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Executive Times |
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2005 Book Reviews |
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The Ha-Ha
by Dave King |
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Rating: •••• (Highly Recommended) |
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Click on
title or picture to buy from amazon.com |
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Connections Dave King took
many risks in writing his debut novel, The Ha-Ha.
The brain-damaged narrator, Howard Kapostash, can’t
speak or write as clearly as he thinks, and that creates either an
opportunity for bathos or reader distraction. Thanks to King’s talent, the
narrator remains an everyman, and there’s no distraction. Howard’s brain
damage came from a Here’s an excerpt, all of Chapter 11, pp. 54-58: By morning I want to put yesterday behind us. When Sylvia and I quarreled as
kids, I apologized whether I was wrong or not, but nobody’s expected an
apology from me in years. I’m hoping to bury the hatchet in routine, so I mix
up western omelets, but when I show Ryan the bowl he declines coolly. He’s
being civil but aloof, and he doesn’t seem to realize how prissy this is. A
box of cheap chocolate-covered doughnuts has materialized on the counter.
Ryan takes two and a glass of OJ to the table. Nat appears, flashing his
pearly whites, and says, “Ooh, my man! You don’t want to know how
long those bad boys sat in the truck.” The yellow cake looks like packing
material under its waxy brown frosting, but Ryan testily pronounces it good.
Then he picks up and exits the kitchen, and Saturday cartoon sounds float in
from the parlor. I glare at Nat — why
the hell couldn’t he toss his damn trash in the bin? — but he only pours what’s left of my egg
mixture in the frying pan, and when his omelet is cooked he takes half in to
Ryan. I
haven’t had many close relationships in my life. Sylvia and my parents, of
course, but three’s a low total for a man my age. Looking back, I remember
childhood friendships but few high school buddies — once Sylvia and I were an item I was
devoted to her. In the army, I met fellows from all over the country, with
different backgrounds from my own, and I loved that; I was finally in the
world. The first time I heard Spanish music was in basic, and the first time
I had friends who’d been raised in slums or on farms. It was the first time I
lived away from this house! Then basic ended, and we got separated overseas:
different specialties, different platoons. Then my sixteen days. The men in
my unit were good guys, I suppose, but I barely got to know them, shocked as
I was by so much that was new: the weather, the landscape, the impossibility
of phoning home. The heat, the smells, the way I missed my mom and dad and
Sylvia and everything American and familiar, and even the bunk I’d had back
in the barracks, and some of the boys I’d gotten to know there. The
horrifying, defoliated landscape I’d flown over on the airlift in, and the
very presence of live ammo, suddenly inescapable ours, theirs, rounds and
clips and grenades and mines and flashes of light over distant trees Some of
the seasoned soldiers had been together for months and were wary of newbies: we were bad luck — ignorant, unskilled, naive, hopeful,
frightened, and error-prone — and
everyone knew we couldn’t all make it through. So it was a while before I
could tell one grunt from the next, and the first person I grew friendly with
was Rimet, who also was fresh meat. He just cracked
a joke one morning in the chow line. But even on that last day, as we humped
through the hills, I suspected Rimet and I weren’t
lifelong friends. I had more in common with the lieutenant, I thought, and I
hoped to get to know him better. We’d gotten stoned, and the LT was looking
for orchids, and I felt as good as I’d felt since my arrival. The sun was
out. So some men have war buddies they keep in touch with for years
afterward, but not me. And I never know what to do when someone’s angry at
me. All
morning, Ryan keeps himself occupied. I figure the hell with him and go out
to polish the truck, but when he helps Nit and Nat load up their van I think
he might pitch in here, too. He pays me no attention. I go inside and stretch
out on the parlor couch, and when the house empties, I hear Ryan tromping
upstairs. I’m not unaccustomed to being alone, and for years I’ve spent my
time exactly like this. But it’s harder to feel comfortable about being excluded,
so I stare at the ceiling and wonder if Around
one, I tap on his door; he opens it a few inches. I’m here to reconcile, and
I pat my stomach. Come on, it’s the weekend! Let’s go somewhere for lunch.
“I’m doing my homework,” he says, but something’s funny in his
expression, so I push the door. Inside, sunlight streams across the unmade bed, and clots of white fluff cover the floor. It takes me
a moment to spot the pink bundle, like a flocked bathrobe, cast in a corner,
and I realize he’s demolished the Energizer Bunny. A strip of torn wallpaper
lies in a wedge on the far side of the bed. I push past him to pick it up. The
hell with him. The hell with everything! My dad papered this room
himself, with my help, and to avoid another regrettable outburst I take off,
slamming the downstairs door. I buy a tuna sandwich and head to the nun’s
private sitting area in back of the convent building, and I eat my lunch and
listen to the roar of the ha-ha and scowl at the gravel between my feet.
Sister Margaret appears and says, “Why, Howard! What brings you here on a
Saturday?” She opens a fat book and starts to read, and I go back to my truck
in the parking lot and sit there awhile. When
I get home, Nit and Nat are in the back yard. The heavy guy from last night
is there, too, and they’ve got a small fabric pouch, like a beanbag, which
they’re knocking around with their heads, elbows, and heels. Ryan’s playing
right along. I stand by my truck and watch them dart about in the sunshine,
and I wonder if anyone will toss me the little pouch, but only As
evening falls, I
jump up — perhaps too
quickly, because the house shifts, and the room’s all stuffy. Somewhere
there’s conversation, and I remember I left Ryan with Nit and Nat; the world
of talking is just out of reach. I wonder if I’ve been asleep, and as I reach
out to steady myself, I swat at a standing lamp. Yellow circles flash over
ceiling and floor. “Bot,” I say, and wipe my brow
with my arm. But
I only steady the lamp, then fold my hands under my
overall bib. Out
on the main road, a car radio waxes and wanes. Somewhere a girl squeals. Ruby
gives three short yips, and one of the boys shouts, “Hey, hey, hey! Don’t
give her that thing — what’s
the matter with you? It ain’t good for a dog, man,
and she’ll fuck it up with her saliva.” The intensity
and restraint of Howard, and the skill of King’s writing make The Ha-Ha
one of the finest debut novels we’ve read. Steve Hopkins,
April 23, 2005 |
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Buy The Ha-Ha
@ amazon.com |
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ã 2005 Hopkins and Company, LLC The recommendation rating for
this book appeared in the May 2005
issue of Executive Times URL for this review: http://www.hopkinsandcompany.com/Books/The
Ha Ha.htm For Reprint Permission,
Contact: Hopkins & Company, LLC • E-mail: books@hopkinsandcompany.com |
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