It’s been a really long time since I’ve sat down to read a story in The New Yorker. Justin Taylor has been skirting the edges of my literary paradigm for a long time, years almost. I liked his short stories a great deal, and I think I’ve even been in the room at some literary party or another where he was reading a story aloud, unclear, but possible.
I had no intention of reading this story, but it grabbed me. Our hero Scott is a douche bag, and leaves Ellen while she’s at work. He felt the seed of something going wrong growing in his stomach, relationship jitters of the cold feet variety, and presto he’s packing up and taking their car with him. He gets in, turns off his phone, and leaves town. Scott tells us that he’s a DJ, and we get to see him throw down a crazy set in San Francisco. He also gives little details about the Golden Gate Bridge, how it never gets done being painted. This is a wonderful moment of reflection, how Scott is never really going to be done making his own way, and sooner or later he will have to start over.
He meets Olivia in SF, and she’s half African-American/Jewish. This settles his nerves a little as Scott is from a very serious Jewish family. You see, Ellen wasn’t Jewish. I can’t see how it matters; still no reason to leave her for, well, no reason. Things get smiley and Scott seems to be making his way, decidedly. He gets himself a dog and falls in love with her. How he does it is a nice piece of story telling. I like what happens next, and I laughed out loud as I read the last sentence while eating my cold summer meal. All of this to say, Justin Taylor writes like he’s juggling ice cubes, with great ease.
