Ann Beattie’s New Yorker Stories

TODAY IS WEDNESDAY, JUNE 19, 2013

December 13, 2010 at 11:00 AM

Ann Beattie’s New Yorker Stories

Ernest Hemingway had his turn, as did Flannery O’Connor. And a whole lot more.

But in the 1970s, it was a young Ann Beattie who took the big megaphone of the American short story, and turned it to the story of the post-‘60s Baby Boom generation.

Strung out, detached, confused, lost. Ann Beattie found the boomers and gave a version of their story – in story after story – that caught life and a generation with irony, cool humor and slippery grip on love. She’s still at it.

We speak with short story great Ann Beattie about life, and her generation, in short fiction.

-Tom Ashbrook

Guest:

Ann Beattie, fiction writer for The New Yorker. Her other books include Walks With Men, The Doctor’s House, and Perfect Recall. Her latest collection is The New Yorker Stories.

An excerpt from The New Yorker Stories:

Usually she was the artist. Today she was the model. She had on sweatpants—both she and Garrett wore medium, although his sweatpants fit her better than they did him, because she did not have his long legs—and a Chinese jacket, plum-colored, patterned with blue octagons, edged in silver thread, that seemed to float among the lavender flowers that were as big as the palm of a hand raised for the high-five. A frog, Nancy thought; that was what the piece was called—the near-knot she fingered, the little fastener she never closed.

It was late Saturday afternoon, and, as usual, Nancy Niles was spending the day with Garrett. She had met him in a drawing class she took at night. During the week, he worked in an artists’ supply store, but he had the weekends off. Until recently, when the weather turned cold, they had often taken long walks on Saturday or Sunday, and sometimes Kyle Brown—an undergraduate at the University of Pennsylvania, who was the other tenant in the rooming house Garrett lived in, in a run-down neighborhood twenty minutes from the campus—had walked with them. It was Kyle who had told Garrett about the empty room in the house. His first week in Philadelphia, Garrett had been in line to pay his check at a coffee shop when the cashier asked Kyle for a penny, which he didn’t have. Then she looked behind Kyle toGarrett and said, “Well, would you have a penny?” Leaving, Kyle and Garrett struck up the conversation that had led to Garrett’s moving into the house. And now the cashier’s question had become a running joke. Just that morning, Garrett was outside the bathroom, and when Kyle came out, wrapped in his towel, he asked, “Well, got a penny now?”

It was easy to amuse Kyle, and he had a lovely smile, Nancy thought. He once told her that he was the first member of his family to leave Utah to go to college. It had strained relations with his parents, but they couldn’t argue with Kyle’s insistence that the English department at Penn was excellent. The landlady’s married daughter had gone to Penn, and Kyle felt sure that had been the deciding factor in his getting the room. That and the fact that when the landlady told him where the nearest Episcopal church was, he told her that he was a Mormon. “At least you have some religion,” she said. When she interviewed Garrett and described the neighborhood and told him where the Episcopal church was, Kyle had already tipped him; Garrett flipped open a notebook and wrote down the address.

Now, as Garrett and Nancy sat talking as he sketched (Garrett cared so much about drawing that Nancy was sure that he was happy that the weather had turned, so he had an excuse to stay indoors), Kyle was frying chicken downstairs. A few minutes earlier, he had looked in on them and stayed to talk. He complained that he was tired of being known as “the Mormon” to the landlady. Not condescendingly, that he could see—she just said it the way a person might use the Latin name for a plant instead of its common one. He showed them a telephone message from his father she had written down, with “Mormon” printed at the top.

Kyle Brown lived on hydroponic tomatoes, Shake ’n Bake chicken, and Pepperidge Farm rolls. On Saturdays, Garrett and Nancy ate with him. They contributed apple cider—smoky, with a smell you could taste; the last pressing of the season—and sometimes turnovers from the corner bakery. Above the sputtering chicken Nancy could hear Kyle singing now, in his strong baritone: “The truth is, I nev-er left you . . .”

“Sit still,” Garrett said, looking up from his sketchbook. “Don’t you know your role in life?”

Nancy cupped her hands below her breasts, turned her head to the side, and pursed her lips.

“Don’t do that,” he said, throwing the crayon stub. “Don’t put yourself down, even as a joke.”

“Oh, don’t analyze everything so seriously,” she said, hopping off the window seat and picking up the conté crayon. She threw it back to him. He caught it one-handed. He was the second person she had ever slept with. The other one, much to her embarrassment now, had been a deliberate experiment.

“Tell your shrink that your actions don’t mean anything,” he said.

“You hate it that I go to a shrink,” she said, watching him bend over the sketchbook again. “Half the world sees a shrink. What are you worried about—that somebody might know something about me you don’t know?”

He raised his eyebrows, as he often did when he was concentrating on something in a drawing. “I know a few things he doesn’t know,” he said.

“It’s not a competition,” she said.

“Everything is a competition. At some very serious, very deep level, every single thing—”

“You already made that joke,” she said, sighing.

He stopped drawing and looked over at her in a different way. “I know,” he said. “I shouldn’t have taken it back. I really do believe that’s what exists. One person jockeying for position, another person dodging.”

“I can’t tell when you’re kidding. Now you’re kidding, right?”

“No. I’m serious. I just took it back this morning because I could tell I was scaring you.”

“Oh. Now are you going to tell me that you’re in competition with me?”

“Why do you think I’m kidding?” he said. “It would kill me if you got a better grade in any course than I got. And you’re so good. When you draw, you make strokes that look as if they were put on the paper with a feather. I’d take your technique away from you if I could. It’s just that I know I can’t, so I bite my tongue. Really. I envy you so much my heart races. I could never share a studio with you. I wouldn’t be able to be in the same room with somebody who can be so patient and so exact at the same time. Compared to you, I might as well be wearing a catcher’s mitt when I draw.”

Nancy pulled her knees up to her chest and rested her cheek against one of them. She started to laugh.

“Really,” he said.

“O.K.—really,” she said, going poker-faced. “I know, darling Garrett. You really do mean it.”

“I do,” he said.

She stood up. “Then we don’t have to share a studio,” she said. “But you can’t take it back that you said you wanted to marry me.” She rubbed her hands through her hair and let one hand linger to massage her neck. Her body was cold from sitting on the window seat. Clasping her legs, she had realized that the thigh muscles ached.

“Maybe all that envy and anxiety has to be burnt away with constant passion,” she said. “I mean—I really, really mean that.” She smiled. “Really,” she said. “Maybe you just want to give in to it—like scratching a mosquito bite until it’s so sore you cry.”

They were within seconds of touching each other, but just at the moment when she was about to step toward him they heard the old oak stairs creaking beneath Kyle’s feet.

“This will come as no surprise to you,” Kyle said, standing in the doorway, “but I’m checking to make sure that you know you’re invited to dinner. I provide the chicken, sliced tomatoes, and bread—right? You bring dessert and something to drink.”

Even in her disappointment, Nancy could smile at him. Of course he knew that he had stumbled into something. Probably he wanted to turn and run back down the stairs. It wasn’t easy to be the younger extra person in a threesome. When she raised her head, Garrett caught her eye, and in that moment they both knew how embarrassed Kyle must be. His need for them was never masked as well as he thought. The two of them, clearly lovers, were forgoing candlelight and deliberately bumped knees and the intimacy of holding glasses to each other’s lips in order to have dinner with him. Kyle had once told Nancy, on one of their late-fall walks, that one of his worst fears had always been that someone might be able to read his mind. It was clear to her that he had fantasies about them. At the time, Nancy had tried to pass it off lightly; she told him that when she was drawing she always sensed the model’s bones and muscles, and what she did was stroke a soft surface over them until a body took form.

Kyle wanted to stay close to them—meant to stay close—but time passed, and after they all had moved several times he lost track of them. He knew nothing of Nancy Niles’s life, had no idea that in October, 1985, she was out trick-or-treating with Garrett and their two-year-old child, Fraser, who was dressed up as a goblin for his first real Halloween. A plastic orange pumpkin, lit by batteries, bobbed in front of her as she walked a few steps ahead of them. She was dressed in a skeleton costume, but she might have been an angel, beaming salvation into the depths of the mines. Where she lived—their part of Providence, Rhode Island—was as grim and dark as an underground labyrinth.

It was ironic that men thought she could lead the way for them, because Nancy had realized all along that she had little sense of direction. She felt isolated, angry at herself for not pursuing her career as an artist, for no longer being in love. It would have surprised her to know that in a moment of crisis, late that night, in Warrenton, Virginia, when leaves, like shadows on an X ray, suddenly flew up and obscured his vision and his car went into a skid, Kyle Brown would see her again, in a vision. Nancy Niles! he thought, in that instant of fear and shock. There she was, for a split second—her face, ghostly pale under the gas-station lights, metamorphosed into brightness. In a flash, she was again the embodiment of beauty to him. As his car spun in a widening circle and then came to rest with its back wheels on an embankment, Nancy Niles the skeleton was walking slowly down the sidewalk. Leaves flew past her like footsteps, quickly descending the stairs.

Zeno

Why do the boomers think they are the first to experience EVERYTHING? It is comical to hear their complaints, triumphs and irrational ego driven rants.

How did they transform from the most liberal and progressive group into the most selfish, self-centered, conservative and greedy groups of humans to ever walk planet earth?
http://www.20UNDER40.org Edward

Is this a Baby Boomer response to the New Yorker’s 20 Under 40 Summer Fiction issue? Those Boomers just can’t seem to let loose the reins…
Pancake Rankin age 35 in NC

Some people in their 50′s and 60s lived in prosperous times and glimpsed a better future without poverty or oligarchs. Immediately the assassinations began and the overclass intensified repression and co-optation. Our problems in the United States parallel the current ones in China and are caused by the same few wealthy people. This is not a matter of age, handing over the “reins” or sib cohesion. Pop psychology fails to give insight into an impending regime of absolute deprivation. Naturally, if you put people in a crap shoot, they will roll the dice and do the best they can, and this reflects on all age groups. We are lied to and manipulated, atomized and set upon one another, while worshiping our tormentors. You can be sure there are no New Yorker stories about this reality. There is no “interior life” for Jacqueline Homan in Erie, Pa. looking at her broke down truck in the driveway this morning, waiting for her pipes to freeze and comforting her post heart surgery husband over a can of soup warmed on the kerosene heater. She is the author of four good non-fiction books (including “Classism for Dimwits”, but looking at her broken body, her $10 and change and her cold wood stove (flue failure) you’d never know it. Now is not the time for age discrimination, personal indulgence and dreams of celebrity and lottery wins. Most of us are in this together whether we realize it or not.
Pancake Rankin, McAdenville, NC

Zeno
Baby Boomers may be the first generation since the Great Depression to generally experience abject poverty at the end of their working days. Most of them have no net worth and less than 20K in their retirement accounts at age 62, and this is more because of hoggishness by the rich than poor planning. Maybe they made a “compromise” for a truce in the class war while they raised their children, and were shot in the back. Tell me about your “interior life” Zeno.
Pancake
Zeno

“Tell me about your “interior life” Zeno.” – Pancake

That would be Off-Point and self indulgent. But I will state that I am a card carrying member of the working poor. Used to be an EE, now a handyman servant to the wealthy boomers. I am actually categorized as a boomer, but at the tail end..which I call the philosophical shadow. We rejected the actions of our older siblings…just as gen Y rejects Gen X.

Interesting that I never shared their liberal politics in the 60′s and I don’t share their ultra conservative politics now. The children that never grew into adulthood. They were unwilling to accept the responsibility for anything then and now.

I agree with what you wrote. The plutocracy will never cover any issue about the lower 80% of the country, except as quaint and comical amusements. Even the guests on ALL media outlets are the elite who speak and write about America from their distorted and sanitized bubble. The good thing is they can’t see out, but we can see in.

The plutocratic pundits are mostly fools, and very frequent guests of media outlets, and are authors of books. that are only published through patronage.
Al Dorman

(Boston, MA)
Wow, powerful stuff, Zeno and Pancake. Frankly any generation responsible for the War on Drugs disgusts me. Speaking as Gen Yer.
Nick

What’s with Anne Beattie’s cleavage profile photo?!?
Ellen Dibble, Northampton, MA

Pancake, talking heads keep saying that Americans vote for tax breaks for the wealthy because they themselves want to be wealthy. I find this preposterous. Totally preposterous. Maybe math skills are way, way, way too low. If 90 percent are voting they expect to be in the top 2 percent, thereby keeping those forces in power, what can I say.
How this relates to Beattie — Pancake, you may be an exception in wanting there to be a sort of umbilical cord between the top and the bottom. There is literature of the ones who collect money from the elites and their pawns on editorial boards, and there is literature of those who tell it like it really is at the bottom. But what do you have in mind?
Sasha Drugikh

Does Anne have any recommendations: Who’s writing good non-fiction/novels nowadays?
Ellen Dibble, Northampton, MA

I get asked about the 1960s era too. What was it like, as if it were a pivotal moment. Beattie speaks of the lostness of the 1970s. I do concur that culture wasn’t leading the way, not that I could find. Attempts at humor, light and airy, fanciful. Obsessions with sexual politics. I would have been looking in the New Yorker, and it didn’t help. Flat out how to connect with other people, on matters that matter, that was hard to find. Zeroing in on detail would be interesting in the craft of writing, and I probably have read those. But those decades might have in fact been years of cultural wandering. Our music spread like a “force” into other parts of the world, but we were getting into a position to become the land of the Uberclass. The meaning of love (Beattie’s subject, I see) is of little weight next to the loss of compassion as a national modus operandi. Compassionate conservative? What have we learned.
Mari McAvenia

From Quincy, MA

“Some people in their 50’s and 60s lived in prosperous times and glimpsed a better future without poverty or oligarchs. Immediately the assassinations began and the overclass intensified repression and co-optation.” -Pancake Rankin

Right on! My earliest TV memory is of JFK’s funeral. Then, when I was in the 5th grade- BANG!- there went MLK,Jr. Next down: RFK.
We were cowed by these assassinations. Fear gained the upper hand. “Don’t stick your head up!” became the generational message to late-boomers.

No wonder Beattie’s characters kill off their senses in clouds of Ganja smoke. Numbness is so much easier to bear than the reality of our collective “inheritance”.
http://www.thejesusfactory.com Scott Lindquist

I would like to suggest a show or interview idea:
New book that embraces a more inclusive gospel.
The book is called: The Jesus Factory

This sensational new book is an adventure novel of the spirit that reveals the lost message of the hidden apostle. This is one man’s search beyond religious fundamentalism to discover the real meaning of Christ’s message. What with the rising tide of religious fundamentalism and bigotry in the world, this book challenges the message of hate and manipulation that has so infected our society. It also questions the long-held subjugation of women in the church and condemns the brutality and murder in the name of the “Prince of Peace”. This is a very powerful book that and will become as talked about as The Secret, The DaVinci Code, and The Celestine Prophesy.

Reviews:
This Isn’t Your Grandparents’ Take on Jesus
I love what Mr. Lindquist has done in the Jesus Factory. Parts of this book challenged me deeply. I have been an ordained minister for more than thirty years and I know that the Church has sometimes been misguided and harmful. This book illustrates how closed-mindedness and harsh judgmentalism have actually distorted the authentic message of Jesus. And this book gives me hope for a better world and a more tolerant, loving view of Christ. But the book is not merely theology. It is a great story of Paradise Lost and Paradise Regained. It is a book of redemption and hope, mixed in with human passion, human frailty and adventure. Mostly it helped me look at me and examine what I really believe and what I really know. I highly recommend it to anyone willing to think for oneself. I eagerly await the sequel(s). Mr.
Lindquist, please write more. – Rev. John A. Strickland, Unity Minister

Spiritual Concepts of God
“In his book, “The Jesus Factory”, Scott Lindquist presents profound spiritual principles that makes one re-evaluate their own spirituality. This book will challenge your concept of God to help you move beyond a finite and limited view of God through a beautifully woven story of believable characters. If you are seeking the real truth of God, this book will gently re-awaken the soul to a deeper discovery of God. This is a must read for all Pastors, Ministers, and religious leaders to help the church communicate a clear gospel message of Christ that will awaken the mind and touch the heart! It is a story of redemption, love, and compassion as critical ingredients to one’s path towards enlightenment, liberation, and healing!!!!!!!” – Rev. Eliakim Thorpe, Baptist Minister

A thoughtful and very highly recommended read
The true message of Christ can often be lost in a sea of other agenda. “The Jesus Factory: An Adventure Novel of the Spirit That Reveals the Lost Message of the Hidden Apostle” tells a story of a hidden apostle with a new and very different message for the world. Written out of the faith of author Scott Lindquist, “The Jesus Factory” will prove a thoughtful and very highly recommended read. – By Midwest Book Review (USA)

Please see my website for more information and reviews on the book, where you can download the first chapter for free.

Sincerely,
Scott Lindquist
http://www.thejesusfactory.com
678-923-4898

About the Author:
Scott Lindquist, C.P.P., C.P.S.
Scott Lindquist is also a certified crime prevention practitioner and crime prevention specialist. He is a graduate of the Florida Crime Prevention Training Institute, and has written three non-fiction books on rape prevention. He has been featured internationally in Cosmopolitan (both US & UK) as well as other magazines in the Caribbean and in Australia. He has made it his life’s work to find solutions to violence against women. This new fiction work carries on his commitment to find solutions to gender injustice at its very core.
Ellen Dibble, Northampton, MA

Suggestion to publishers: Include some illustrations with short stories. I love short stories, but I also like visual components. I don’t know why they come second to novels.
Ellen Dibble, Northampton, MA

Do we have the short story equivalent of the nonfiction piece? I look for nonfiction OR short stories, but I like an index and plenty of “real” context. Short stories could be anchored enough to attract this consumer, with pictures for starters.
Ellen Dibble, Northampton, MA

I remember literature in the ’70s being a lot about monologue, the inner world, with “others” as pretty much detached. I’m talking about British and Japanese writing as well. What constitutes the actual interaction between person A and person B, or person A and a society, culture, group.
I don’t recall getting that from reading back then. Actually, I often don’t find it now. (What AM I talking about…)
Mari

“Everybody is living longer now.” – Ms. Baettie

I respectfully disagree. Most of my close peers are already dead. Average age of death: 50.
Cancer, car wrecks, suicide, drugs, gun violence, wars…

The only people living longer are the very old. Blame a screwed up medical industry that operates for profit, only. Old folks have the money to keep themselves alive. My generation does not.
Vincent Walker

I love short stories! I started reading Kipling in the eighties and just loved them. I also love the public radio show “Selected Shorts”.
I think there is something special abput short stories that is unique. Like a chineese watercoulor the short story is free and simple, in a way that a longer piece can never be.
The other thing is that if you don’t like a short story, you can still finish it; you dont have to feel bad about like you do when you put down a novel. A book of short stories is likley to have something you will like.
ThresherK

“Everybody is living longer now.” – Ms. Baettie

I also respectively disagree. One of the Catfood Commission’s saddleburrs is that “longer life expectancy means it’s fine to raise the age for social security onset”.

The phrase to describe this gap is Plumber’s Crack: Well-off people are the ones getting the vast bulk of that increased life expectancy. So if you’re a manual laborer, who is only expected to live ~2 years more than a few generations ago, why should you give up a year or two of Social Security to subsidize the white-collar strata, for whom it’s a less-needed source of income during retirement?
Mari

“Plumber’s Crack” is a cute way to put it.
Maybe “Ghetto Crack” better describes the phenomenon of early onset death occurring among America’s burgeoning- and whiter by the minute- permanent under class.

The Social Security Ponzi scheme is all too clear: Make younger Americans pay longer (by law) into a system that will never award them a nickel in return, while beefing up the financial portfolios of the already rich & old.

Shame on those who are all too willing to knock off their young in order to maintain unsustainable, greedy lifestyles of power and exclusive privilege for themselves, alone. Makes me sick. (bad idea, ‘cos I can’t afford to get any sicker!)
ThresherK

Social Security is not a Ponzi scheme. And if it survives the attention of right-wing style “reform”, it’ll be around for a very long time with just a tweak here and there. Real-world economists have shown plenty elsewhere that I won’t replicate it here.
Pancake the redheaded knuckle dragger

I get so tickled at the stupid audacity of people. That fact alone would make a New Yorker story. Scott Lindquist is a 60ish expert on rape prevention since he graduated from the Florida School of Crime Prevention. Somewhere in there he got religion (lucrative sideline) and now is the Stig Larrsen of holiness. Maybe this struck a cord with me because I was raped and tortured while a student at Union Theological Seminary studying Gnosticism in the 1990s.

Here’s some advice if you are not seeking rape:
1. Never kiss or touch another woman in public.
2. Look at the casual golf apparel of your average Floridian religious novelist and dress for success
3. Be sure and use muted tones when you depict or mention Jesus frequently on your website
4. If the victim “Walks With Men” she should never do it in a way as to be taken seriously, for only amounts in excess of $300,000 can be taken seriously
5. If George Bernard Shaw offers you $300,000 for a specific sexual favor, politely agree; and when he changes the figure to $50, say “What do you take me for, a working class woman?” And if he answers, “At $300,000 you were a whore in principle…”
Reply, as you finish a sip of your cocktail, and smack your lips, “My father was on Wall Street and didn’t rear me to become an idiot, and besides you are a noted celebrity, George Bernard Shaw, and everyone knows you prefer children.”

PS- Any relation to Jack Beattie?

Oh, I don’t think Mari meant to say Social Security was conceived as a Ponzi scheme. But it does seem that in “starving the beast” the purveyors of government limited to capital maintenance have converted every program to an Amway or Mary Kay pyramid. I’ve still got Tupperware and Avon in the trunk if you’re interested.
Pancake in McAdenville, formerly Christmastown

Ellen Dibble
Had I your address I would send you Robert Crumb’s relatively new graphic in which he retells (literally, sometimes) “Genesis.” (Just finished with it.) It has the pictures you crave and is, as they say, “funny as Hell.” Because, after all, it is authoritarian Christians who are writing the zaniest new fictions about contemporary life. Crumb would make John Boehner cry sincerely, and pocket the ammonia.
Brett

Daughter Sophie’s book is worth mentioning, as well…
Ellen Dibble, Northampton, MA

Pancake, sometimes I think we need a retreat where we can “go private” and carry on like that. You know what? I think even having that avenue handy would deconstruct the energy here, such as it is. If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it. There is a somewhat different plane of exposure here, something which Facebook and Twitter may overindulge and thereby ruin. If there are two friends with actual access to each other, why would they match wits in public?
Apparently women more often find satisfaction with interpersonal transactions, a fact I deduce from the fact it is mostly males who seem to flourish in this kind of milieu. The opportunity to spar with strangers is just too much of a temptation. Anyway, I’d be very happy to have an old-style camp meeting with those who post on this site, a chance to splash each other with canoe paddles and so on. But my impression is that a lot of us are really scrambling to keep our heads above water, and the prospect would in effect sort the posting people into the haves and haven’t-got-much’s.
I think I know about this Robert Crumb, though.
Why is it that Charles Dickens is so easy to visualize? Is it because Masterpiece Theater has done it for us?
Alfred J. Nelson

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Questions on Civil Rights Champion Medgar Evers?

Wednesday, Jun 5, 2013

This year marks the 50th anniversary of the assassination of civil rights leader Medgar Evers. We’ll be talking about his life and legacy. What are your questions about Evers, about civil rights now?

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What’s Your Question For Mark Bittman?

Tuesday, Jun 4, 2013

We’ve got a terrific On Point Live event coming up this Thursday evening. Tom will be interviewing food author and columnist Mark Bittman at the Paramount Theater in Boston.

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Tick Tock: The Secrets To Your Relationship To Time

Wednesday, May 29, 2013

Claudia Hammond, author of “Time Warped: Unlocking The Mysteries Of Time Perception,” told us new memories make you feel like there’s more time, whereas routine makes it seem like the weeks and years zip by.

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