attempts at understanding its contents. They realized that each selection might possess actual pluses and minuses, but experience was indicating that this book was truly unreadable. It had been touted via the wife's word-of-mouth system as a must read but no one ever scrutinized the method to get a book on the preferred list. Some came from television talk shows, some came from other club's recommendation and some were instinctively (usually frantically) pulled by that month's leader off the display at the local book store. Whether attracted by a shiny cover or creative in-store merchandising, the credibility of the selections never got in the way of the wine drinking. Evidentially the credo of the group revolved around the theory that there was neither bad wine or bad books. “We are being too polite,” said the oldest man as he tossed his already-worn copy on the table. “This book is crap: derivative and dripping with the recency of today’s most media-astute, and I use this next term very liberally; writers.” As it was thrown aside, no one at the wives’ table noticed his interpretative insubordination. The women were engrossed in some peculiar story involving their collective feelings, attitudes and perceptions while bottles of chardonnay were being anxiously uncorked. Each one was talking simultaneously and the collective obliviousness was complete. The men were being careful to determine if they had free reign to stage a literary mutiny on the grounds of potential literature-induced homicide but the anguish of the attempted read cast their collective fate. “Well,” said the other, “It seems like it doesn’t want to be read.” “True but the bigger problem is,” said the third, “that we are desperately lacking in gravitas.” “I agree with everyone but especially Tom,” said the fourth and final man while pointing his highlighter at the individual requesting gravitas. “In fact, this book doesn’t want to read but in truth, it shouldn’t be read. It is a waste of time and our inability to embrace something worthwhile just adds to the sting.” “What should we do?” said the first man. “Do what all men of letters do,” said the second man, “Get the hell out of here and each get a copy of “To Kill a Mockingbird.” The men agreed. All four books were summarily thrown out of the window and the four men left to go outside. They waved at their wives, who waved back but did not slow or diminish their conversational din. They were free and decided to rethink their collective marching orders. They were under pressure to be reading these books and the first thing to go was the pace. The more vocal faction of the club felt that the more read the better and as a result, aggressive reading quotas were instituted but rarely enforced. “Why are we rushing through these books?” asked Tom. "I don't mind reading quickly but I am tired of reading crappy books at the time." "Because this is our book club,” said Vince. “I am the oldest and officially, until proven otherwise, the wisest. After the book is read, we will all free up a week for a road trip. Gravitas awaits us.” No one asked why they were going on a trip as it wasn’t time to know that. The four men shook hands and went in to watch the ten o’clock news. The next morning with his wife experiencing a particularly piercing hangover, the first man, Jerry Schuler, scrounged around his basement and eventually located a copy of the book. Required reading when he was a college freshman, he knew he had a marked-up paperback somewhere in his belongings. He spotted the yellow “USED” sticker on its binder in the dim basement and reached down into the back of a musty cardboard box and brought it out of the light. He sat down on the basement floor, oblivious to the musty environment and opened up the book. The scribblings and highlighted marker colors, from both himself and the book’s anonymous initial owner, brought back memories of undergraduate fun and learning how to pass a class with a minimum of effort. As he thumbed the pages, a vague recollection of the book was hauled out of the deep recesses of his hippocampus and he remembered how dull and ponderous the book appeared. But he respected Vince and thought it was certainly worth a second attempt. Jerry picked himself up, went upstairs and made coffee. The house was quiet and he was excited to make another attempt at the book because this time he was not reading because he not vomiting up a minimal understanding of the plot summary and key metaphorical symbols for a mid-term; he was reading the book for the sheer love of time-tested literature. He opened it up and read the first paragraph and got goose bumps. The opening sentences were inspired; the depth of their construction were so good he was ashamed at wasting so much time by reading nothing but crap since college. Harper Lee’s work was easily standing the test of time and the idea that it had lay dormant for twenty years in his basement (and twenty more years since its publication) made him think what other classic pieces of literature, both unread and to be re-read were in front of him. He kept reading all morning, his wife made an appearance for aspirin and then a dramatic return to bed with a horrific hangover. He continued to read and was surprised when he looked up and saw the time: he had read for four solid hours without stopping. The book had taken him away, to the depression-era south, and as he stared at the tattered book cover, he was in awe of his discovery. This book had legs. When the four men reconvened two weeks later, all had similar epiphanies. The book had been technically re-discovered by all four and they were all equally ashamed at their lax approach to continuing education. Vince was the least surprised, as he remembered the book’s power as a young man, but he still was moved by the depth of the book’s content. All four men were anxious to discuss the characters, key scenes and Harper Lee’s motivation but Vince handed each one of them a short but deep glass of bourbon. Before they could get comfortable, Vince quieted the group and raised his glass towards the group and said, “To Monroeville, Alabama! Boys, we are Alabama-bound.” The four clinked their glasses together on Vince's new three-season porch. They did not tell their wives of their literary mutiny and by the looks of their wives, they were successful with their subterfuge. The short-memory wives were cracking open new wine bottles and moving last meeting's books off to the side in case the book interfered with their wine drinking. The evening was cool with a pleasant breeze and each one of the cabal was anxious to discuss their feelings and findings. The others, Jim, Jim and Joe, were anxious to discuss the book and didn't feel that interested in discussing their last two weeks. The purpose of the club is to read and discuss books so that is what they did. "The author paints a helluva picture, doesn't she? said the first Jim. "I could feel the heat, the claustrophobia and the pressures on a life that was quickly changing." "I agree with Jim and want to add that I forgot how good this book was to read. I am ashamed that when I was supposed to read it, I quickly read the Cliff Notes and didn't look back. I wish I could say that the prose came back to me, that it was remembered in some fashion but I can't. I got a "B" in American Literature but I don't remember one thing about the book. "Not even the stupid names?" asked Vince. "Not even the stupid names." "As much as I like this book, and I like this book a lot," said the second Bob. "It makes me wonder how much excellent literature I have passed by due to my ignorance." The four men agreed: this was a wake-up call. Instead of acting like literary lemmings, quietly accepting the task of enduring crappy and poorly-written writing, it was up to them to strike a blow for independent thinking and seek out classics to enjoy. The Mockingbird book was consumed in a few weeks and the four men were finally focused on something worthwhile. Now completely separate of the wives club, they took it upon themselves to seek out books to propose to the group to read. Scouring literary lists on the internet, looking at old books gathering dust in their homes, they would spend the last ten minutes of each club meeting teeing up new ideas. The top one hundred best books of all time was a traditional start and beginning at the bottom, they would debate the merits of the books with clear conscious. The only two existing rules of the club were all decisions had to be unanimous and that the hosting house had bourbon. None of the four men were heavy drinkers but bourbon made them all feel smarter and more insightful. Bourbon was introduced at Vince's house during the Mockingbird book and it complimented the read so well that it was brought out for all books subsequent. Bourbon proved to be an acquired taste with its dark amber color and hot, licorice-like aroma. When cut with water, it softened a bit, with nut and spice flavors, but still showed the boys sharp, slightly harsh finish. The taste wasn't the point; the point was literary men drank bourbon, and they were finally literary men. Jerry was enjoying his social time for the first time in a very long time. Not compelled to rush through the books nor preoccupied with the next literary choice, he looked forward to the camaraderie, the discussion of things not mundane, debating various intents and passages with no hard agenda and the ever-growing love of timeless literature. Conversations not related to the book were minimal; the four wanted to discuss the author's intent, potential motivations, impact on self and society and why time has shown this book worth embrace. During "The Red Badge of Courage," the group went through the symbolism of Stephen Crane's book, an entire bottle of bourbon and a healthy discussion of the fog of war. Written in 1895, the group continued to be amazed at the ability of classic literature to not only capture the human condition but to have it work over a hundred years later. "We have to keep doing this," said one of the Jims. "This is the only fun I have anymore." The four empty glasses clinked and the night was called. The following week, Jerry Schuler was readying the porch for the meeting when his wife, Dixean, showed up at the door. "What book is it this week?" "'The Grapes of Wrath' by John Steinbeck," said Jerry. "This one will take about a month to go through." "Do you have enough bourbon?" "I certainly hope so. I don't want to get so drunk that the boys can't make it home. When we were reading 'The Great Gatsby' and then 'Catcher in the Rye,' I was contemplating whether or not to dry out for awhile. Luckily they were both fast reads. However, I am becoming a bit worried about 'War and Peace' and if the Jims convince us on Henry James, it could be a long summer." Wishing she could change clubs and drink choices, Dixean walked away and wished him well. She would be listening and hoping for a chance to join in but to switch clubs would be viewed as heresy. Dixean loved literature and needed some motivation to continue to read things that had some gravitas. Her club's book source was the same as all the other bookclub sources: Oprah. They would dutifully read the assigned books, come up with the same thoughts and one meeting would blend into another one. It was hard to demonstrate independent thinking when the script was followed by twenty million other women but to switch clubs would brand her as an outlier. |
This one is just starting...and everyone loves a road trip