Sh*tshow

Richard Russo

• Publisher: Allen & Unwin
• Year: 2020
• eBook ISBN: 9781760874315
• Topic: Literature
• Subtopic: Literature General
• Index: Literature

David and Ellie didn't realise how much they had missed their friends, two other couples who had moved out of their modest neighbourhood in a desert city for the comforts of the suburbs, until the day of Donald Trump's election. Separated also from their daughter who lived hours away in California, they were in a funk. But, when Ellie discovers a repellent offering floating in the small Jacuzzi in their backyard, David is blindsided. Little does he know this is but the first in a chain of grisly events that will play out in their lives with devastating consequences. In this darkly humorous, incisive and absorbing political parable, written with the remarkable humanity he's beloved for, Pulitzer Prize-winner Richard Russo probes how deeply, yet imperceptibly, fissures can form amongst friends, neighbours and families. An ebook short.

Still stunned and feeling the need for companionship the morning after the election, Ellie and I invited our old friends the Schuulmans and the Millers over for drinks and dinner that evening. We’d been neighbors and good friends back when we all worked at the university. Roughly the same age, we’d been hired, tenured, and promoted on the same clock, and we’d bought our houses here in the Sam Hughes District around the same time, so when it came time to retire, we did that in lockstep as well. I guess Ellie and I just took for granted that things would continue—us empty nesters taking turns hosting one another for spur-of-the-moment get-togethers on our back patios, aging comfortably, we hoped, with so many of life’s challenges safely in our rearview mirrors, its latter ones on the horizon, sure, but still at a relatively safe distance.

So we were pretty surprised when both the Schuulmans and the Millers cashed out, buying new homes in the foothills north and west of the city, a full forty-five minutes away. Though there was no reason it should, their defection had felt like a betrayal. Not long after they were settled, though, we were invited out to see their new digs, and we had to admit that they offered great views of the city below, as well as cooler summer evenings. Why not join us? they wanted to know. Get away from the sweltering valley. Leave the traffic and congestion behind. We could afford to, right? That last question, to be honest, was more than a little annoying. After all, ours was still a good in-town neighborhood, close to the university and convenient to most of what we wanted, or at least what we’d wanted when we were younger and raising families. Sure, crime was modestly on the rise, gang graffiti (if that’s even what it was) had been spray-painted onto the shoulder-high adobe walls that surrounded our properties, but come on. The foothills were a crime-free zone? It wasn’t like we in the District were living in some sort of urban hellhole. Why should we be treated like objects of pity?

Strange, then, that it should be the Schuulmans and the Millers we’d thought of when things headed south on election night. That morning, though, when I called with the invitation, both Nathan and Clay sounded more pleased than surprised, and I was happy to learn that last night they’d thought of us, too, and wished we were all together like we’d been for so long.

Best to keep things simple was the idea. Ellie made pasta and green salads, and I bought steaks for the grill. We debated about whether to eat indoors or out. I favored the latter because it’d be like old times, but Ellie wasn’t so sure. After all, it was early November, and while mid-afternoon temperatures still got up into the high seventies, the desert cooled quickly after the sun went down, and temperatures could dip sharply. “Let’s at least start out on the patio,” I said. “If it gets too chilly, we either can put on sweaters or move inside.”

Ellie, her post-election funk more profound than my own, gave in with a heavy sigh, went over to the sliding patio door, and stared out into the backyard. Joining her there, I put my arms around her waist and kissed the top of her head. “What’s the matter?” I asked, trying to sound more puzzled than concerned. She’d been ill that summer and hadn’t, it seemed to me, bounced all the way back.

She shrugged. “Nothing. Everything.”

“I know.”

“I wish the kids lived closer.”

They’d both called last night when it became clear how the election was going to go, Sebastian all the way from Paris. “You should sell the house and come to California,” our daughter, Alison, said, not for the first time. “It’s still America here.”

I was outside pouring charcoal into the metal tower when I heard a car pull up and Ellie called, “David? They’re here.”

Which? I thought, heading back inside. The Schuulmans or the Millers? Joining Ellie at the front door, I saw they’d arrived together, the Millers pulling into the drive, the Schuulmans parking in the street. I could tell from Ellie’s expression that we’d had the same thought: They’d come together. They’d been together this whole time. Their friendship had remained intact.

But then they all got out of their cars and Clay hollered, “How’s that for timing?” and we understood that their arriving together had been serendipity, which made sense. After all, they lived as far from each other as they did from us. I expected us guys to shake hands, but Nathan was having none of that, and we ended up sharing hugs all around. So did the gals, Dawn and Betsy fussing over Ellie and wanting to know how she was feeling. They told her she looked wonderful, which was true, though, being women, they would’ve said that even if it weren’t. Anyhow, when we all headed inside, my happy thought was Hey, they’ve missed us as much as we’ve missed them.

“I still can’t wrap my head around it,” Dawn was saying when I brought out a tray full of our favorite chips and salsa from Rafa’s, a place we’d often gathered on Friday afternoons. We were all seated comfortably out on the patio, the sun about to disappear behind the distant purple hills. We’d said there was no need to bring anything, but both couples arrived with wine, an Italian white and Spanish red, neither of which I was familiar with. What did it signify, I wondered, that they’d moved on from the default California chardonnay we’d all drunk back in the day, several bottles of which I had chilling in the fridge? “I’ll forget for, like, ten minutes and then suddenly it’s back. We elected him. He said ‘grab ’em by the pussy’ and we elected him anyway. Women voted for him.”

“In a democracy,” her husband said, “you always, always, always get what you deserve.”

“Oh, come on,...

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• Sh*tshow