Ultimate Excursions

I’d like this

Since “Ultimate Excursions was published January1, I’ve had a few reviews appear here and there. They’ve been positive, for the most part, which I find gratifying, but also refuse to take seriously. Today, a somewhat less positive review appeared in The Denver Post, the paper where I worked for nine years.

The reviewer, a freelancer from Atlanta, is a stranger to me. She didn’t like the book much, but she had complimentary things to say about my writing. Judge for yourself, by reading the review here.

The fact that she didn’t like “Ultimate Excursions” doesn’t bother me much. In fact, it was kind of refreshing: one uncomfortable truth about being an author is that people won’t often tell you to your face what they truly think of your books. That’s why I take all compliments delivered in person with a grain of salt. I have no idea who is being honest and who just doesn’t want to hurt my feelings. So I discount all praise.

A couple of aspects of her review did bother me, though. First of all, she was sloppy in her fact checking. She says Quito when she means Cuzco and refers to Ecuador when she means Peru. Perhaps I’ll send her a World Atlas as a token of my appreciation.

More important, though, is her oddly puritanical and judgmental attitude toward the protagonist, Tim Lake. I’m not saying Tim is a paragon of virtue: I certainly didn’t intend to write him that way. But the reviewer, Renee Warner, takes issue with some of his actions, or inactions, not because they seem inauthentic to the character, which would be a legitimate critique, but because, well, she wished he’d behaved differently.

Sorry, lady. That’s now how life works. Or decent fiction, for that matter.

I’m spending a lot of time at Manual High School in northeast Denver, because I’m hoping to write a non-fiction book about the history of reform efforts through which this inner-city school has suffered. In its latest incarnation, Manual is under the capable management of Rob Stein, a top-notch educator and a good friend. I gave Rob a copy of Ultimate Excursions 10 days ago, when I received my advance copies. He read it and apparently liked it.

Rob called me at home last night and asked if I’d be arriving at Manual today on time for the thrice-weekly community meeting. This is a ritual to bring the 165 students (ninth-graders all, this year) and faculty together for a few moments to share thoughts about the day, readings, etc. I told him yes, I planned to be there.

“I’m going to put you on the spot, then,” he said. “I want you to do a reading from your book.”

I said yes, then started thinking about what in Ultimate Excursions would be appropriate for a group of inner-city ninth graders. The book has more than its share of drug use, alcohol abuse, sex, etc. I flipped through the book’s 328 pages, and found what seemed like the right passage.

I showed up at Manual at 7:50 on this cold, snowy morning. Rob introduced me — though the kids probably recognize me because I’ve been lurking there a lot — and I caught their attention right of the bat by saying the book was inspired by the death of a close friend from a cocaine overdose.

Then I read the following passage:

Here, there is just a dirt floor and a ring of knee-high adobe. Dozens of guys
in fedoras are standing around with bills clenched in their fists. A fat man in a
wool sweater strokes a huge wad of cash in his pocket. Men jabber at the fat guy and
hand him more money. Mark passes him three one hundred-dollar bills and points
at a black and orange rooster being cradled by the man with the broken nose from
whom he’d bought the bahsay. A smaller, white rooster on the other side of the ring
nestles in the tattooed arms of a man in a soldier’s uniform. Broken-nose checks the
tape job on the spurs made of bone fastened to his bird’s legs. Then he pushes his
finger against the tip of one spur, holds aloft the bloody digit, and licks it clean. He
grins and winks at Mark.

The fat man whistles and everyone quiets and pushes in against the ring.
Broken-nose and the soldier climb in, cradling their birds. They shake hands and then extend their arms so the birds are face to face, like two boxers. Wings shred the
air and the birds lunge with sharpened beaks at each other’s eyes.

They are ready,” the fat man proclaims.

Broken-nose and the soldier toss their birds toward one another, into the center of the ring, and scramble out into the crowd. The roosters rush toward each other and join in an explosion of wings.

They leave the ground with wings beating, feathers flying, and beaks thrusting.
Dust rises.

The cocks come apart briefly and the white bird has lost an eye. Blood flows
from the socket. I lean forward, heart racing. Now the black and orange rooster
stalks the white bird, circling always toward the blind side. The white rooster turns
to keep his enemy in sight. The dark bird lunges again and strikes with its beak, and
the white rooster leaps into the air and kicks its legs. Suddenly the black and orange
bird is lying in the dust, blood bubbling from its beak. The white rooster stands over
him for a moment, tilting its head. Tim sees one of its spurs darkened to the hilt
with blood, and then he sees the blood pumping from the dark bird’s chest.

The soldier grabs his victorious bird. He pulls a bottle of aguardiente from his
coat pocket and pours some into his rooster’s bleeding eye socket. The bird jerks and
then settles quietly into the crook of his arm.

That was his last fight,” the soldier says with a shrug, pointing to the wound.
“Chicken dinner tonight.” Everyone laughs.

Whatever they thought of the reading, the kids maintained a respectful silence, and even asked a few questions about how long it took me to write, how many revisions I went through, etc.

I wondered, as I finished, how many of them may have attended a cockfight, here or in Mexico.

When my novel, Ultimate Excursions, launches in early January, I’ll be posting regularly about readings and book-signings, as well as some back-story stuff about the places and characters in the novel. Until then, please visit my website.