Category Archives: Essays

Right to Raft

Photo: Nadine Cordial

By Elizabeth Lauren Winkler

There’s a quality to youthful American summers that sets those childhoods apart. I’ve sped far enough forward now from that time that my memories have condensed into a series of vivid, if fractured, images: my parents parked on their canvas beach chairs (Dad slack-jawed in a heat-induced nap); crabs strewn like the bodies of a defeated army across a long brown-papered table; the sea of Fourth of July patchwork quilts; fireworks, post-explosion, dripping color through the night; heat throbbing on the courts at tennis camp; melting popsicles; tangled, sunburned limbs; and the cool, chemical blue waters of the country club pool. Continue reading

Literary Santa Barbara: A Travel Piece

By Jerry Griswold

While the movie “Sideways” presented Santa Barbara as the regional capitol of mid-life wine tasting, it has also been a place where writers have come and set up shop for over 150 years. These have included Ross MacDonald, Sue Grafton, Wallace Stegner, Kenneth Rexroth, Randall Jarrell, T.C. Boyle, John Sayles, Gretel Erlich, and many others.

Writers have also written about the place. One of the first was Kate Douglas Wiggin (best known for Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm) who found Santa Barbara a “tropical revelation” after moving from snowy Maine. Among the more recent is Pico Iyer, travel writer and sometime resident of the city, who described Santa Barbara as “softer than L.A. but harder than Santa Cruz.” Continue reading

Letter to the Dorchester County Board of Education, Regarding Patrick McLaw

Photo: Patrick McLaw

Editor’s Note: Patrick McLaw, a language arts teacher at Mace’s Lane Middle School in Maryland, was recently placed on administrative leave from teaching after it was discovered that he had published two novels. One of the novels, “The Insurrectionist”, is about two school shootings and takes place far into the future. McLaw was taken in for an emergency medical evaluation and the police swept the school for bombs and guns, coming up empty.

We have the privilege of publishing here a letter from Nalo Hopkinson, a professor at UC Riverside and a science fiction author, to the Dorchester County Board of Education.  Continue reading

The Silence Within Silence

Photo: Terri Weifenbach

By Joanna Chen

Yesterday there was a ceasefire. The night before, the booms did not stop. At 3 AM the house shuddered and the walls shook. At 8 AM, as the ceasefire began, silence fell upon the house. I stood at my front door with a second cup of coffee. The cat kept close, curling herself around my bare feet. At 8:05 there was a final crescendo, a deafening boom from the direction of Gaza. A bird lifted into the air, and before I saw the bird I heard its wings beating: one, two, three. I listened to the silence that followed as if I were listening to it for the first time. There are nuances to silence, there are degrees and shades to silence. This was a heavy, ominous one and it lay upon the air the whole day and did not move. Continue reading

Literary Junkies

Photo: Elizabeth Weinberg, part of “All Summer in a Day” series.

By Amy Spies

Readers, you may relate to my addiction.

It happened to me long ago.

I didn’t mean to get hooked.  I was just craving something to whisk me to another land, a better life, a fantastic world.  No one told me that all these lines, my blissful escape, could become a lifelong habit. Continue reading

A Letter from the Editor in Chief

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Dear LARB Supporters:

Last week we celebrated the third anniversary of our first review, on our temporary Tumblr site, and the second anniversary of our official launch.

In those three years, we have published 1,275 reviews, 985 essays, 435 interviews, 22 ebooks, 5 tabloid print magazines, and 3 quarterly print journals. We have produced 60 short films, 50 podcasts, 27 live events, 12 radio segments, and 2 streaming book club meetings.

The community of writers, editors, and supporters who make this possible has grown from a small handful of enthusiasts to, as this incredible collection of work suggests, the equivalent of a small village of people dedicated to literature, ideas, art, and culture.

We have expanded as a community of readers, too, and we now have as many as 30,000 visitors a day from all over the world. Over a third of these readers are overseas — in 150 different countries — and the rest are spread across all 50 states.

Los Angeles has never before had a literary institution of this breadth and reach, and it has been made possible by the generosity of this community of readers. We are reader-supported in the same way that our NPR stations are listener-supported, in the same way that all our cultural institutions are supported — our orchestras, our opera houses, our dance companies, our libraries, our art museums. Like these other institutions, the Los Angeles Review of Books is the expression of a community’s belief in the importance of art and ideas. LARB is your work as much as it is the work of our contributors and staff.

We began our life under the aegis of the University of California, Riverside, and have spent the last year aided by PEN Center USA, but we are now starting to fly solo, as an independent nonprofit organization, which means we are paying 100 percent of our own way, with your help.

We launched our membership program as a way to thank our contributors and supporters, sending magazines and books as premiums to show our appreciation. This membership program, as we hoped, is now one of our main pillars of support.

We have 600 members today, a very good start on the 2,000 we need. Those of you who have already signed up have made our work so far possible. Those of you who become members during this drive will ensure that we continue our work of bringing you some of the most exciting, provocative, and intelligent writing about books and culture available 

Sincerely Yours,
Tom Lutz

Back to the Post-Apocalypse: Jericho on Economic Politics

By Jonathan Alexander

SINCE 9/11, several SF television series, from the one-season Threshold (2005-6) to the more recent Continuum (2012-present) have grappled with the specter of terrorism.  Many, like Threshold and Continuum, play out hyperbolic scenarios of terrorist infiltration and attack, variously alien or from the future, to speculate on governmental and individual responses to terror.  At their worst, such series offer us terror as spectacle, with all the perverse thrills of mass destruction.  At their best moments, they become gripping meditations on the ethics of our various responses to terror.  What price security?  What sacrifices of freedom, individually and collectively, are we willing to tolerate to feel secure?  And, most provocatively, what critiques lie latent or ignored in terror attacks—critiques that, had we paid sufficient attention to them, might not have become manifest so destructively?

Currently available on Netflix, Jericho is one such series that deserves another look.  Running for two seasons (September 20, 2006 through March 25, 2008), Jericho is a frequently powerful drama about a small town in Kansas trying to survive in the immediate aftermath of a terrorist attack on the US that nukes 23 major American cities, including nearby Denver.  What’s perhaps most interesting about Jericho is how much narrative force comes from not knowing who the “enemy” is.  Islamic terrorists?  The Chinese?  Homegrown traitors?  Midway through the first season, the Chinese make a food drop, with notes saying “Do Not Fight”—but this seems a red herring.  And we eventually learn it is.

But who are the terrorists?  Jericho plays a teasing version of hide-and-seek here.   A whole subplot revolves around the character Hawkins, an FBI agent in hiding who relocated with his estranged family to Jericho just days before the bombs detonate.  His background and intentions are shrouded in mystery.  Indeed, for much of Jericho we don’t know what’s happening, with Hawkins particularly or the situation more generally.  More curiously, we are also asked to identify with, or at least sympathize with, the plight of Hawkins, whom we are led at times to believe might actually be one of the terrorists, now trying to protect his family in the aftermath chaos.  The confusion of identification is a striking aspect of many of these terrorist-themed, post-apocalyptic shows.  Whom, ultimately, can we trust?  Such questioning certainly builds narrative interest, but it also gestures toward conspiracy theories and plays to a sense shared by many viewers that we never really have the full picture—on the show or in real life—when it comes to global politics.  The most we learn in Jericho’s first season comes late in the plot development: apparently “cells” set off the bombs in a coordinated attack to “change the world.”  But who controls these cells, and to what purpose?

Jericho started airing in 2006, shortly before the economic collapse and right at the height of the Iraq war, which increasingly seemed run by—and for the economic benefit of—corporations.  The plot of the show interestingly follows suit.  An entire background story slowly emerges about one of the main characters, Jake, a badboy played by Skeet Ulrich, who gets stuck in Jericho after the attacks and eventually turns from punk and prodigal son to hometown hero.  We learn that he had been a mercenary with shady dealings in Afghanistan, including arms running and association with a Blackwater-style company named Ravenwood (in a nice play on words).  This background steadily becomes important, particularly as the town has to deal with Ravenwood, which has gone rogue as a gang of mercenaries (in the absence of government employers) to collect and control increasingly scarce resources.  Jake’s association with Ravenwood is a sore spot, one he seems to spend much airtime regretting and trying to make up for.

Seemingly in contrast to this comment on government and corporate complicity, much of the first season is taken up with a kind of romance of the small town, whose isolation is its primary saving grace as it’s largely out of the way of most mercenary and predatory interests.  The townsfolk use their relative safety to try to keep American traditions alive, such as celebrating holidays and hosting communal picnics.  But those traditions keep running into their own economic issues.  There’s a whole subplot about the local supermarket and the management and distribution of increasingly scarce resources.  Who, or what, should control such management and distribution?  What’s “fair,” particularly at a time of scarcity?  The fight for mayor–between the salt mine company-owning Gray, who wants to take a hardline on crime as well as who’s in and who’s out of the community, versus the recently ousted patriarch Johnston Green, who seems to want more “state” control over the distribution of resources but who also talks a lot about democracy–seem to reference different approaches to economic policy (not to mention immigration) in the mid-2000s.  Gray’s insistence on giving away all the available food seems to map onto Bush’s tax cuts and refunds and the conservative desire to deregulate more broadly: spread the wealth so it can trickle down.  Johnston’s more city-controlled policies of food distribution harken back to Clinton’s sometimes austere fiscal management while maintaining more liberal policies of state support and social welfare.  In the penultimate episode of the first season, the townsfolk make deals with the supermarket folks and the mercenaries to protect the town and its resources, primarily farmlands. At times of resource uncertainty, odd compromises must be made.  It’s hard not to read such a plot as referencing the “compromises” made in the early 2000s: we went to war to protect our interests, but whose interests, ultimately?  And at what cost ethically?

The second season heats up considerably as Jericho becomes part of the new emerging regime, the Allied States of America.  We quickly learn that the ASA has been set up by the orchestrators of the terrorist attack, who blamed (and then nuked) North Korea and Iran for the attacks. They’re re-writing history (literally, through new textbooks) to cast the former US as weak, lacking military force of will.  We also see Ravenwood, now backed by the ASA, assume policing responsibility for Jericho.  In a likely reference to Haliburton, Ravenwood is owned by Jennings and Rall, the company that serves as the bureaucratic arm of the ASA.  Interestingly, it’s worth noting that this season started airing in 2008, toward the beginning of the financial crisis, and, curiously, in that season we steadily see more focus on corporations and government complicity at the expense of democratic process and protection of civil liberties.  One of the farmers, for instance, is maneuvered into signing a really bad mortgage contract that essentially indentures him to Jennings & Rall.  Indeed, we slowly learn that J&R are behind everything, having created a plan in 1993 for the government to prepare for a disastrous attack—a plan that becomes the basis for an attack.  The company IS the government.  The government IS the company.

In some strange twists in the last episodes, we discover that “John Smith,” who’s been giving Hawkins information, has apparently set off the original 23 bombs in protest of corporate abuses.  He wants to detonate the remaining bomb in the ASA capital Cheyenne to destroy the new government, which is completely “corrupt” as a government set up by J&R to further its corporate interests.  He seems, though, like a psychopath, and we are not sure as viewers how to read his extraordinarily brief appearance in the second season.  It almost feels as though the series is backing away from strident anti-corporate critique to blame the whole apocalypse on one lone nut.  The series ends with two major characters, Jake and Hawkins, making their way to the Republic of Texas, which will apparently join forces with the former USA (headquartered in Ohio) against the ASA corporatists.  There is a comic that propels the story into a “third season,” but you’ll have to check that out on your own.  As is on TV, the story seems to end with the possibility that J&R and the ASA will eventually be brought down.

Jericho ultimately seems to play up some good old-fashioned American patriotism in its final episodes, simplifying its earlier narratives of and comments on the politics of economics.  Nonetheless, it’s still striking as a show that steadily blends, in just two seasons, concerns with corporate-investment in the Iraq War with more general fears that the government is fully a corporate state.  It’s hardly perfect in its latent critiques, and what’s not in the show is also odd.  Most notably, racial and religious conflicts are pretty much absent, although it’s clear that Jericho is a pretty white town, with the only visible black family (Hawkins’) one full of deceptions and secrets, and an Indian doctor who turns out to be a drunkard.  A more complex and compelling examination of government complicity with corporate greed might have woven in how frequently such complicity relies on religious rhetoric and racial bigotry.  But not in this small town.  Still, Jericho satisfies for the questions it raises and the buttons it pushes about the interconnectedness of politics and economics.  Absolutely worth another look.

¤

An Open Letter to LARB Supporters from William Giraldi

giraldi

IN AN INSPIRED ESSAY on Baudelaire, the great critic James Huneker made an assertion I’ve never succeeded in shaking free, even when I’ve felt most unworthy of its substance: when literature is done well, Huneker said, when it is executed with the torque and pitch of true art, “there is no mental toil comparable to it.”

We writers require and deserve to be paid for that mental toil; I for one have always been glacial when it comes to subscribing to magazines or providing donations to worthy literary venues — glacial as in slow, indeed, but also glacial as in maintaining the frigid rationale that it is I who should receive money from magazines, not the inverse. I’ve recently become quicker to donate and subscribe to worthy outfits because the real estate for serious, sustained literary comment has been eroded by a lobotomized marketplace, elbowed away in favor of book reviews no better than book reports polluted by knee-jerk emotions, or else replaced by the pop-culture pabulum that belongs jailed inside People magazine.

What LARB has accomplished in so short a span often strikes me as outright miraculous: a respected venue for serious, sustained literary comment in a cultural milieu which should have shunned its existence, retarded its every development directly from gestation. You know the value of LARB not only because it has survived against every odd, or provided a conduit for your own work, but because you have spent time there with the work of others who have earned your regard. Now an uncommon opportunity is upon us (and we contributors, if we have pledged our lives to serious reading, have a moral imperative to employ that pronoun, us, never them). In five days LARB will receive the tremendous gift of $50,000 if we can match the funds.

If every contributor would join me in a one-time donation of $100, we’d go a long way in securing this generous match — in helping to secure the health and punch of a literary outfit which in turn helps to transmit our fought-for ideas to a discerning readership. Recalling Dr. Johnson’s most notorious quip, about the mercenary motive of every writer, let’s bear in mind that this grant also augments the ongoing mission of LARB to pay contributors a fee equal to their abilities.

We writers are poor by some standards, and especially during this holiday blitzkrieg upon our pocketbooks, I realize. But we are poorer still if LARB diminishes or disappears from a dearth of support, if this venue which helps to buttress our mental toil fails to be buttressed in return. Please do click here, and may you and your work thrive in 2014.

Sincerely Yours,
William Giraldi

АИЛD ЛАNГ ЅYNЄ

An evening, sometime in the near future…

Simon Critchley
KADASHEVSKAYA HOTEL
26 Kadashevskaya nab. 115035 Moscow

January 1st, 2019

I guess we could all have seen it coming a few years back. Things really started to get worse around the end of 2013 and then dragged on into the long, cold winter months. That whole business with that guy, what was his name? Mountain in Wales. Snowden. That’s it. He went underground for a while and then emerged as the CEO of Bozhe Moi! (My God!): the amazing Russian search engine that overtook Google early in 2017. Totally wiped them out. I find it reassuringly old world and Le Carré-like to have the FSB watching all of us rather than the NSA.

Shortly after the President’s death, events moved fast. Well, suspicions were raised when they declared it accidental. Everyone knew it was suicide. He lost face (and faith) after that awful video circulated. You all know the one I mean. That was just after the attempted toppling of 1WTC. Why did they build that thing? It looked like a huge robot schlong. It was lucky that only a couple of hundred people died in the rogue drone strike, but the building’s been empty – cursed – since then, apart from a shelter for the homeless on the ground floors. The city began to go bankrupt after whatshisname, Di Blasio, was unable to raise taxes to pay for all the damage from the great storm of summer 2016. That was when the BBB movement (“Bring Back Bloomberg”) really got momentum. It turned out that people missed his bad Spanish at those press conferences. He’s been in power for a year now, even bringing back everyone’s pal, Ray Kelly. It’s just like old times.

Biden governed heroically, if ineffectively, until they called an early election due to the state of emergency. But he was never going to beat Chris Christie, particularly after Hilary had to pull out of the primaries because of that scandal with Anthony Weiner’s ex-wife. God that guy really embraced new technology. I think he’s still serving time. Chris Christie was a surprisingly popular president. It was like being governed by Tony Soprano. People love a benevolent despot. But I guess we weren’t surprised when the heart attack happened. He was inspecting the Acela line to Boston after it had been destroyed by floodwaters.

President Rubio has been in power for over a year now. He looks the very picture of health, glowing like the self-satisfied Miami sun when he speaks. Obamacare has been fully repealed, the rather minimal tax increases on the rich have been reversed, the federal budget has been slashed (his “War on Debt” campaign), and Rubio plans to implement the NRA’s proposal to arm all schoolkids. That’s equality. Everyone gets a gun. People seem to feel safer that way. Or they just stopped caring after that horrific school shooting in Greenport: the sixth one last year. I mean, who’s counting, right?

The truth is that national politics no longer seems to matter. Neither does the state. Cosmos is the new 1% international political force, set up by Jamie Dimon and other senior business figures from across the world. Its radical plan is to abandon all states and national borders and establish an independent league of mega-cities (initially New York, Shanghai, London, Tokyo, Mumbai, Moscow, but many others want to join) with its own police force and border agents. They’ve already begun to issue passports. It comes free when you sign up for their premium credit card. I have one here in my wallet. It has their catchy motto engraved on the titanium: “The world is ours. Make it yours”. They were initially called “The League of Rootless Cosmopolitans”. But they shortened their name: like the magazine, like the drink. The only political imperative was how to preserve the patina of liberalism while maintaining existing levels of inequality. Unsurprisingly, this is not that hard. It turns out that this is what we had anyway. A large proportion of the funding base for the Democratic Party has evaporated. Bozhe Moi ! is also a big funder of the Cosmos party. Secession from their various states is expected to begin this year.

After the whole Google glasses debacle and the copycat suicides where people filmed their own deaths while wearing them, huge amounts of money were spent on lawsuits and the program was abandoned. Capital was poured into the development of what was called “inner space research.” There were various plans to insert probes under the skin at the wrist in order to internalize search functions with fingertip control. They also tried to develop an ultra-gossamer type mask where computer and skin surface would meet and merge. They called it “2 Skin”. It also failed. As did the plan to insert implants in the retina. The stroke of genius at Bozhe Moi! was realizing that the search engine and the whole apparatus could be run from a customized pair of headphones. People really like headphones. It turns out that there is still a huge difference between what you are prepared to stick in your eyes and your ears. I’m wearing mine right now to talk to you. The translate function means that everyone can speak any language they wish which is what I do here in Moscow. Rosetta Stone is already a distant memory.

Of course, we knew that the rise of Bozhe Moi! was a soft authoritarian takeover. Old-fashioned leftists would proclaim that the promised means of our emancipation (the internet circa 1996. Remember that?) had merely shackled us more tightly in virtual servitude. Boring! I mean we read Foucault too when it still mattered.  But the truth was that people didn’t really care about their privacy. Not really. Not even the Germans.

Wars came and went in the Middle East, huge populations were displaced and innocent civilians were killed. Business as usual. The pieces moved slightly on the global chessboard and then moved again. We stopped caring, particularly after the big broadcast networks began to fold – CNN was first. We knew less and less about world, particularly after all those attacks on BBC journalists. But life was just fine here. There is still no two-state or one-state solution in Israel and settlements are still being built. After the attacks on Iran following their nuclear tests, the Ayatollahs even took out a new fatwa on Salman Rushdie and one on Bono too, after he was involved in that hit musical about the Iranian Revolution. But I think they both still go to parties.

I guess the weirdest changes have been around sex. The omnipresence of the highest quality 3D pornography, combined with “sensorium” patches that went on sale in 2015, effectively killed it off. Together with the first cases of a fatal testicular cancer caused by a variant of the HPV virus that was said to be in 90% of the sexually active young male population. That got their attention.

This led to two trends. A sudden vogue, that summer, for reckless, public sex: in buses, parks, sidewalks, subways, everywhere. It became a kind of display of political indifference or even resistance among the poor, but it was picked up and imitated by a lot of college kids. They call themselves the “League of Lovers” or LOL as way of mocking the Cosmos. There continue to be many arrests and an African-American couple was shot last weekend for refusing to stop making love in Prospect Park. Not so much “Stop and Frisk” as “Stopping Friskiness.”

The other trend – less numerous, but much more influential – was the Cenobite movement, where people would pay significant amounts of money to live together but in such a way that they could remain apart and not constitute any kind of threat to each other. The first one was founded outside Warren, Vermont a few years back. But they have spread all across Vermont, New Hampshire and Upstate New York. After electing to withdraw from the world – what they call anachoreisis – each Cenobite is given an “anchorhold” where they can stay safe and warm with their devices and sleep. Any participation in public events is optional, but with the right use of a wonderful new anxiety medication called Atarax, cenobites are able to be together socially and even main eye contact without looking at their devices for up to two minutes. For fear of contagion, celibacy is the rule in all cenobite groups. This did not extend to masturbation, of course. That would have taken things too far.

People incapable of even this degree of social activity or who could not bear to be disconnected from their devices began to gather outside the Cenobite communities in more extreme groups. They began to be called “Hamlet camps” or the “Inkies” after their customized black clothing, that was something between sports clothing and a Beneditcine habit. The sign up fee is prohibitively high in order to pay for the private police force and guarantee exclusivity. But I hear that some of the “Inkies” are beginning to produce some really high-level electronic music.

New York City began to feel too much like Alexandria in the late fourth century and I decided to get out when the right job offer came through. I’ve been living in this hotel in Moscow for the last 6 months working for a contemporary art space funded by one of oligarchs behind the Cosmos. It’s alright. The Russians make a generic version of Atarax and I have a bodyguard and a driver. But I stay in the hotel most of the time as it’s too dangerous to go out. Oh, happy new year.

Ambassador of Love

By Victoria Patterson

My brother and I grew up in a family prone to tragic holidays, but now with families of our own and growing kids, we’re trying our best to change the course.  “No drama,” my brother said, in our pre-Christmas Day strategy phone conversation.  “No more drama in our lives,” I agreed, quoting Mary J. Blige.

Traffic wasn’t as bad as usual on Christmas Day morning, though it still took us more than two hours to get from South Pasadena to my mom’s house in Pauma Valley: me, my husband Chris, our sons Cole, who was fourteen, and Ry, twelve, in the minivan, and also our beloved lemon-colored Bassett hound, Lucky Gus.

All during the drive, I prayed, gave myself pep talks, practiced breathing, and checked my pulse.

We loved our dog like crazy.  Arthritic at eleven-years-old, Lucky loved us more than we thought possible, and he’d grown up with Cole and Ry.

The boys had been one and three years old when we’d found a puppy wandering the streets.  When we’d returned Lucky to the address on his tags, the woman who owned him seemed to be ambivalent about having him back.

“If you don’t want your dog,” I said, emboldened, “we’ll take him.” She was in the midst of a divorce, had three children in diapers, and so she took our name and number.  A month later she called, saying, “Do you still want him?”

She’d always wanted a Bassett, she explained, since she’d grown up with one.  But Lucky was too much: he chewed everything, ran away every day, and her other dog hated him.

“I saw how you and your boys looked at him, and the way that he looked at you,” she said.  “He belongs with you.”

Lucky’s pedigree papers, which she’d also given me, showed that he’d been born to a breeder in North Carolina, and that his ancestors had names like Sir Napoleon Woodrow and Lady Natalie Tootee.

Lucky slept with my boys, rotating beds each night to be equal.  They called him their brother.  He was their brother.

Ry, Cole, Lucky Gus 2

When we arrived at my mom’s on Christmas Day, I watched Lucky jump out of our minivan and run—his happy trot—not to the tree or to the grass or to anywhere else, but straight to me, and I got my usual jolt of pure joy.

My mom’s husband Robert stood and hovered by a large trashcan while we opened our gifts, picking up the wrapping paper and throwing it away.  Lot of gag-gifts: Glow in the dark toilet paper, Superman socks.  My mom gave me a box of Chanel No. 5 perfume samples she got free with her purchases at Saks.

Robert made a big production of one final gift to Chris, my brother, and me. “Genuine leather Armani jackets,” he said, bringing them out from the garage on hangers. “So exclusive,” he claimed, “they aren’t on the market yet and won’t be for over a year.  These jackets are worth a lot of money.”

We thanked him, as I fought my suspicions, thinking, “Really?”

The dogs got presents.  My brother’s dog Sugar—an Australian shepherd found on the meridian of a busy freeway—ran around the house in a San Diego Chargers jersey, a little snug, her hair puffing out.  Lucky got a squeak bone toy reading “Fifty Shades of Fur.” He sat under the coffee table, mildly interested in the toy, holding it in his mouth, his tail thumping softly.

Everyone went outside for football before our Christmas dinner—our traditional game.  The boys love to play, especially Craig, my nephew, who was born with Spina bifida and is wheelchair bound.

I looked around.  There was Sugar but no Lucky.

“Where’s Lucky?” I asked.

I followed my mom to her small wading pool in the patio area, and she said, “Why’s the pool cover collapsed?”  It had folded up at the center, and I said, “Don’t worry, I’ll fix it.”

I went to pull the cover straight and I saw him floating—slanted upward—his back legs like he was running.

I looked away and screamed and didn’t look again.  But I kept seeing and reliving that instant, especially at night when I tried to sleep, every day for weeks.

Someone pulled Lucky out of the water and attempts were made at reviving him.  I watched as my son Ry threw up his fists to curse the sky, asking, “Why?  Why, God, why?” I left him alone, sensing that he wasn’t ready to be comforted.

We wrapped Lucky in a Hefty garbage bag and loaded him into the minivan.  We hugged and said our goodbyes, ready to start for home, but a few blocks away, Ry remembered where he’d forgotten his cell phone by a tree, when he’d taken it out to play football, so we went back. Standing by the car as Ry collected his phone, Robert brought up the Armani jackets again.  “Don’t sell them on EBay,” he said.  “They’re worth over $1,300 each, very exclusive.  That’s why I bought them for you.”

Back in the minivan, Ry said, “What’s with Robert?  Why’d he talk about money and those jackets?” and I said that I had no idea.  “Actually,” I added, “it’s because he’s an asshole.”

It didn’t take long for us to notice an awful smell in the minivan.

“Is that from Lucky?” I whispered to Chris.

“No,” he said.  “I think it’s those jackets.”

A long drive, traffic, lots of weeping, and intermittent discussions about Lucky, and what we needed to do with his body, and more weeping.

The best dog ever, we all agreed.  No dog like him, ever, ever, ever.

“He loved everybody,” Ry said.

Chris called him the Ambassador of Love.

I phoned the emergency vet hospital near our home, and we brought Lucky.  A woman buzzed us inside.  Short dark hair, piercings all up one ear, she was somber and kind as she greeted us, and then she helped us put Lucky in an examination room.  She’d already called the cremation place, she explained.  He’d be picked up the following day.

Chris uncovered Lucky so that we could see his neck and part of his head.  He still looked so beautiful, except for his tongue, which hung from his mouth, a pink-gray color.

The woman let the boys make hot chocolate in the waiting area before we left, but they just poured it out when we got to our car.

That night, I couldn’t sleep.  Though we’d stashed them in the laundry room, the whole house had begun to smell of the jackets, a rancid gasoline stink.  I got up and went to Google the tag name—Emporio Collezione—and saw proof of what I suspected: Fakes, selling on EBay for around forty bucks.  All over the Internet, warnings and tales of Italian men scamming people in Walmart and Costco parking lots, pretending to be on their way back to Italy with extra inventory, this one great opportunity!  This once in a lifetime chance to own Armani!

Infuriated, I called my brother the next morning to tell him.  “Don’t tell Mom,” he said.  “They’re not that bad, and the smell will fade.  It’s Christmas—isn’t it the thought that counts?”

“But why’d he have to bring it up in the garage in front of Ry?  We had our dead dog in the car!  What kind of a person says something like that in front of a kid who has just lost his dog?”

“He’s weird,” my brother affirmed, for about the thousandth time.

I didn’t tell my mom, and I gave my jacket away.  I began to troll the humane society and rescue sites, staring at the puppies and dogs.

We all missed Lucky.

Sometime late in January, I found a black Pug from the humane society and adopted her.  In order to function in the world, I realized, I needed a dog.  The first thing Rosita did when I brought her home was pee on the carpet.  She had ear infections, eye infections, and mange.

Now she’s healthy and happy and peeing outdoors, a very loving dog.

Happy Rosita

A good dog, my boys say. No Lucky Gus, that’s impossible, but a really good dog.

Then on toward spring, my mom came home from playing a tennis match to find Robert’s things packed and gone, a note on the dining room table.  He’d left her for another woman, the friend she’d been paying to help around the house.

A few months later, he begged my mom to take him back, which she did.

Not more than three months passed before Robert packed up and was gone again. So after fifteen years of marriage, my mom is divorcing him.

When I finally told her about Robert’s fake Armani jackets, she wasn’t surprised.

Someone in the Bank of America parking lot, she told me, bumped into Robert’s car. It was some Italian guy and rather than paying the claim through his insurance, the man talked Robert into taking those jackets, though none was big enough to fit him.  My mom refused to wear the one that he tried to pawn off on her and eventually gave to me, probably because of the smell.

There’s something fitting about Lucky leaving us on Christmas Day, we’ve decided, gone off to walk the Star Path.   He’d been born, after all, at the same time that my sons’ great-grandfather passed away, and we’d always joked that our dog was like a reincarnated undemonstrative, suffering, and difficult Grandpa brought back as Pure Love.

We can turn the narrative, I’ve learned, we can bend the tradition of the tragic holiday to hope. So this coming Christmas and each one after, no matter where they happen to be or who they’re with—and I like to imagine adventures and travels and truly intimate friends—my sons have vowed to toast Lucky Gus, Ambassador of Love.