I notice some sheared bolts and cut metal on the ground, which means the fire department has been here. I pick up a cracked Gerber jar of strained carrots, and the old man and I look at it. I drop it in the wall, where it falls with a thuk.
“Horribly accidental,” the old man says.
“Hey, what happened to these people?” I ask him.
The old guy doesn’t say anything. It’s like he can speak the lingo but not understand it. I stand up and walk through the broken wall to the sidewalk, and there’s no skid marks in the street that I can see, only patches of kitty litter, which the tow truck drivers spread around. That’s a bad sign. Maybe the Volvo guy just fell asleep or something or maybe his brakes went out. I take a closer look at the exposed wall, and it’s just like one we would build — deep footings, mortar-filled pilasters, and extra rebar — not a very forgiving thing to hit.
For some reason, I think of Mr. Doyle’s daughter, the one who was killed, and the whole thing starts to give me the willies. I look for my old man’s truck coming down the street, for the familiar way that he smokes and drinks coffee and drives all over the place with his knees, but the street is empty.
On the ground I see a package of condoms, and I pick them up. They’re ribbed.
The old guy crosses himself.
Then I notice these assorted kid-size boxes of cereal, from a variety pack, and it makes me spit out the gum. When I start to think about this Volvo guy’s story, I feel awful, just horrible. Here’s this guy, he’s got a kid and a new baby, and he likes music, but things are not going so good for him at his small stereo shop. His wife wants another kid, but he’s like let’s wait a while, and maybe things aren’t so good between them right now, what with his long days at the music store, and she’s going nuts with the kids, and he doesn’t even get off work until dark, when he has to go to the market, but maybe tonight things are looking up for him, you know, he’s bringing home the bacon, got some Tony Tiger cereal for his son, and he’s got some Rolling Stones playing in his Volvo with a moon roof and he’s cruising down Ocotillo, feeling tired and mellow, tapping his fingers on the wheel. He’s just driving down the street, and he’s got no idea, no clue at all.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
These stories have appeared, in slightly different form, in the following publications: “Your Own Backyard,” Sundog: The Southeast Review; “The Death-Dealing Cassini Satellite,” New England Review; “Trauma Plate,” Virginia Quarterly Review; “Cliff Gods of Acapulco,” Esquire; “The History of Cancer,” Hayden’s Ferry Review; “The Canadanaut, Part I,” Harper’s; and “The Canadanaut, Part II,” Paris Review. Several of these stories also appeared in Scribner’s Best of the Fiction Workshops, Best New American Voices, and Speak.
I am indebted to the support of the Kingsbury Fellowship at Florida State University, the Stegner Fellowship at Stanford, and the generosity of my mentors: Ron Carlson, Robert Olen Butler, John Wood, Janet Burroway, Virgil Suarez, Mark Winegardner, John L’Heureux, and Tobias Wolff. I also wish to recognize the various experts with whom I consulted while researching these stories: I’m grateful to Dr. Todd Pierce for advice on the behavior of exotic species; for his expertise in African folklore, Dr. George Clark will always enjoy my gratitude; concerning coastal meteorology, Dr. Russ Franklin proved invaluable; and thanks to Professor Neil Connelly for access to his archives and for his vast knowledge of the early days of Canadian space exploration.
Special thanks go to Warren Frazier, the prince of literary agents, and to my editor at Viking, Ray Roberts. Thanks to Julie Orringer, ZZ Packer, Angela Pneuman, Ed Schwarzschild, and, of course, Gay Pierce. Thanks to Michael Knight.
My mother, Patricia, always believed and was always there. My father, Donald, gave me his ear for stories. And nothing is possible without my wife, Stephanie — you are my satellite, my white flash, my outside heart.