The cover of Robert Strandquist's first book of stories, The Inanimate World (Anvil $16.95), shows a preppy man in pleated slacks and golf shirt sporting a trimmed goatee. I couldn't help linking the photo to the title story's narrator-a socially-savvy, introspective student who conceals his Castenadas and Steinbecks, instead displaying the more tasteful first edition Updikes and a signed A Spaniard in the Works above the fireplace. Serving the same social function as the Updikes, the narrator enjoys telling party guests that Francis Rattenbury built the Victoria house for his mistress and was murdered in one of the bedrooms. As well as his less trendy belongings, the unnamed narrator hides his heavy drinking habit. "I get some beer and head out under the deck,"; he admits, "where Elmer and Elvis are hovering and give them each one, leaving two for me, one which I down and the other drink quickly."; But Strandquist's character is more than just a drunk. He's a poetic thinker who seems to float above life, observing as if he were a tourist in a wax museum.

"... My story involves too much overwriting in empty rooms,"; he admits to himself at an AA meeting, while refusing to speak. "I can see their eyes glaze over when I tell it and their skin softens under the lights.";

When the character finds himself at the AA meeting, I was curious to see what the author looked like. I understood the source of the narrator's voice when I saw the author's photo; the burly, late 40s Robert Strandquist has messy hair and doesn't appear concerned with fashion trends.

Despite being 'a rare good listener' who feels comfortable at parties, the narrator struggles with loneliness. Strandquist's use of italics instead of quotation marks for dialogue creates a quiet, introverted mood, as if the narrator is already replaying the conversations in his head. Still haunted by a not-yet-ex wife and his first child, he wrestles with commitment to his new girlfriend, Lucille. But the narrator is stuck in a paradox, trying in futility to connect with a present that slips instantly into the past; Lucille seems like a memory.

Even the narrator's unborn child seems doomed. The story takes place two weeks after John Lennon's killing. 'It was a night like this,' reflects the narrator, 'when news of the killing arrived like a drunk at a children's party.' Linked to this segment by theme more than plot is a conversation between Lucille and the narrator, where he is pressured to name their future child. 'Yes, John,' the narrator finally decides, 'trying to wrench [himself] out of the anodyne gloom.' 189563633-7

[Jeremy Twigg / BCBW 2001]