They’re coming for you, David!

Dress Your Family in Corduroy and Denim

A teacher at the school I work at is going back for her degree (yay higher education!) and asked me to help her with a literature assignment. So I completely re-wrote it. Of course I edited hers, gave her notes on grammar and style, and ideas of additional themes to explore. This is what I came up with more or less. Here ya go! Enjoy!

Please note that I’ve edited and added to this piece for this blog. It was a bit vanilla and just hitting command c command v isn’t very creative.

In his autobiographical essay “Nuit of the Living Dead” from his book Dress Your Family In Corduroy and Denim , David Sedaris allows the reader an intimate glimpse into his life, which at this particular moment happens to be absolutely fucking horrifying! It is a hysterically dark comedy, juxtaposing an incredibly dark moment in the narrators life with the common and relatable but uncomfortable feeling of forced intimacy with strangers.  Using this juxtaposition, the narrator is able to gain an outside perspective of just how strange of a situation he has placed him in and how that may look to an outsider. It also allows the reader to question how a complete outsider might observe them. 

Some summer Sedaris is living in the French country with his boyfriend, Hugh, who happens to be out of town this particular evening. Sedaris is alone, an American, in an isolated part of France with only a tenuous understanding of the language. He is completely out of his element. In addition to being a fish out of water, he is living in a creepy house. A house that, legend has it, has a very gruesome past. Add this to the fact that it is in the middle of no where, you have a recipe for a haunted house story or three. 

I never believed that a burglar starved to death in a chimney. I don’t believe that his skeleton dropped onto the hearth. But i do believe in spooks, especially when Hugh is away and i’m left alone in the country. During the war our house was occupied by Nazis. The former owner died in the bedroom, as did the owner before her […]

This doesn’t bother David. No, what does bother him is the graveyard down the street because he is terrified of zombies. Yes, he does admit the logical reasoning is and he is damn funny doing it.

It’s silly, I know, but what frightens me is the possibility of zombies, former townspeople wandering about in pus covered nightgowns. There’s a church graveyard a quarter of a mile away, and were its residents to lurch out the gate and take a left, ours would be the third house they would stumbled upon. Lying in bed with all the lights on, I drawed up contingency plans on the off chance they might come a-callin’.

The author also lets us in on his personal life in a way that is crucial to the major plot point. The contention between the narrator and his boyfriend to have mouse traps in the home. David doesn’t want them, but Hugh insists and David allows given Hugh take care of the casualties. Skip to some summer evening in Normandy. Our narrator hears a noise that sounded like something dragging, rather than rolling, which was strange because the reason the couple had gotten the traps was and attempt to get rid of the sound of the mice rolling nuts down the gutters of the house. This is where things go from bad to worse to weird.

English: a rat Français : un rat

The problem with drowning an animal – even a crippled one – is that it does not want to cooperate. This mouse had nothing going for him, and yet he struggled, using what, I don’t really know. I tried to hold him down with a broom handle but it wasn’t the right tool for the job and he kept breaking free and heading back to the surface. A creature that determined, you want to let it have its way, but this was for the best, whether he realized it or not.  

Just as our well-intentioned if not neurotic narrator has got the vermin pinned to the bottom of the bucket as he has determined is the only way to kill a small creature with a strong will to live, he is surprised by a van full of odd Dutch “or maybe Scandinavian” tourists pulled up next to the very porch where he was committing mouse-drowning. Contextually compassionate mouse-drowning. David is momentarily distracted by the visitors humorous accent and ignorance of the surrounding area and invites the stranger into his house to look at a detailed map of the area that he has inside.

He remembers the scene he had abandoned to assist the lost travelers as he and his guest arrive on the porch landing. The Dutch or Scandinavian assesses the scene and attempts to find a common ground.

“Oh,” he said. “I see that you have a little swimming mouse.” His tone did not invite explanation, and so I offered none. “My wife and I have a dog, “ he continued. “But we did not bring it with us. Too much trouble.”

I nodded and he held out his map, a Xerox of a Xerox marked with arrows and annotated in a language I did not recognize. “I think I’ve got something better in the house,” I said, and at my invitation, he followed me inside.

As soon as this European of ambiguous origin is in his home, he realizes that the first impression that this complete stranger has is that of mouse drowning in a bucket without explanation. As David leads his guest into the living area, he realizes that many of the various knickknacks, publications, novelties and other oddities that, contextually and culturally are perfectly appropriate, but without situational and cultural context an outsider could very well make the mistake of misjudging the narrator’s character.

An unexpected and unknown visitor allows you to see a familiar place as if for the very first time. I’m thinking of the meter reader rooting through the kitchen at eight a.m., the Jehovah’s Witness suddenly standing in your living room. “Here,” they seem to say. “Use my eyes. The focus is much keener.” I had always thought of our main room as cheerful, but walking through the door, I saw that I was mistaken. It wasn’t dirty or messy, but like being awake when all decent people are fast asleep, there was something slightly suspicious about it.

Graphic French true crime magazines were piled on the table. David had been casually reading them to help improve his poor French and one of the issues was open to the crossword puzzle with the French word for VAGINA being the only one filled in because, well, that was the only word David knew. He celebrated this small victory by drawing exclamation points in the margins. A puzzle in the shape of an three dimensional anatomically human laid eviscerated on the living room table. These are just examples of the oddities that adorn David and Hugh’s home.

After the Dutch or Scandinavian tourist has had a good look around the house (after having witnessed the mouse drowning, mind you), David shows the stranger the location of the area he is looking for on a detailed map he keeps in his home. After he clarifies the directions, he offers what American’s would call “Southern hospitality”.

The route was fairly simple, but still I offered him the map, knowing he would feel better if he could refer to it on the road. “Oh no,” he said, “I couldn’t,” but I insisted, and watched from the porch as he carried it down the stairs and into the idling van. “If you have any problems, you know where I live,” I said. “You and your friends can spend the night here if you like. Really, I mean. I have plenty of beds.” The man in the tracksuit waved good-bye, and then he drove down the hill, disappearing behind the neighbor’s pitched roof.

Can the reader really blame the tourist for declining the narrator’s offer? David certainly made a striking first impression but it was not the type he wanted to. He gave off more of a serial killer vibe than a odd ball writer/fish out of water vibe.

What do people think when they first meet me? Or when they read my resume? Or browse my book collection? My home is very revealing. I live with my younger brother, he is a college art student and lives as such. I’m okay with that. He spent two semesters in Paris; we have a French flag flying in our foyer where we keep three bikes and and oversized vintage ashtray.

My brother is an artist, earning his BFA, so there is a gallery of my brother’s art, vintage soviet propaganda posters, movie posters and various prints on every surface of wall space of the living area. Then there is this crazy contraption. Is it an easel? I don’t know.



Wearing my heart on my sleeve.

Dear [withheld],

I know you think I’m a little nuts. Let’s be honest, a lot nuts. But truth be told, I have a feeling crazy is your type. I’m emotionally intense, impulsive, brutally honest, smarter than most people you know, and a beast in the sack. You know it’s true. Over the past year and half or so that we’ve known each other, things have not been easy. At all.

It felt so good to be pursued by someone as sexy, confident, and successful as you immediately after I had gotten out of a very long, disastrous, and emotionally abusive relationship. You even witnessed the wreckage and helped me settle into my new sketchy alley apartment. I felt so fucking special. I don’t know if you are even aware of it, but you played a major role in getting me over the asshole I dated for six years.

I thought this was an emotionally poignant time for you as well. During our second date your disclosure that your on and off ex of ten years that you “kind of loved” had just committed suicide was not general getting you know you type small talk. This was said post-coitus, in that context, since the suicide you were not able to perform sexually and jokingly said that she had “cursed your boner”. Well, I must be a cock magician because you’ve have had no problems getting it up with me, save a few ethanol soaked nights.

So in this way it felt somewhat mutual. You helped me overcome an emotionally abusive breakup, I helped you through the unexpected reaction to the death of a loved one.

It felt really good for a while. Drinking at your regular bar almost every night, getting to know your friends and  employees. Going to Colorado with your family. Then you started working on expanding your business.You started pushing me away and making me feel needy for wanting for foster the bond that was growing. You were too busy and overwhelmed to spend time with me.

Or maybe you were afraid of getting close to someone again. I get that. Intimacy is scary enough, scarier more when someone you once loved took their own life. And I was understanding when you got her face tattooed in an intimate spot.

What I don’t understand is the year of constantly pulling me in and pushing me away. Fucking me at night and ignoring my texts during the day, I’m starting to feel more like a dirty little secret than a friend. Don’t get me wrong, the sex is mind blowing and probably a big part of the reason I haven’t given up completely. Don’t let it go to your head, but you’ve raised the bar for a man’s sexual performance for me, and there are so many disappointments out there. So thanks for ruining them for me. But I digress.

There are those moments of tenderness that keep drawing me back in. Most recently when you were on vacation and drunkenly texted me how amazing it was where you were and how I was the only person you could think of who could appreciate the historical and cultural relevance of the city you were in. We had intellectual in addition to explicit conversations almost everyday. You got me a souvenir and I even picked you up from the airport. We fucked after.

“I was a little drunk. Not drunk in any positive sense but just enough to be careless.” —Ernest Hemingway, The Sun Also Rises, 1926

That felt pretty intimate. I fucking hate picking people up from the airport. It was the first time in a long time I’ve had sex without getting stoned first. I was anxious and awkward but it felt so genuine.

But of course, when you went back to work, things were status quo once again. Ignored texted and hurt feelings. I don’t know what I expected. Maybe for you to start to open up to me again, be able to spend quality time having intellectual conversations over “apple beers” and Guinness, and then have wild sex.

I don’t know exactly what my intentions are in writing this aside from expressing how I feel. I wish I had the balls to tell you in person, or even in a text message. I can send you pictures of my tits and describe how I’d orally please you, but knowing you know know I feel is terrifying. It’s scary because I know the exact reaction I will get from dirty talk, but I have no idea how you would react to my emotions.

In a way, this is the most honest, vulnerable thing I’ve written. I hope it doesn’t back fire. Handle with care.


Hedonic Treadmill