Denis Johnson

Eleven stories narrated by a young recovering alcoholic, whose dependency has led him to crime, cruelty, and loss in the Midwest, depict the disparity of emotions that constitute the American experience.

Stories

Jesus' Son

Sarah Christine Gill

We bumped softly down a hill toward an open field that seemed to be a military graveyard, filled with rows and rows of austere, identical markers over soldiers' graves. I'd never before come across this cemetery. On the farther side of the field, just beyond the curtains of snow, the sky was torn away and the angels were descending out of a brilliant blue summer, their huge faces streaked with light and full of pity. The sight of them cut through my heart and down the knuckles of my spine, and if there'd been anything in my bowels I would have messed my pants from fear. 

Georgie opened his arms and cried out, "It's the drive-in, man!”

“The drive-in.."I wasn't sure what these words meant. 

"They're showing movies in a fucking blizzard!" Georgie screamed.

The day was ending in a fiery and glorious way. The ships on the Sound looked ike paper silhouettes being sucked up into the sun. 

I had two doubles and immediately it was as if I’d been dead forever, and was now finally awake. 

I was in Pig Alley. It was directly on the harbor, built out over the waters on a rickety pier, with floors of carpeted plywood and a Formica bar. The cigarette smoke looked unearthly. The sun lowered itself through the roof of clouds, ignited the sea, and filled the big picture window with molten light, so that we did our dealing and dreaming in a brilliant fog. 

People entering the bars on First Avenue gave up their bodies. Then only the demons inhabiting us could be seen. Souls who had wronged each other were brought together here. 

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