I had a bone scan. The technician balanced a clip board on one arm. The arm was short with a small hand at the end and tiny fingers. As I lay on the table, I wanted to ask about the arm. I thought everyone did. I thought if I asked her what had happened, it might form a bond between us, and I thought about times I had asked someone a personal question and unintentionally created a moment of intimacy I did not know what to do with, like walking on a road and arriving at a cliff. I did not ask about the hand. Before leaving, I took it in mine without thinking. She lit up.
Convenience Store Woman
By Laurie Stone
Keiko has been told she is strange. She does not fit in. As a kid in the playground, her schoolmates find a dead bird and sniff sadly about the poor thing. Keiko says to her mother, “Let’s eat it! . . . Daddy likes yakitori, doesn’t he?” [p. 6] When two boys are fighting in school, Keiko ends the disturbance by taking a shovel to the boys’ heads, and when, strangely, a teacher bursts into hysterical tears, Keiko sorts her out by pulling down her knickers and her skirt. Problems solved, Keiko thinks, becoming a problem.
She goes silent. Better not to speak than say the wrong thing. She’s on permanent probation, a spy in the house of normal. At 18, she falls in love. Not with a person, with a convenience store in Tokyo, where she lives. She’s hired. The bar is low. There is no bar. The store provides a manual for behavior. Oh, joy! Also a time clock to punch and rituals and routines to observe. Hour after hour, day after day, she lives inside the music of the store: the pings of the cash register, the whoosh of doors opening and closing, the rattle of cellophane wrapers on the junk food and lunch boxes they sell, the code language exchanged with customers and coworkers—at once empty and consoling. Irasshaimasé, she calls out in welcome: smiling, alert, unknowable.
Eighteen years pass, and still she works at the part-time job, feeling no desire for love, sex, marriage, children, money, or other kinds of work. This does not depress her. It depresses everyone else she knows: her sister who is married and has a child, her parents, her co-workers, the friends whose lives she has drifted into. On days off, when she visits them, she feels poked at and seen as a freak. The pressure mounts, and just at this moment a man comes to work at the store. He feels the job demeans him, he shirks his tasks, he believes males should hunt and females stay home and gather fruit, he stalks female workers and customers in hopes of sex—really in hopes of marriage to a woman who will support him.
Keiko sees a use for him—not unlike her use for the dead bird. He is fired and winds up homeless. He smells bad and has debts, but she takes him in. He’s a man. She sleeps in the closet while he sleeps in the bath tub, her ill-tempered pet. When people discover the arrangement, they are thrilled for her. They know what he is, yet they are thrilled.
Convenience Store Woman subverts the status quo with the lowliest of settings and the most unlikely warrior. Cunning and seductive, it is the first novel by Sayaka Murata (38) to be translated into English—Ginny Tapley Takemori captures the author’s sly, wide-eyed wit. The book sold 660,000 copies in Japan. The Japanese are clearly literature whores. Murata earned the Akutagawa Prize, Japan’s most prestigious literary award, and in a video of her at a press conference, she sits stunned, her hands folded neatly on her lap, listening more than speaking and saying yes more than any other word. Asked why she, herself, still works part time in a convenience store, she says she gathers material. To anyone who has entered the theater of service work, with its soothing routines and freeing masks, the truer answer might be: “Because I like it.”
Keiko narrates the story, and as with all great monologues, she turns the reader into her accomplice. “My present self is formed almost completely of the people around me,” she says. “I am currently made up of 30 percent Mrs. Izumi, 30 percent Sugawara, 20 percent the manager, and the rest absorbed from the past colleagues such as Sasaki, who left six months ago, and Okasaki, who was our supervisor until a year ago.” [p. 25] While other people see her as a cog in a directionless wheel, we see her as extradinary. She cannot lie, and we believe her. Candor makes her brave.
Murata delights in making the strange ordinary and the ordinary strange. In her story “A Clean Marriage,” published in Granta (2014), a man and woman marry in order not to have sex with each other. When they decide to have a child, they momentarily consider the obvious means to conception, only to reject it and feel “reassured by this evidence of shared revulsion.” In Convenience Store Woman, when Keiko hears her nephew crying in another room, she eyes a knife she has used to cut cake and thinks how easy it would be to end the noise. We see her point. She rises early each day so she can walk to the store through changing neighborhoods. “The sensation that the world is slowly dying feels good,” she confides. [P 39]
Convenience Store Woman joins the literature of refusal, along with Melville’s “Bartleby the Scrivener” (the clerk who “prefers not to”), Beckett’s minimal humans who dwell in trash bins and sand heaps, and Kafka’s hapless office workers, who try to remain invisible while being watched. Like Saga Norén, the gifted, autistic detective at the center of The Bridge, Keiko immitates other people’s facial expressions and phrases to blend in. Her narrative is a version of Kafka’s “A Report to an Academy,” in which a captured ape learns to behave like a human being.
To survive among his captors, Kafka’s ape acquires language, a transformation from which there is no return. Language ushers in the knowledge of how he is seen. In a sense, we all become human by learning the language of a group with the power to define us. I am not who you say I am, we think, as parts of ourselves go into hiding. Keiko says she takes “the utmost care not to cause the customer any discomfort by observing him or her too closely [p. 4],” but observation is precisely what she does in secret, just as, in secret, everyone devises their own private Keiko.
How to become free? Will Keiko surrender to social pressure and keep her demanding man-pet? You will have to read the book to find out. Murata’s comedy brilliantly reverses the notion we lose ourselves as cogs in a machine. In anonymity, Keiko slips the knot of convention. For her, the rescue is in the catastrophe.
Published in Women’s Review of Books Vol. 35 issue 4 July/August 2018 pp. 4-5.
This was originally published in The Literary Review.
In 1996, I was gathering pieces for an anthology of memoirs. I had stories from Phillip Lopate, Catherine Texier, Lois Gould, Peter Trachtenberg, and Jerry Stahl. Bruce Benderson suggested I read the work of a 16-year-old boy he was exchanging emails with. I said, “Why would I be interested in a kid?” Bruce said, “He’s literary.” I said, “How can that be?” He said, “I don’t know, but you have to read it.”
The boy went by the name Terminator—a joke about his looks. A picture Bruce kept on his bookcase showed a gawky, towheaded slip. He had contacted Bruce on the suggestion of Dennis Cooper. Terminator had started writing, the story went, spurred by his therapist, Terry Owens, who was teaching a course on at-risk adolescents and thought his students could benefit from true-life tales. According to the story, Terminator was the child of a teen-age mother who was dead and had abused him. She had dressed him as a girl, and he had turned tricks at truck stops. Now, he lived with his boyfriend, Astor, and Astor’s girlfriend, Speedy. He had been addicted to drugs, had lived on the streets, and was still engaging in high-risk, S/M sex. He had AIDS, and because of scars from Kaposi’s lesions and sexual savageries, he didn’t like people to see his body. Bruce had helped other boys teetering on the edge, although no one before with as complete a menu of desperate data points.
The first pieces I read were handwritten, and their power was unmistakable, slicing along with lyrical images, eloquent silences, and physical descriptions that conveyed interior emotional states. The writing was startling for someone of any age but almost impossible to grasp for a person so young and virtually unschooled. (The story.) The pieces I read drew the reader into the narrator’s love for his crazied, funny, dangerous mother and didn’t offer a way out. Their transgressiveness wasn’t in the lurid subject matter but in the narrator’s unwillingness to reduce emotion to something that could be analyzed or controlled. The verb tenses were a mess, the punctuation nonexistent, the sense of where we were in time and space confusing, but the writer was 16 and had turned himself into an artist instead of a case history. He had to be some kind of genius, right?
Close to the Bone, published by Grove Press in 1997, includes “Baby Doll,” a memoir by Terminator. In it, the narrator tricks with his mother’s lover and uses Krazy Glue to tuck back his penis. It is the first published writing of the person who would change his name to JT Leroy, produce several books of fiction, and gain access to more celebrities than all the writers I know put together. Several times a week for a couple of years, I as well as Bruce, Dennis, Joel Rose and Mary Gaitskill received breathy phone calls in a West Virginia drawl and long, confessional emails from a person we thought was a kid with AIDS. He asked about what I was writing and who I was dating. He was flattering, sweet. Also draining, emotionally skittish, and insatiable in his need to worry out loud. I soon got tired of his star-fucking/name-dropping routine. Down the line, he included “Baby Doll” in a collection of short stories and didn’t acknowledge where it had first appeared. I thought this was bad form and assumed he or his editor, presenting it as fiction, wanted to erase its association with memoir. I didn’t raise the issue. He had AIDS, and he was a kid, and he was becoming a success.
As his fame rose, I dropped out of the loop. I was happy for him, but I found Sarah, the novel that established his name, too whimsical and sentimental for my taste. I wasn’t interested in his cultish status as a survivor and an inspiration, although the question of his health affected all my thoughts about him.
Flash forward to fall 2005 when Stephen Beachy called to interview me for the story he was writing for New York Magazine, claiming JT Leroy was actually a 40-year-old woman named Laura Albert and the 10-year escapade was a scam. I thought his theory was vengeful and nuts, but it turned out to be true. It was hard to absorb the facts. The enormity of the charade, the thousands of hours spent keeping so many plates in the air. I read over emails I’d received, long and detailed. Albert had corresponded this way with everyone on her list. I had never met JT, although I’d been invited to several times when the part was being played by Savannah Knoop, the half-sister of Geoffrey, a.k.a. Astor. But I’d talked to Terry Owens on the phone when Terminator was going through one his periodic—and now, I know, fake—plunges. Owens, it turns out, had conducted his sessions over the phone and was another gull.
No one likes being fooled, but I don’t feel personally damaged. There was mutual gain. Albert launched her publishing career, and I presented a writer I admired. The repellent part is that she traded on the suffering of real people with AIDS and real kids who have been abused to advance herself with editors and publishers who believed they were helping a young person in need.
Knoop admitted to New York Times reporter Warren St. John (February 7, 2006) that he’d managed the day-to-day business of the JT hoax while Albert wrote the books. He said she believed she needed to package herself to get noticed. Even after she was exposed, she did not admit she was deceptive. In an interview published in the Paris Review (Fall, 2006), she says, “I’m sad I was so injured. Many people were inspired that someone so young could write what I was writing. JT is fifteen years younger than me. All I can say is I am sorry if people are disappointed or offended. If knowing that I’m fifteen years older than Jeremy devalues the work, then I’m sorry they feel that way.” In his admission to the Times, Knoop made a perfunctory apology to people who’d been injured, without specifying who they were or in what way, but he was less contrite than eager to rid himself of a personal hassle: “If you’re feeling more and more suffocated by the complications and lies, it’s not worth it.”
Where did these people get the idea that in order to exist in the public sphere they needed a marketing gimmick? How did they come to feel anything and everything you do justifies name recognition? Gee, I don’t know, Satan?
By the time the jig was up, the Leroy brand wasn’t selling transgression. Transgression is what resists being a brand. It was selling rags-to-riches inspiration, surviving with H.I.V., and hanging with cool people because you have done risky drugs, risky sex, and other louche and nihilistic things to yourself. Then written about it.
Albert was exposed around the time The Smoking Gun website revealed James Frey had falsified pivotal facts in his memoir, A Million Little Pieces, presenting himself as a meaner, tougher, and raunchier dude than in actuality he was. The Frey and Albert stories, linked in the press, have similarities. Both promote bad behavior as a badge of coolness on one hand and on the other a tattoo marker of recovery. Even though Albert published her work as fiction (except, originally, “Baby Doll”), the brand of such work depends on the public’s assumption the stories have been lifted from real life. Frey’s publisher, Doubleday, wasn’t interested in marketing his book as a novel, which was his preference. Doubleday believed it could sell more copies feeding readers a sensational story about an actual person, packaged with redemption, inspiration, and a cross here and there.
Frey wouldn’t be condemned (at least not for being a liar) if his potboiler had appeared as a novel based on his life—like Albert-as-Leroy’s fiction. Albert-as-Leroy’s books have turned out to be plain old fictional fictions. Albert misrepresented herself, not the genre she was writing in (except for “Baby Doll”). Frey’s offence was in writing a false nonfiction book. The fact that it was also a memoir and that memoirs are different from other kinds of nonfiction books has not been talked about in ensuing discussions.
I watched Frey sit across from Oprah after The Smoking Gun revelations. His memoir was among her vaunted, book club selections, and now she made him own up to every lie, and they were whoppers. He hadn’t spent time in jail. He hadn’t endured root canal without anesthesia. On and on. By the end of the interrogation, with brow furrowed and head slumped forward, he looked like a chimp who had been shocked many times in an electrified maze. Breathing fire, Oprah defined the memoir as a document whose statements had to be verifiable.
Frey didn’t add any gray to her black and white picture, and no one else piped up to remind Oprah’s viewers the memoir is a type of imaginative writing. In order to tell a story, the writer needs to create a dramatic narrative, edit out the non-essential, move back and forth in time, and use description and dialogue no one’s memory can exactly transcribe. Frey’s book isn’t fiction disguised as fact. It is dishonest writing without stakes.
Kafka said, “Books must be an ax for the frozen sea inside of us.” He meant literature needs to tell the truth without concern for the protection of anyone, especially the author. He meant the author must not pretty things up or promote virtues. In Frey’s case, wanting to generate amazement, he concocted a Mt. Everest of abasement in order to ramp up the macho of surviving that much peril. The result is self-flattery. Finding stakes for him would mean discovering a story in the schmendrick he is.
Similarly, instead of mugging the public, Albert might have revised her drafts and sent out her manuscripts to magazines and journals in her own name, like the rest of us do. Our cages will always be rattled by outlaws and risk takers. But how badass is someone who wants to make it so much in the established world? When you scrape off the JT Leroys, there is probably always a Laura Albert inside. The tension is interesting. But rather than scrutinize their uncertainties, Albert and Frey chose routes that were safe, and despite the trappings of the wild side, they were as conventional as it gets.
Against the background of the mega lies that governments and corporations tell, what’s the big deal about a writer profiting from a little lie, Albert and Frey may have asked themselves. Jon Stewart compared the huge attention the press paid to Frey with its relatively puny coverage of the government’s lies about Iraq and its spying on citizens. The press isn’t interested in lying in either case. Frey and Albert have been fodder because they’re celebrities. Small choices do alter the world, and little lies are like little murders. Something is decaying and stinking up the joint.
Yesterday at the mall in Scottsdale, a young black woman put a substance under my eyes, meant to reverse the aging process. She wanted me to look in the mirror. I said, “I’d rather look at you.” She told me she was Israeli and was Jewish. She said, “Are you Jewish?” I said, “Everyone from New York is Jewish,” quoting the old Lenny Bruce routine. She did not know that human beings were animals. I said, “Human beings can either be animals or machines, which one are you?” She thought for a moment. She had very dark eyebrows and curly lashes. She said, “Sometimes I do feel like an animal.” I said, “Go with that.”
I am sitting at one of the tables at Apple, waiting for a genius. A woman, a man, and a child are speaking Spanish. The man and child leave, and the woman begins a conversation with me. She explains she was telling the man about an app that lets you spy on your loved ones, to see if they are cheating. She explains how it works. I say, “But you will be a spy.” Her lip rises in a crooked smile. She has a Frida Kahlo mustache I find attractive. Her body is ample, her eyebrows animated. She says, “I don’t care about being a spy. I could get AIDS.” I say, “That’s a point.” I say, “Do you check his phone for texts?” She says, “I have a boyfriend. He doesn’t sleep over much.” I say, “Have you done this before?” She nods and says, “They all cheat.” She shows me the ad for the app and says, “Are you going to get it?” I say, “Not at the moment.” She says, “You seem so interested.” I say, “I’m interested in you.”
Yesterday on the plane I watched “The Post,” about the publication of “The Pentagon Papers,” secured by heroic whistle blower Daniel Ellsberg. They were first published by The Washington Post. The movie as a piece of filmmaking is a bouquet of cliches, save for performances by two of the great TV actors of our time: Bob Odenkirk and Matthew Rhys. I had the weirdest feeling watching it. It was the sensation of reverse sci-fi, as if the past, with its innocence and dawning awareness of continuous political lies, was unreal and magical, had never been, could never have been, although I had lived through it with the amazement and excitement of the people depicted in the film. “The Pentagon Papers” reported findings of a study commissioned by Robert Macnamara. Why would you want to compile data on the corruption and deceit behind US involvement in the Vietnam War, policies you promoted? Why did the Nazis meticulously record their atrocities? We now live in a fog of belief in the terrible and the hopeless. We live in Nixon’s mind. Nixon is Trump. Trump is Nixon. Really, they are the same inconceivably unhappy and misery-generating machine. From the perspective of now, the release of “The Pentagon Papers,” the Watergate findings, the disclosure of massive Cold War deceit in the books of John Le Carre, swaddled in the rueful gloom of Graham Greene, all of this looks like pastoral fantasy and like a stage of young adult understanding we can never recapture. “The Pentagon Papers” revealed that 70% of US policy in Vietnam was enacted to avoid the “humiliation” of having taken the wrong turn. It was about the anxiety of not asking for directions. In the film, when Daniel Ellsberg is asked why he is risking jail, he says, “Wouldn’t you be willing to go to jail to end the war in Vietnam?” Justice Black, in his 6 to 3 Supreme Court vote in favor of publishing “The Pentagon Papers,” stated the press exists to serve the governed, not the governors. In the 1970s, people believed a moral society was possible and the revelations would produce reform. The gray-goo morass of our social reality is deepened by the day, the hour, the second by Assange and company, by psychographics, by fake news, by colossal amounts of money spent to keep people stupid, truly uneducated. Dumb is good. Dumb is better than greed to keep people mean. Mean enough to feel good about hurting children.
I am continuing to think about the betrayal of Carrie Mathison in the last episode of Homeland. There was no reason for the sister to demand custody. She still could have pitched in to care for Franny. The fight between the women, pointlessly pitched, produced female-suffering porn after thrilling us early in the season with Carrie’s destruction of a cyberstalker. Female-suffering porn is so much the air breathed in the culture, it often goes unnoticed as a thing or is given different names. The Handmaid’s Tale trades on female-suffering porn for its sense of suspense and titillation. How many ways can you show women at the mercy of men and other women? How many ways will their attempts to organize and free themselves be thwarted? This show and “Homeland” come at precisely the moment when in reality women have organized in MeToo and other mass forms of resistance. They have been the least passive, the most vocal in reaction to the sabotage of our country and legal systems. Female-suffering porn is not cautionary or prophetic. It’s the comfort zone of narratives that want women the old fashioned way: virtuous and deprived or gratified and dangerous (often murderous).