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Review: Pitouie by Derek Winkler

PITOUIE
by Derek Winkler
239 pages
available at http://www.theworkhorsery.ca/TheWorkhorsery/shop.html

Some activities can be undertaken lightly.  Playing soccer, for example, can easily be a perfectly casual pastime.  One can play soccer for an afternoon, and then go back to his life.  Having played, it is then a matter of personal choice whether or not one wishes to identify oneself as a soccer player.

Some activities can not be undertaken lightly.

In the window of the Starbucks on Parliament Street, I sat reading the final chapters of Derek Winkler’s Pitouie. With a cup of tea — adequate in that special multi-national corporate way –  in one hand, a smile on my face, and the slender volume folded in my lap, I fell asleep.  There’s no way around it.  I’m the guy who fell asleep in the Starbucks.

It’s not Winkler’s fault, Pitouie is a wonderful and engaging novel.  Sleep is not the thesis of my review.  I just needed to get that off my chest.

Otis is the “associate editor of  Waste Insight magazine,” and protagonist of Winkler’s debut novel.  He captured my attention immediately.  I quite like it when writers write about writing.  There is something particularly engaging about that specific kind of self-reflexive meta-reality, especially when the fictional character purports to have some hand in creating the text.  This writer-as-character device is one of a few common threads that link many of my favourite stories – Dracula, Lord of the Rings, Transmetropolitan.  In all of these examples, the characters who write are notably skillful, honorific champions of language.  This is not so in Pitouie.

It would have been easy to write Otis as a young and cavalier Hunter Thomson figure. To send him boldly to an island in the south pacific, where he would write a damning critique of some large and incomprehensible mime like Corporate America, or Modern Colonialism, or some such thing. That is basically the caper, but that is not Otis. The most fun thing about Pitouie is that it is, rather uniquely, the story of a mid-career journalist who is trapped at the bottom of his industry. Otis is a failure. Not a bitter, or selfish, miserable failure, just a man who has accepted defeat.  He hasn’t expended effort in any area of his life for many, many years. Otis, as a lone man with limited skill and no resources, is a beautifully written contrast against the elaborate, and deeply intriguing Pitouie con-job.

The inseminating event of the story is the recept of an e-mail:

“Come discuss how Pitouie Island can free your company to operate creatively and without the restrictions of conventional, regulated international business. Come and see our flexibility and willingness to work with you to meet your goals and solve your waste management problems.”

It’s beauitifully passive. Otis doesn’t go out hunting the story, the story falls into his inbox. The only thing he does of his own volition is accept the invitation, and for once in his small career, Otis decides to research a story. It’s something real reporters do all the time, but something wholly new for him. For Otis, going to the island means doing something good against all momentum, against his own better judgment, against type. It is not an action undertaken lightly and, like falling asleep in a Starbucks, it’s not something he will ever be able to undo.

Pitouie is a story about garbage. Diamond mines, uranium salting, chemical waste disposal, and “barrels of leftover shit.” It’s dangerous territory for a fiction writer. One has to be extremely careful to remember that they are, first and foremost, an entertainer. Incorporating these as themes in a story is fine, fantastic even. No material should be off limits in a work of fiction, but if the writer becomes too emotionally involved in a political message though, they risk damaging the integrity of their narrative in favour of moralization. Winkler does not fall into this bear trap. Pitouie walks a beautiful tightrope around it’s political issues, being an intentionally strange and awesome fictional case study. Winkler cleverly asks environmental questions without too heavily discussing environmental issues.

Winkler’s handling of his narrative is tight and considered. Each chapter is a contained and effective unit, with a crisp dramatic purpose. It is lovely to read a text that has been crafted with this much care. After a hundred or so pages, though, Pitouie begins to feel too bite-sized. I had the feeling that I was being spoon-feed narrative chunks and, while I enjoyed each mouthful, the experience of the meal was a little bit (infantilizing is too harsh a word, but I’ve trapped myself in this metaphor so) infantilizing. Plot twists were never predictable, but also never quite surprising. I was always a step or two ahead of Otis in my investigation of the island mystery.

There is a second narrative thread in Pitouie, which takes place on a military base in the Arctic. Lars, a low ranking radar technician, is driven by boredom to investigate the presence of some mysterious visitors. In the case of this second mystery, the reader is put right in step with Lars, learning each new kernal of information as the character does. It might have been fun for Winkler to try and use this device with Otis as well. It might have helped to give the book a much needed sense of danger.

It is not to say that Winkler took his job as narrator lightly; overall he’s produced a fantastic debut effort with Pitouie. A carefully plotted mystery, an engaging and pithy character sketch, and some tremendously entertaining plot turns make Pitouie an excellent investment for someone seeking a casual, summer read. I would have liked to see a more active and present approach to the Winkler’s passive character. If more had been done to generate a sense of empathy between Otis and the reader, Pitouie could have made for a much more emotional read.

All quotations are from the novel Pitouie by David Winkler.

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THE SUNDAY PAPER
<word nerds> by Richard Harris
Part 2

Read Part 1 of this story here.

Julie ended up winning the second and third games. She maintained her strict vow of silence in both games. Henry, it appeared, seemed content to play both games without chatting. After losing the third game, he politely thanked Julie for the games and went offline almost at once.

For the next three days they did not see each other online. Both of them played many games over that period but at different times of day or in different rooms on the site. On the fourth day however, their paths crossed once again. At first Julie had not registered the fact that she was playing Henry. It was only when he sent a note saying <fancy seeing u again> that she looked at the name beside the avatar.

<Hi there,> she replied, mindful of the need to capitalize and punctuate. <Good luck.>

<gl 2u2.>

It took her a moment, but she quickly saw the word “bootee” among the melee of tiles in her rack. A few seconds passed and after Henry played his word (“lewd”) under the first three letters of Julie’s word, he sent another message to Julie: <that’s what i’m talking about!>

<It’s a shoe.>

<uh huh.>

Cheeky bastard, she thought.

Julie laid down a 50-point bingo (“chutzpah”) and just seconds later Henry countered with his own 40-point bingo (“misfits”). Spurred on by his last comment, Julie wrote <Very apropos, no?>

<misfit? i’d call u more of a renegade.>

Julie’s eyes widened at the bravado of this nameless, faceless hunkyhenry pirate character. Henry took his time to put down his next word (“czar”). Julie collected her thoughts: <Shame about the loss of your C. It could have worked better with a word like “CHUNKY.”>

Julie smiled beatifically at her witticism. Though not the funniest person in the world, she prided herself on her dexterity with the English language. When no reply came — and instead she and Henry started putting down words at breakneck speed — she began to question what she had written. She wondered if he really was overweight or if, heaven forbid, he was obese to the point of being confined to his home. Perhaps this was his only solace, she considered. Julie began panicking. She could not stand the thought of hurting someone’s feelings to the point that she obsessed over it; she had been the victim of too many racial slurs as a child to ever want to inflict that kind of verbal pain on others.

Julie put down her last tiles (building “dog” off “hang” to make “hangdog”). She had won the game but had never felt worse. She stared in wonder at her computer screen, her breath becoming ever shorter. She was consumed with guilt and convinced she had assaulted Henry’s fragile ego. She had to rectify this debacle at once, she told herself.

<Henry,> she started tentatively, hoping that by using his first name it might amplify her plea to the same degree that it relieved his pain. <I’m sorry about the “chunky” comment. It was…>

Before she had time to finish her mea culpa, Henry chimed in with <what? no worries…sorry, was really focused on keeping up with you…you’re way better at this game than me.>

And just like that, Julie’s guilt was assuaged and her pride restored.

<Come on! What are you talking about? Your ranking is almost 100 points higher than mine.>

<you’re honestly the best person i’ve played on this site.>

Julie was tongue-tied. Her usually nimble fingers felt like dangling slabs of meat. She had never liked being complimented. It made her feel awkward, anxious and disoriented. She felt the way some people get when they are asked to give a speech or dance in front of others.

<I bet you say that to all the girls you play.> Julie’s skin crawled even as she wrote the sentence. She leaned on the BACKSPACE button before starting again: <Well, you’re not so bad yourself.> Then there was a pause. Her fingers readied on the keys. <One more??>

The fact that she had placed two question marks at the end of her sentence was more telling than any of the words she had written. A stickler for grammar (she was the only person she knew of who had actually enjoyed The Chicago Manual of Style and listened to every Grammar Girl podcast), she had now committed what was in her mind an abhorrently offensive act of punctuation in an effort to make herself look younger and friendlier.

When <sure…i’ve got all night…> was sent back, Julie experienced something she had not felt in almost two decades: a coronary spark.

Wooden Rocket Press’ Sunday Paper posts new serialized fiction each Sunday.
For the conclusion of Richard Harris’ <word nerds>, click here.
To submit your story for consideration for the Sunday Paper, e-mail us at submissions@woodenrocketpress.com

Making Movie Magic With Doctor Strange.

Marvel Studios made motion picture history last week, when it confirmed a long standing rumour that Earths Sorcerer Supreme, Stephen Strange, would be aloud to play himself in the upcoming Avengers movie. Strange, who is both a practicing medical doctor and a notoriously dedicated archmagus, has been campaigning for this job both with the studio and the public at large for several months. I caught up with the Doctor’s astral self in his Greenwich village condo. We drank a pungent tea, and he granted me sixteen answers to five questions.

Making Movie Magic:

A WRP Exclusive Interview with Doctor Stephen Strange.

WRP:  First of all Doctor, congratulations on making your debut as an actor.

Strange: Actually, it’s not technically my theatrical raison d’etre.  I played Tevye in college.

WRP: Oh. . . cool. . .

Strange: I was quite good.

WRP: But it’s your first film role?

Strange:  Is that your first question?

WRP: No.  Look, a lot of people are saying you’re going to be the “first superhero to play himself” in a movie, but everyone of a certain age remembers the law suit brought against double-0 agent Sean Connery by MI-5.

Strange: Ah yes, I sighted the same example with Joss [Whedon] when he was refusing to look at my third or fourth audition tape, but Bond’s — um, modus operandi shall we say? — was that of a composite character.  There were actually several contemporary government agents collectivised into that part, including a few bits and pieces of [Ian] Fleming himself.  Connery and Bond had very little in common, except the controversial Licence to Kill.  I think Connery still has that designation actually.  Even after the legal troubles.

WRP: And then there was Adam West.

Strange:  Billionaire playboy-cum-masked detective. I always knew West was Batman, you know?  Not consciously, but in my heart among the hearts. I think a lot of people did. What fascinates me, is that no one ever called him on it, not in all that time.  Remember, West did not reveal that he had been Batman until many years after passing that insouciant mantle to his ward, who remains anonymous to this day. In all the fictionalizations, West’s character was called by the alias Bruce Wayne. I’ve never kept my identity a secret. I’ve been operating quite openly as Sorcerer Supreme, for nearly sixty years now. In that sense I am the first [superhero to play himself]. No one else has done it openly. You can include West if you want. So I’m the first since him.  The first in over half a century.

WRP: Strange, you’re a medical doctor as well, is that right?

Strange: I am indeed.

WRP: And you own a free clinic here in the village.

Strange: In the Bronx actually.

WRP: So that’s a full time job.

Strange: At least.

WRP: As well as having to keep more or less constant vigil, to keep our world safe from psychic attack.

Strange: Don’t think I am deluminous to your tactic, kindly phrase your questions as questions.

WRP: Why acting?  Haven’t you got enough on your plate?

Strange: That’s two questions.

WRP: Fuck.

Strange: So I will answer them separately. Firstly, it’s not so much about the acting.  Marvel Comics have been incredibly faithful in chronicling my long and storied career. Of course nothing that they print is true, just like crime stories aren’t true. But as with the crime stories the soul of the truth is there. I’m in those books. Those things happen to me.  The problem is, I don’t know how seriously anybody takes them. In requiem, they’re just comic books. It’s time for people to get a chance to see the real me. The real Strange.

WRP: And you can best accomplish this by staring in an action movie.  By reciting dialogue that someone else puts in your mouth.  Having scripted conversations with actors, some of whom, like Evans and Renner, are playing friends of yours while others, like Downy Jr and Ruffalo are playing entirely fictional people.

Strange: Actually, it’s more of a supporting role I would say, but bigger things are in the works.  I can’t tell you about the next project right now, but it’s a remake of Chinatown.

WRP: Everyone who pays their eight bucks will sit down to watch The Avengers knowing full well that Earth’s first, last, and probably ONLY line of defence against inter-dimensional psychic attack took nearly six weeks away from his vigil in the Sanctum Sanctorum, with only the trite and hedonistic goal of pretending to be himself, and that’s if we survive to release date.

Strange: Look, I’ve got plenty of time. No one here is trying to downplay the need for, as you so tritely put it, “constant vigil,” but we still have to be allowed to live. Mephisto, Black Heart, Baron Mordo–these are all very real threats, but for the most part, they are astral threats. Those battles take place in my mind. I can fight those from anywhere. Plus, I can hire an extra nurse or something. Doctor Voodoo could fill in. End of answer. One more question!

WRP:  Intelligence reports, out of Washington this week, indicate a lot of “unusual trade activity,” between Latveria and surrounding nations.

Strange:  Let me stop you there, Michael. I know where you’re going with this, so let me say right off the hop that this is probably just another false alarm; preparation for a nuclear strike, or a small scale Doom-bot invasion, nothing the War Machine can’t handle.

WRP: Okay Doctor, that’s a reasonable hypothesis, but you’re avoiding the question.  What if President Von-Doom is trying to contact Dormammu again.  We could be in for a world of hurt come the Autumnal Equinox, right around the time Avengers begins shooting.

Strange: (laughs) I’m not avoiding. (laughter continues) I didn’t hear a question.

WRP: What then?

Strange:  It would be wrong of me to understate the danger of this kind of attack.  The vale between this, and other dimensions, has never been thinner. In my books, that’s a good thing, it means more people are awakening to the realities of their own infinite potential, but it also means our plane is more accessible to the creatures from beyond. Dormammu is one of the worst in my experience, and I’ve dealt with him a lot. I have consulted Agamotto though, and a major psychic event is an extremely unlikely possibility around the time of the filming, the press dates, or the release. My schedule should be quite clear for the next eighteen months or so.

WRP: And what if it’s not?

Strange: You’re out of questions.

by Michael Scott

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