Author: Max Ross

Ed Morrissey is terse, never letting a sentence extend beyond fourteen words. A typical example: “Shithead. You swing on me again, I’ll kill your sorry ass.” Ed Morrissey is garrulous—as political director at Blogtalk radio, he interviews some of the most prominent members of the conservative movement, his voice a slightly less nasal version of Wallace Shawn’s. A typical example, from the conclusion of a recent broadcast: “Steven, thank you for being here … if you’re going to be in the Twin Cities, you have to let me buy you a beer, buy you dinner … Let’s do Manny’s, that would be great!” Ed Morrissey has a remarkable thatch of dark curly hair. Ed Morrissey is bald. An investigator remarked, “Maybe in the end he’s the kind of guy nobody cares much about alive or dead.” He has a wife, a son, and a granddaughter.

In spite of these data, Morrissey seems to have neither the type of existential crisis nor the type of psychological condition that one might expect. He is a fictional character. He is a real person.

About two years ago, Morrissey (the real person) was the winning bidder at a benefit auction. What he’d bid on was the opportunity to have his name attached to a character in a mystery novel by William Kent Krueger, a local author who’s garnered a national fan base with his series featuring Cork O’Connor, an ex-Chicago cop turned P.I. who lives in the north woods of Minnesota. (All that was said was that Morrissey paid a “pretty penny.”) Shortly after the event, Krueger asked whether Morrissey wanted to be a good guy or a bad guy in his next novel. “Oh,” Morrissey answered. “Really evil.”

Thunder Bay came out a few weeks ago. In it, Morrissey plays a dutiful pawn, and the plot quickly leaves him behind. Still, there is a certain enduring quality about his presence in the book; the effects of a punch he lands on the protagonist—“a blow like a cannonball”—are brought up so frequently they become a theme. He is a character so mean-spirited, so loyal to his personal iniquity, that he leaves a visceral impression on the reader. One almost wishes he actually existed. Eventually, the fictional Morrissey is shot through the right eye.

Aside from the fact that both Morrisseys populate unreal realms—one, the dramatized version of Thunder Bay, Canada; the other, the blogosphere—there is really no similarity at all between them. The real one, whom Krueger describes as “a teddy bear of a guy,” bid mostly for the charitable benefits, and had no input or influence on his character’s development. “I just hoped [he] would be better looking than me,” Morrissey said. He says he has not been affected by his role in the book, nor does he feel any guilt or responsibility for his counterpart’s violent tendencies.

Krueger has put character names in his books up for auction on a number of occasions. “Most mystery conventions have a charitable component,” he said; in Morrissey’s case, the organization that received the auction proceeds is called Twin Cities Marriage Encounter, whose mission is to “nurture and support the marriage of a man and woman and their family life by offering an opportunity to experience a deep and loving communication with each other and with God.” “That was simply another good cause I thought might benefit in this way,” said Krueger. (Full disclosure: Morrissey is president of the Marriage Encounter organization.)

The broader literary world, always in need of ways to connect with its public, has picked up on this idea. Stephen King, Michael Chabon, Dave Eggers, Daniel Handler (a.k.a. Lemony Snicket), Neil Gaiman, and several other writers of note have all put forthcoming names of various characters and entities in their books up for auction, with the proceeds to be donated to charities. (You can bid for them on eBay.) Morrissey paid for the opportunity to be someone evil; in the case of Stephen King, one lucky bidder will pay to be a murder victim.

This purchasing of character names raises a question, though. Aside from benevolent motivations, why pay good money for this privilege if one’s fictional namesake is only that—if this character is devoid of any of one’s personal characteristics? Is it possible that, even within the most magnanimous among us (a category that would seem to include Ed Morrissey, who exudes sincerity in a form rarely experienced these days, and who refers to his wife as his First Mate), there is still that (very small, probably subconscious) desire to be part of something larger (and possibly more glamorous) than oneself? Regardless of how remote—or nonexistent—the resemblance between the fictional and the real? It’s not such a selfish urge—rather, it’s an instinct not much different from what makes one pick up a book in the first place: that hope for minor, personal transcendence.

“It’s an honor to be cast as a villain,” Morrissey said. Next time, he said, he might make a bid on behalf of his First Mate.

An entrepreneur who sells his memories for three thousand dollars per decade, a verisimilitude inspector for a Civil War-themed amusement park, ghosts who relive their deaths every night when their son comes home from work: This is the stuff of a typical George Saunders story. What, then, happens when Saunders turns his pen to nonfiction? Consisting of essays on literature, travel, and politics, Saunders’s narratives in The Braindead Megaphone continue his explorations into the absurdities of modern life — only now his writing stems from observation. Here, his humor assumes a doleful tone, as does his subject matter. But it is undeniably real and equally intense and as disturbing as anything Saunders has conjured from his imagination.

Denis Johnson’s new novel — his first in nine years — continues the author’s studies of sympathy and redemption as integral parts of human physiology. Still, as in most of Johnson’s work, a feeling of desolation pervades. Set in the ’60s, each segment of Tree of Smoke: A Novel follows a year in the lives of the narrative’s several characters, all of whom are either fighting in the Vietnam War or dealing with its effects. Sympathy often comes with feeling sorry for a murderer, and redemption is found in a dive bar with air conditioning. Their various plights and salvations coalesce into a single American experience that Publishers Weekly calls “a closure [on the Vietnam War] that’s as good as we’ll ever get.”

In an age of drum beats looped ad nauseam, of recycled and often misused samples, of really shameful overproduction, the modest melodies laid out by this Swedish trio feel almost revolutionary. Peter Bjorn and John have been together since 1999, but were little-known stateside until their 2005 release Falling Out, which won them substantial critical acclaim and a devoted indie following. With their latest album, Writer’s Block, they have landed a mainstream audience, propelled by two songs, “Amsterdam” and “Young Folks.” These tunes are catchy but not infectious—they strike that rare balance of introspection and optimism that compels any casual listener to hum along. Lyrically intricate, musically simple, their style is at once retro and progressive—a ’60s pop feeling, underscored by contemporary crises. 612-332-1775; www.first-avenue.com

Albert Eckwright reluctantly spoke at a local bookstore. His voice was hoarse, but still had a hint of paternal timbre, a tone immediately soothing and unobtrusive and familiar. He’d been losing weight steadily for a little over a year—since Lynn, his second wife, had died—so that his cheeks caved in at the molars and his shoulder blades protruded sharply from his back, almost touching. Though the lighting in the bookstore was dim, turning his white hair yellow, the author wore a pair of tinted glasses to protect his eyes, which had been all but ruined two years ago (as everyone knew from his latest memoir, Bespectacled) by a botched Lasik surgery. Hearing aids were lodged in either ear, invisible except for the translucent plastic bands that curled around the cartilage. In his famous essay “Plagiarizing Myself,” Eckwright had compared the process of writing to carving flesh from his body, a claim which now seemed especially believable, given the surplus fabric in the crotch and through the chest of his suit.

The audience regarded him with equal parts awe, respect, and envy. They knew him as he wanted them to know him; they had read his autobiography (National Book Critics Circle Award, 1974), in which he’d narrated his life through two wars and two wives (drawing, of course, several parallels between these experiences). But Eckwright could recognize that he had exaggerated for effect. His achievements in battle filled him with pride, not the regret he purported. It was as if some tool, a sensory spatula, separated Eckwright’s emotions from his body. He knew the grief, the anguish, the general suffering he was supposed to feel, and exploited these in his writings, but his true sentiments tended towards stoicism, equanimity, and apathy. Futility was the only feeling he’d ever been able to distinguish independent of the general mix of emotions that comprised his complacency. It had followed him throughout his life, a numbing, immobilizing sensation, and when it set upon him, Eckwright felt as if his work were meaningless and unnecessary, which made him somehow lonely.

He was enduring one such episode now, and in the bookstore the writer’s fatigue was apparent. His slumped posture was that of a child up past his bedtime, eager to be awake but unable to control his drooping eyelids. Still, a boyish charisma persisted: Eckwright’s cheeks blushed as the store manager introduced him to the audience, accolade by accolade: his publications comprised of twenty-odd memoirs and autobiographical fictions, as well as three novels of pure imagination from his early years (Dystopia, about a woman whose optical ailment prevented her from seeing goodness in the world, won him the Pulitzer), and most recently—this what the bookstore crowd had come to hear him read—a book of poems.

Finally it was time for Eckwright to step forward. He patted down the applause, as if smoothing a blanket.

“There’s not a lot left in me as far as writing goes, I don’t think,” he said. “All that remains is poetry, which is sometimes like listening to the echoes of great thoughts, but only the echoes. Still, it’s pretty in a way.”

A few shoppers lingered by the magazine racks and in the aisles, turning their attention on the writer—wondering who he was—whenever a burst of applause issued from the crowd.

Eckwright recited several short poems. The audience, seated in green metal folding chairs, held their open copies in their laps and followed his words with their fingers, silently mouthing along. This was the first reading he’d given in nearly two years (since Lynn had become ill). His fingers played nervously with the loose change in his pocket, and twice he accidentally sent pennies bouncing off the hardwood floor.

His last poem was about Lynn, the woman who’d guided the last thirty years of his life as strictly and sensibly as a mother; who, at his insistence, had bathed with him when he’d succumbed to depression, even though their tub was too small; the woman in whose absence he felt childish, lost. The few stanzas he read revealed what Eckwright had always referred to as Lynn’s “photosynthetic quality.” Sunlight was necessary to her existence as it was to cats, plants, and mirrors. She prayed rain away—the presence of clouds made her suddenly religious. It was strange, Eckwright had somehow forgotten this particular aspect of his wife. As he read his words now, he relived several mornings in bed when the light, even through their curtains, had affected warmth on Lynn’s skin (this warmth was the subject of the poem).

The audience faded from the foreground, and Eckwright felt he was no longer addressing anyone, but was being addressed by his memory. Especially in winter, he now recalled, the sun would lure her, dangerously, from their home. Its manifold brightness—reflecting off the snow, off car windows, off the icicles that hung from their roof—made the world into a sparkling invitation. But when she reached the outdoors, Lynn became tense. If she ventured past their front gate, Eckwright had long ago concluded, their neighborhood became a wilderness to her. She’d told him once that she had to be able to control, to manipulate her surroundings, in order to feel wholly comfortable: each year she rearranged the flowerbeds in their garden; each month she reorganized the drawers and cabinets in the kitchen. But only when she convinced Eckwright to come with her could Lynn make the trek around the block, or down to Cedar Lake, without a certain feeling of trespass.

“It’s too big out there,” she would say.

Since her death, Eckwright had undertaken an impossible endeavor: he was attempting to narrate a human into existence. He needed Lynn the way he needed house keys; without her, his life was impregnable. Even now he could not find mittens, old copies of magazines, pens, cuff links that she’d stored away for him years ago.

Others had tried before him, and some had succeeded in extracting life from clay or marble, colors or words. Eckwright had studied these phenomena, but dismissed them: they were perfect creations, inspired by hope or inspiration or insanity. His would be imperfect, not merely a smooth statue come to life; Lynn would have sagging skin and sour odors and idiosyncrasies.

When he finished reading the poem, his dead wife’s image quickly receded from his mind.

Everyone in the audience stood from their folding chairs to applaud Eckwright. Even the browsers in the aisles were compelled to clap. But he was nonetheless disappointed; by the end of the poem his voice had become thin, fragile. Since Lynn had died, it was as if his ability to speak had been taken from him, as if that, too, had been put away in the bottom of some drawer he couldn’t find. He felt his futility begin to take him over, pulsing softly in his throat. His breaths became palpable, scraped their way free of his mouth. From his breast pocket he extracted a menthol cough drop, unwrapped it from the cellophane cocoon, and slipped it under his tongue.

He readied himself for handshakes and the requisite pleasantries. The store manager, whose shirt buttons were attempting escape from under his tight wool sweater, smiled at Eckwright.

“It’s good to see you again,” the manager said, though Eckwright couldn’t remember having ever met the clerk before. His hand, as he offered it, was soft and damp, like tallow. The author let his own hand, whose nails and calluses were hard as pistachio shells, be enveloped in the clayey mass.

“How am I selling?” Eckwright said. “I noticed I’m not on the ‘Local Favorites’ display anymore.”

“You were great tonight,” said the clerk. “Powerful.”

Eckwright smiled his thanks and tactfully, almost stealthily, moved toward the door.

A race car with a dorsal spoiler careened over a jump and passed through a flaming hoop. Then it followed the racetrack in a loop-d-loop and drove through another flaming hoop. Rolando, a video-game tester for Activision Publishing, guided the car via a Playstation 2 controller over a series of flashing, fluorescent arrows that somehow gave it extra speed. He wore a brown, collared shirt, and an excess of hair gel that gleamed under the fluorescent lights. There was no hint of satisfaction on his face when his car finished ahead of his computerized rivals. Tinny victory music played. Rolando took a sip of Mountain Dew and began another race. “I’m trying to unlock all the secret levels,” he said, serious and glassy-eyed.

A video-game tester’s main objective is to identify precisely what causes the glitches that arise in the early stages of a game’s development. Problems can stem from an action as trivial as pressing the “start” button at the wrong time, so pinpointing a bug is an incredibly tedious task. Rolando’s specific assignment was to unlock every secret level using every permutation of car type and character, to make sure the game ran smoothly no matter what. He drank frequently from his soda, and was maybe just a bit over-caffeinated, swiveling rapidly in his leather-upholstered chair.

The testing pit at Activision’s Minnesota headquarters was enclosed by the sound dampening cubicle walls one finds in any office (and, as in any office, the walls did little to dampen sound). Situated in an Eden Prairie corporate mall, near the intersection of Equitable Drive and Executive Drive, this is the home of Activision Value. The games developed here are as addictive as any, but usually they are less known than Activision’s top big-budget creations such as Tony Hawk Pro Skater. Posters pinned high on the walls celebrated offerings like American Chopper, Cabela’s Alaskan
Adventure, The History Channel: Civil War, and American
Chopper II: Full Throttle. There were half a dozen long countertops with three televisions on each, video game consoles connected to the A/V plugs, their power buttons glowing. Empty pop cans and coffee cups were plentiful. Perched on one counter was a family of Star Wars bobblehead dolls. (“We’re comfortable with our nerd level here,” one tester said.) A piñata hung from the ceiling, though no one seemed to know why.

About three-quarters of the forty or so testers had been hired within the last month to comb through games due for release during the holiday season. The majority of them will work the summer and never come back. Many were drawn to the job because it seemed a way to get paid for pursuing what was already a hobby. Others, though, had their minds set on the long term: Rolando recently finished coursework in animation at The Art Institutes International and aspires to design games one day.

It may have been a disappointment, then, to learn that testing is much like any other office gig. True, tattoos and cargo shorts were permissible, and there was a pinball machine in the break room. But, overwhelmingly, the gamers sat quietly at their consoles, staring straight ahead, writing data reports, and, of course, anticipating breaks—during which the main activity was to play still more video games. “Most people end up eating lunch while playing,” said a tester named Reggie.

Across the aisle from Rolando, Annamarie ran a video poker game in several languages to make sure it didn’t freeze when the settings were changed. The only female tester, she wore a purple shirt with lace trim and kept her purse slung over her shoulder. After studying comic art at MCAD, she said she’s still “trying to figure it out,” meaning her career path. The monitor read in French, and Annamarie waited somewhat anxiously, biting her lower lip, as the game loaded. Her chair was pushed so close to the counter it touched her stomach. On screen, a recognizable poker celebrity sat stone-faced, possibly bluffing—it is remarkable how, in these contemporary video games, familiar faces look so familiar. (Although, Reggie said, “No one is sure if the guy who looks like Ron Jeremy is supposed to be Ron Jeremy.”)

The midmorning work break was announced. Some reached for cigarette packs and headed outside, but most gathered near a screen where two testers played a round of Street Fighter II. One employee pulled a Nintendo DS from his
pocket and leaned back in his swivel chair. Annamarie popped Final Fantasy
XII into the Xbox 360 at her workstation; she’d brought the game from home. “It’s my favorite,” she said. A coworker stood behind her, watching silently. Fifteen minutes later, everyone returned to their posts, and the images on their screens changed back to those mandated by their employer.

With Burning Down the House (1997), a collection of essays on writing, Charles Baxter became a fixture, by proxy, in fiction workshops everywhere. In his new book, The Art of Subtext: Beyond Plot (Graywolf Press), Baxter goes on to explore the unwritten aspects of writing. He sets out to prove that, in fiction, “What is displayed evokes what is not displayed, like a party where the guests discuss, at length, those who are not in attendance.” Remarkably (but just as expected) Baxter does so with eloquence and conviction, using literary reference and personal anecdote to mine the meanings hidden in prose, and to cement his reputation as a guru of contemporary fiction. 612-822-4611; www.magersandquinn.com

When bassist Matt Sharp left Weezer, the group he cofounded, in 1998, he traded in stardom for something a bit more obscure. Listening to The Rentals (Sharp’s main project since the mid-’90s), there’s a sense that their songs are targeted at the mainstream, yet the band itself tends toward shyness. Since their 1995 single “Friends of P,” The Rentals’ tunes have been delightfully poppy, but still somehow enigmatic—uplifting melodies pinned down by mournful lyrics. Their new album, The Last Life EP, builds on their past work, offering densely layered (think synthesizers, synthesizers, and more synthesizers) yet delightfully harmonic songs. Expect an all-out rock performance, even though several of the band members are prone to wear thick, face-obscuring glasses. 612-332-1775; www.first-avenue.com