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Fat City is a vivid novel of allegiance and defeat, of the potent promise of the good life and the desperation and drink that waylay those whom it eludes. Stockton, California is the setting: the Lido Gym, the Hotel Coma, Main Street lunchrooms and dingy bars, days like long twilights in houses obscured by untrimmed shrubs and black walnut trees. When two men meet in the ring -- the retired boxer Billy Tully and the newcomer Ernie Munger - their brief bout sets into motion their hidden fates, initiating young Ernie into the company of men and luring Tully back into training. In a dispassionate and composed voice, Gardner narrates their swings of fortune, and the plodding optimism of their manager Ruben Luna, as he watches the most promising boys one by one succumb to some undefined weakness; still, "There was always someone who wanted to fight.".… (more)
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What is really remarkable about Gardner as a writer though is the empathy for his characters, mixed with a sly and very understated sense of humor which seeks out almost unerringly the pathetic in their lives. One also almost gets the sense that Gardner himself once upon a time might have stepped between the ropes to fight an opponent or even walked the same fields as the migrant workers. The detail of the futility of the existing lives in this rather short novel (183 pages) is all there. The short clips he makes out of the boxing scenes are extraordinary. The boxers continuing almost on auto-pilot after being hurt--or all of a sudden finding themselves looking up from the floor at the rafters not having a clue how they got there.
For Ernie's first fight:
'At the bell, Ruben (the manager) was standing behind Ernie just outside the ropes, facing a short negro with bulging arms and a mohawk haircut. Then, sitting on the ring steps besides Babe (cornerman), their heads on the level of Ernie's dancing feet, Ernie's new gold trimmed white robe still over his arm, Ruben experienced the first waning of confidence. He saw in the negro's opening blow a power that was undeniable, that was extraordinary. It was a wide hook slung to the stomach under Ernie's jab; and as instantaneous strategic judgements were occuring in Ruben's mind, Ernie was struck under the heart with a right of resounding force. Ruben then felt a foreboding. Though Ernie maneuvered with a degree of skill, there was an aspect of futility in it all. When he reached out with both gloves to block a left, Ruben's hand went into his sweater pocket for the ammonia vial and a right swing landed with an awesome slam on the lean point of Ernie's chin. He went down sideways along the ropes, toppling stiffly in the roar, and hit the canvas on his back, his head striking the floor, followed by his feet. His eyes stared momentarily, then closed as his body went rigid.'
And here is one on Tully after he picks up a girl at a bar who at first reminded him of his ex-wife.
'When they went out together he was fondling her curly head. And he was in control now, talking rapidly to allow no interruption, trying to circumvent all possible subjects for contention in order to remain in favor. At the door, during a crescendo of trumpets and guitars, he glanced back over his shoulder in leering triumph, but no one was looking at him. A cooling breeze had risen. The sky was clear; the Big Dipper tilted over Center Street. Tully realized how drunk he was when he stopped on the sidewalk for a kiss and, eyes closed, pleased at finding he was taller, lost his balance. Oma had surged against him, and as they walked on, his arm across her back, hers at his waist, she continued to lean against him, forcing him towards walls and store windows.'
There is something close to Carveresque about this book and it's too bad that Gardner has not given us something other in the last 38 years but sometimes it's best to take what one can get at least when it is as good as this one.
It is easy to see why, in an introduction by Denis Johnson, this work is held out as a model of gritty realism. Johnson claims that everything he’s ever written has been an attempt to match the effortless realism that Gardner attains here. High praise indeed. I might not see the truth that Johnson does at the sharp end of a 16-oz glove. But I recognize that Gardner stands in line with Steinbeck as a master of descriptions of work, both in the fields of California and in the ring. These men are workers in a heavy trade no worse than others and no better. And so inevitably the gritty realism melds seamlessly into elegy and romance.
Well worth reading.
The two main characters, boxers both, stumble from one burden to one hope and back to others
That’s not to say the women and men of the novel lack all insight or responsibility. But when a self-audit discloses an abhorrence of one’s own “unfathomable stupidity,” the possibilities narrow. Also, one hopes, the delusions.
Midway through the story, city workers cut down the shade trees of a park so that the derelict won’t find in it comfort for their rest. Such actions intensify the sense of impasse, the sense of standing outside a building where the work of life could become productive, where one might enter if only the entryway were not so perpetually guarded. It is in the working through of these situations and days that the novel resides. In telling it, Gardner conveys a reality that hits hard.
The dialogue is good, if a bit forced in places. The chapters jump POV. ultimately, it's a satisfying book that suggest charles bukowski with more style and more hope.