I can’t recall which of Jon Berger’s stories I encountered online first. Was it “The Girls’ Locker Room”, “The Beginning of Dusk”, “The Real Ones”, “Special Beam Cannon” or something else? I cannot for the life of me remember and the timeline is too fucked to figure it out without a cork board and a roll of twine.
But every time I’ve come across a new one, I read it with relish. Buddy can spin a dang fine yarn, let me you. His characters are screw ups, romantics, stoners and two-time losers, all written about with empathy, love, and a clear eye. I see a lotta pals from the old days in these characters, leading me to wonder where half of them ended up, wondering whether some of them are still alive or what.
Our bookstore is not doing well. It is in my hometown. It is a town that you would not think a bookstore exist in.
Sounds a lot like my hometown. Maybe yours too?
Ohio’s Gob Pile Press is set to release his debut collection, Goon Dog. The aforementioned stories are in there, among a bunch of other great stuff, from quick micro blasts to longer pieces. Along with crafting these beauty characters, Berger has a keen eye for ups and downs of those life.
Dig this little number, from “Vassago”:
It didn’t bother me to leave things behind anymore. What other people thought about me and my life didn’t bother me anymore. I stopped thinking about everything that use to bother me. Now I think everything is a trick I already know about.
Or this incisive bit of literary criticism, by way of “The Roofer”:
I picked the book up and flipped through it. My blood had soaked into the pages. It looked really bad. The poetry, not my blood. Some pages only had a few words on them. It was the type of poetry that smart middle school kids read, and then, when they got older, were embarrassed they ever read it. You know the person who writes this poetry. They got famous on Instagram.
Reading the stories in Goon Dog feels like you’re sitting around, tipping back a couple cold ones, passing some smoke back and forth, listening to Berger tell you about the shit he went through the other day. Literally, in some cases:
We sat on some folding chairs in his backyard where the porch was being built. We smoked some weed and drank more beer and bullshitted about old stories from growing up.
Like Berger’s my pal and I’m invested in him and the people he’s telling me about, not only because the stories and characters are dope, but because he writes so well he brings them alive. And I dig that. Big time. Maybe you’ll dig it too? Do yourself a solid and check it out.