(from Matt Paust)
CAVES OF THE RUST BELT – Joe Kapitan
I've just
finished reading Joe Kapitan's second fiction collection, Caves
of the Rust Belt: Ohio Stories,
and am virtually paralyzed with admiration. My reactions whirl at an
unfathomable depth. Occasionally I have to remember to breathe. But
my fingers still work, being less emotional, and are doing my
thinking on the keyboard.
Kapitan
is sneaky. A startlingly inventive wordsmith with a plain voice,
innocent of the conventionally snarky tone so
many
young writers affect to advertise their cleverness presumably
distinct from the herd. He seduces you to lay aside conditioned
“smarter than thou” defenses, drawing you into a seemingly
familiar narrative until of a sudden you’ve no idea just where in
hell you are, where he’s taking you. This happened time and again
when a story already was moving too fast for me to jump off with an
oh,
this is just too damned weird
shrug, and find some Kafka or Lovecraft to calm the nerves.
His
seduction starts at the get-go, with words like Ohio
and Rust
in the title. I heard earnestness there, the clang of labor, hard
times, solid heartland humdrum. And then Caves
gave me a peek at something unexpected beyond the abandoned factory’s
dusty window. A hint of promise, teasing. Beckoning. Eyes wide,
curiosity tugging my sleeve, I entered.
Well...Willie
Wonka’s chocolate house Caves
of the Rust Belt
is not. Closer to a step through the looking glass with Wondering
Alice. Moments of mystery appear in the commonplace and segue slyly
from clever to profound. Involuntary chortles continue to burble from
my throat with recalled abrupt comic ironies and turns of phrase, a
particular the bawdy chanty gently redacted by dead mariners in
deference to the boardinghouse landlady who summoned them from the
depths hoping to find her lost son:
Hers is the reason we set out
to sea,
And hers is the reason it
burns when we pee,
And
these are the three things we know to be sure:
A sailor needs tailwinds and
whiskey and hers!”
Flashes
of brilliance dance among steadier, darker reflections, challenging
readers to accept life’s marriage of opposites with its attending
happenstance and heartfelt yearnings. Though surprise is a constant
in Caves,
an occasional story’s title alone reveals enough for either
laughter or gravity to cue up at the start. Most often each are in
play by the end. Brothers of the Salvageable Crust is one of these. I
had no idea what the title means (and still don’t), but somehow it
suggested that I pee before reading and avoid sipping a hot beverage
during the narrative. Trusting my intuition thus saved me from
scalding pain and incontinent shame.
I’m
not going to mention every one of the twenty-eight tales in this
collection, despite how truly amazing each of them is. In the words
of one of our most ludicrously quotable modern Presidents, it
wouldn’t be prudent. I won’t be able to sleep tonite, however, if
I don’t mention one of the most jaw-droppingly startling, sweetest
little pieces I have ever come across. It is titled Mr. Foreclosure.
And that is all I shall reveal. If you read nothing else in Caves
of the Rust Belt,
please please please...Mr. Foreclosure!
Oh,
my, yes, and this one (do not be misled by the seemingly silly
title—this piece is a definite contendah!):
What
We Were When We Drew What We Drew. Read it, or I’ll unfriend you
forever!
You can skip How Cold Wars
End. NO! WAIT! JUST KIDDING! (read it, but use the same precautions
you do with Brothers of the Salvageable Crust).
Have tissues nearby when you
get to Letter from a Welder’s Son, Unsent. Just in case...um, salt
gets in your eyes.
My favorite of them all? That
is a really rotten question, but right up there among the top
twenty-eight is The Basic Problem with Interior Decoration. I think
it’s the longest, too, although the astoundingly brilliant Brothers
of the Salvageable Crust stretches out a tad, as well.
I
suppose it might aid my credibility were I to use some of the
standard critical literary language in discussing this collection,
but I’m so uncomfortable with linguistic sophistication I’d
likely get some of the requisite terms and phrases ass backwards,
doing more harm than good. Maybe Michiko Kakutani can be lured out of
retirement to do the honors. I’d kiss her feet if I thought it
would work. Caves
of the Rust Belt
deserves no less.
 |
| Joe Kapitan |
Clicking
over to Joe
Kapitan’s Amazon.com page
you’re apt to see references to Rust
as his “debut” collection. That is a lie. His brief bio there
tells us he published an award-winning short-fiction chapbook in
2013. “He began writing short fiction and creative non-fiction in
2009, and has had more than 60 pieces appear online and in print in
such venues as The Cincinnati Review, PANK, Wigleaf, Midwestern
Gothic, Smokelong Quarterly, Booth and Notre Dame Magazine.”
“Ohio,”
he tells us, “is like that weird uncle with the cheesy mustache and
outdated clothes; the one who always has the best stories.”
And now we know where “weird
uncle” gets those stories.
