ANNOUNCING
ARKANSAS.
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A year or so ago, amid the short-story submissions and advance review copies and Spanish-language magazines we never subscribed to that make up our daily mail, we received, in a manila envelope, the first 30 pages of a novel called Arkansas. In those 30 pages, two men named Kyle and Swin decide, separately, but for similar reasons, to abandon their unsatisfying pasts and join the Southern drug trade, and the lives they leave behind are quietly flayed in language so fine and so funny that we realized the book would be very good. We asked to see the rest, read it, and found that it was indeed very good, as good with the gory details, the dead bodies, and the dark-eyed nurses as it was with the rundown Southern towns and aborted idealism, and now we are publishing this book, which is still called Arkansas, and is by John Brandon; it's his first, and it pierces you right through.
Starting next month, Brandon—who's working at a Frito-Lay warehouse now; he was delivering windshields when we first talked to him, and was at a Coca-Cola distributor before that, while he wrote—and McSweeney's publisher Eli Horowitz will be touring the Eastern Seaboard to spread the good word. They'll be accompanied by Found-magazine creator Davy Rothbart (who says, incidentally, that "John Brandon is a prose marksman—half Denis Johnson, half Elmore Leonard. It's been years since I read a book with such dark humor and fierce intelligence. Arkansas is relentless") and an 18-year-old who eats fire. So be sure to see them, if they're near you—there will be no dull moments. A good-sized excerpt from the novel, meanwhile, appears in the soon-to-be-released McSweeney's Issue 26; today, you can read a bit of it below. The full book is available in our store now, and will be everywhere else soon. Don't miss this one.
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An Excerpt
From Arkansas.
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When Kyle arrived at the lot, he saw a flatbed truck. He'd never operated anything bigger than a van, and had to hide his nervousness over this fact when a beige guy appeared and said his name was Swin. The guy tried to make small talk, but Kyle kept quiet until they were on the interstate. Something was up. The day before, Colin had told Kyle he'd have a partner for this run, something he'd never had before. Colin had told Kyle that a gun would be provided in the vehicle's center console, something which had never been provided before, and now the vehicle turns out to be a flatbed truck. Kyle didn't like the idea of having guns around when a deal was being made. He didn't know if Swin knew about the gun and didn't want to check the console with him watching. Kyle took a good look at the guy. He was a weights freak, with little muscles popping up where they shouldn't, on the back of his neck or his fingers. His T-shirt was a size too small.
"What kind of name is Swin?"
"A girl's," Swin said.
The load was faucets, more than a hundred cases, stuffed with bags of powder and plugged. This was another thing: Kyle knew what he was hauling. The way Frog ran his operation, his drivers simply drove a car to one place, got in another car, drove somewhere else. Sometimes the drivers handled money, sometimes not. Sometimes when Kyle returned to Little Rock he stopped off at Gregor's and unloaded something, sometimes not. Kyle preferred to be kept in the dark, but Colin had made a point to tell him about the faucets. Of course, he'd left out the amount. He hadn't let Kyle know he'd be captaining a highway barge.
Besides the faucets, Swin had also thrown on some miniature orange cones because, he explained, the randomness might throw off a cop. Their destination was South Padre, Texas. At a red light, rain started. Kyle knew the boxes wouldn't stay dry with Swin's shoddy cover job, so they pulled into a shopping center that included a hardware depot. The truck took two spaces. While Swin went for a tarp, Kyle bought rope and hurried back to the truck. He flipped open the console and there was the gun, reclined on sugar packets and ink pens and a tire gauge. Swin returned and they did their best with a roll of blue plastic that was meant to protect a small fishing boat. They got moving again and hit I-30. Swin took off his shirt and draped it on the seat to dry. A plus sign was tattooed on his right bicep, a minus sign on his left. Kyle asked if the left arm was weaker.
"It takes both for a charge. Step to me, you catch the voltage."
Kyle knew he could beat Swin up. "I've never wanted a tattoo," he said. "I've never seen one that didn't look stupid."
"You're not a sexy dude. If you're already sexy, a tattoo can enhance it."
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Noonish they got a booth in a Southwestern restaurant with World Book place mats. Kyle's described belomancy, a process by which local Indians read the future by shooting arrows. Swin's was about Ford v. Wainwright, the ruling that made it unlawful to execute a crazy man. Kyle ordered a #7 combo. Swin was picky—didn't eat sour cream and didn't eat guacamole unless it was fresh. He and the waitress discussed what "fresh" meant. A woman with a baby sat down in a nearby booth and began nursing.
"That's good to see," Swin said.
"You're sad."
"A lot of women don't breast-feed anymore, which is a shame. Breast-fed kids get fewer syndromes. I was a formula baby. You, I'm guessing, had a mouthful of the real deal."
"No idea," Kyle said.
"Yup, I think you did."
"I lied about my mother once to get out of trouble with a girl. What do you think of that?"
"How much trouble?"
"Does it matter?"
"Is your mother in trouble now?"
"She's dead."
"Because you lied about her?"
"No. She's been dead."
Swin looked toward the ceiling, thinking. "A conversation this vague, really no point in having it."
"She was a great lady," said Kyle. "Great lady." He ate a chip.
"When people act sappy after someone's dead, that means they feel guilty."
"What do I feel guilty about?"
"How would I know?"
"I was always good to her."
"Not guilty about how they treated the person; guilty to have life and not know what to do with it."
When Kyle envisioned his mother, she was in a white bed, bandages on her left elbow and wrist where the shock had burnt off the skin, fingertips black, head shaved. Her face looked as though she'd been informed of a rude change of plans. Kyle would return from a walk to find her arms in a different position, and always it was just that a nurse had shifted her. Each Wednesday, he'd put her favorite program on, a game show about finding fake bombs. He began to settle into a routine, to get used to having his mother that way. It wasn't a bad way to be. She'd made an escape. For a time, Kyle hadn't wanted her to die or wake up, but to remain in peace, away from her life.
Swin opened a travel-size lotion and rubbed some on his elbows. "If one of my sisters died, I wouldn't care."
"What a stupid thing to say."
"I just don't care for women."
Kyle stared.
"I like them for that," said Swin.
"How about we both shut up."
They munched on chips for a time and slurped their drinks, the restaurant filling with nurses. Swin pointed without raising his hand off the table. "Caregivers."
They weren't far past Dallas before the tarp came loose again. They pulled into a truck stop and bought duct tape. The boxes were fraying. They did what they could with the tarp and got back on the highway, Kyle staying in the right lane and doing five over.
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When Swin woke up, the sun was setting and the rain had stopped. He pulled the map out and did some measuring with his fingers. "If we go eighty-three the rest of the way, we won't be late."
"Getting pulled over with drugs makes you really late."
Swin looked over more maps from the glove box. There was one for each state, plastic booklets. "Here I go again," he said. "I'm learning again. You don't get this smart by accident."
The sky became a weak yellow, then abruptly it was night. They got off the interstate at a cluster of fast-food restaurants that all shared one lot, and parked in the far corner. They chose an all-you-can-eat restaurant where waitresses circled with bowls of pasta and salad and breadsticks. Kyle ate himself stunned. He planned to sleep away a good chunk of the remaining drive. The check came, with two peppermints, and he took care of it. Kyle and Swin were chewing the mints when they walked outside and saw a tall bald man snooping around the truck. He leaned over and peeked under the tarp. The man wasn't dressed as a cop, but he had a badge patched on his sleeve. Kyle told Swin to do the talking. When they got close, the guy stood up past straight, hand to his chin. Swin shook his hand and introduced himself as Mike. Kyle said, "Hey, now," then climbed in the cab.
"First-aid kit's in the seat console," Swin yelled.
He knew about the gun. Kyle kept still and listened. The guy's name was Pat Bright. He was some kind of ranger.
"Headed far?"
"Corpus Christi," Swin told him.
"I noticed your rig needs some help."
"Not sure I agree with that a hundred percent. Though all things give out eventually, don't they? If you're patient." Swin's voice was even.
Kyle opened the console and lifted out the loaded nine-millimeter with two fingers. "What's better for a headache?" he called. "Tylenol or—," he tucked the gun under his leg, "Aleve?"
"Got to get more rope," Pat Bright was telling Swin. "Go corner to corner."
"We were in a hurry this morning. Still are."
"What's the haul?"
"Faucets. Some computer tycoon's place. Used to be oil, now it's computers."
"There's no faucets in Corpus Christi?"
"He's got to have that adobe-marble core."
Kyle pushed the mirror out and saw Bright beaming with tolerance.
"Let me take a look how you've got them stacked," Bright said.
"How many styles of stacking are there? To me, stack always meant one on top of the other."
"I'm a safety expert in this state."
Kyle heard the tarp crinkling.
"See there," said Swin. "Now we really need to haul ass."
This wouldn't be a huge deal, Kyle thought; they would pull the body in the cab and be on their way, then dump Bright in some field. The only trouble was the shot. Kyle and Swin could act confused and run back into the restaurant, asking if anyone knew where that shot came from. Then again, this was Texas. The diners might just look around for a moment, then continue stabbing their battered vegetables. This wouldn't be a big deal. It wasn't that complicated, was it? The biggest worry was that this ranger already knew what they were moving and was stalling until his backup showed. Shit, Kyle thought. Shit, here goes. Kyle stepped down from the cab with the gun showing.
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OTHER McSWEENEY'S FEATURES:
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Announcing Arkansas
Werner Herzog as Guest Pundit on the VH1 Television Series Best Week Ever By Michel Duchampbuffet
A Family Member of a Henchman Killed by Jack Bauer on 24 Remembers By John Moe
Together in Perfect Harmony: An Earth Ball Laments the Distortions of Sean Hannity By Ben Greenman
Toward a Sustainable Margaritaville By Matthew DuVerne Hutchinson
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