The RIF

I read this excerpt from a much longer story at my graduate reading at  Vermont College of Fine Arts in July of 2019.  The entire story was later published as a chapbook by Blue Cubicle Press.

Saturday

Dietrich’s plate is full. Actually, it’s overflowing. He’s got juice from the baked beans running into the coleslaw and off the plate. The chicken wings are sitting on top of the potato salad, and two ribs have bailed out and tumbled onto the table. It’s the annual employee picnic at the CEO’s favorite country club, and he’s trying to make the most of it. I’m nursing a warm, watery gin and tonic, feeling my hangover coming on in the heat, and I’m late for my daughter’s dance recital.

“It will probably be Thursday,” he says. He bites into an uncut gherkin and the juice squirts across the table onto my plate. There’s a smudge from the potato salad on the corner of his drooping mustache. “The personnel files when to legal yesterday.” I ask him why. He shoves the severed end of the pickle in his mouth and mashes down on it as his eyes dart over my face and the sun glares off his sweaty bald head. We’re supposed to be peers, but he’s a well-connected bottom feeder, the kind that always carries a clipboard. I don’t trust this motherfucker and he knows it.

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The Peninsula Campaign of 1862

Yorktown ArtillaryExcerpted from A Brief History of the Thirty-fourth Regiment by Lieutenant Louis N. Chapin (1903):

March 29, 1862, finds the Thirty-fourth Regiment, with nearly all the rest of the First Brigade, onboard steamer, R. Williams, anchored for a little time directly in front of Mount Vernon, on the Potomac River, having shipped from Alexandria same day. But this stay is only, and incidental. Two days later the same regiment finds itself on the same good ship, anchored within a stone’s throw of the famous Fortress Monroe, and Old Point Comfort. Nearby were many other ships, crowded with men, who had come down the river on the same expedition as ourselves, whatever that may be. Likewise, you might have seen a little boat that presently is to revolutionize all modern naval warfare, and all the navies of the world; albeit, it was the most unpretentious object in the whole aggregation. It was the little Monitor, resting after her conflict with the Merrimac, March 9. The sail down the river, except for a heavy snowstorm just at the start, had been uneventful, although, for a portion of the voyage, it was pretty rough sailing. The next day, April 1, the vessel proceeded to Hampton, where the troops were landed. The condition of Hampton at this time was that of a perfect ruin. By order of the Confederate authorities, every building in the place had been burned. The inhabitants were turned out, destitute, forlorn, forsaken. This destruction was probably about as wanton and cruel, and uncalled-for as any act in the whole history of the rebellion. The story is told by the good Chaplain, Rev. J. J. Marks, attached to Kearney’s Division, and who wrote a little book about the Peninsular campaign, that after the rebels had evacuated the town, a detachment of soldiers was sent back to attend to this burning business; and that one of the officers stayed at night with his uncle. After he had a good visit with his uncle’s family, and they had talked about old times in a very tender fashion, and breakfast being over, and family prayers being said, the officer informed his astonished uncle that he had been sent back to burn the town, and that, as a matter of conscience, he considered it his duty to begin with that house, which he did.

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Narrative Distance

Mary Lavin’s In the Middle of the Fields

Mary Lavin’s linked short stories about the life of Vera Traske are all written in third-person, but the narrative distance employed varies from story to story, not only depending on the requirements of a particular story but also reflecting where each story fits in the overall arc of Vera’s life.

In the title story of Mary Lavin’s collection, In the Middle of the Fields, Vera struggles with grief and loneliness as she tries to move on after the death of her husband. She functions well during the day and is determined to establish a new life and identity for herself. At night, however, she succumbs to a crushing burden of loneliness and memory. One night, she has an encounter with Bartley Crossen, the man she has hired to trim the grass in her fields. This encounter is at once both comic and terrifying and reveals the pain that is felt by those who survive and have to create new lives for themselves.

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