Remote Feed: Stories - Softcover

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David Gilbert is the author of the novels & Sons and The Normals. His stories have appeared in The New Yorker, Harper’s, GQ, Bomb, the Mississippi Review, and New Stories from the South, Best of 1996. He lives in New York with his wife and three children.

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The masterfully crafted stories that comprise Remote Feed mark the auspicious debut of a daring and remarkably perceptive writer. From war-torn Bosnia to a college sorority house to kill-or-be-killed Hollywood, David Gilbert uses bold prose and dark wit to paint a devastating picture of "normal" life on the brink of desperation and paranoia. His insights into the minor tragedies, disappointments, and desires that shape us reflect a deep understanding of human nature and a genuine compassion for his characters.

Filled with startling twists, piercing irony, and layers of meaning, the world Gilbert creates in Remote Feed is a complex one -- often hilarious, sometimes frightening, but always fascinating.

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Chapter 1

Cool Moss

It was the summer of theme parties. The Millers started it in June with line dancing. They'd found some group from Texas who called themselves Get In Line! and we watched and followed these sequined wonders as they stomped through the "Achy-Breaky" and the "Mason-Dixon." The Bissels tried to top the Millers a few weeks later with a psychic named Francine. She read palms, tarot cards, was even able to talk to Lena Bissel's great-grandfather, but like so many spiritualists she had no sense of humor and did not appreciate Chuck Hubert's zombie walk. Soon after that the Makendricks transformed their annual July Fourth party into what would have been a spectacular kite party had there been any wind. Laura Makendrick broke into very public tears. And eventually Zoe and I made a stab at it. We concocted a "Foods of the World" party which quickly turned into a "Drinks of the World" party. Once again Charlie Hubert performed his zombie walk -- a few people always egg him on -- and a table was broken, certainly no antique. I really don't know what it was about that summer, maybe we were all just restless, but normal parties felt dull and forgetful. Instead, there had to be a something learned even if it was that borscht does in fact taste like shit and a healthy supply of rum can save almost any party.

Tonight belonged to the Greers, Bill and Tammy. In the inferno of our friends they dwell in the third circle: the friends of friends with money. Lots of money. I sat downstairs on the couch and waited for Zoe. We were running late but I didn't care. An awful rumor had spread that there would be no alcohol served, something about false courage and a numbing of the brain. Yes, I thought, booze will do that to you. Thank God. So I was having a drink which quickly turned into a series of drinks, all lit with gin. That summer I was drinking gin. But I wasn't smoking.

The television was on and my three-year-old son was propped a few feet from the screen. Static raised his fine blond hair. The beginning of Chitty Chitty Bang Bang was playing on the VCR. Ray loved it. I knew because he had his hands jammed down his elastic pants and he mumbled about cars -- "Vroom, Vroom" -- as he squeezed his groin like a toy horn. In May he had discovered the first joy of the pleasure principle. We tried to thwart this habit by continually slapping him on the wrist and looking angry and pointing a finger to the ever-watchful sky, but he still carried on, our little boner boy. And nowhere was off limits. Restaurants. Birthday parties. He could pin the tail on the donkey with one hand. For a while we considered building a cardboard skirt, like the kind that prevents a dog from scratching his recently pinned ears, at least that's the joke we told gullible friends.

"He'll grow into it," I said to the nervous baby-sitter. She was sitting on the edge of a chair, a knapsack hugging her shoulders. Her name was Gwen and she had a large head and a large nose. I wondered if the kids at school were merciless toward her. Sombrero face.

She giggled. I thought of following up with a gag about Dick Van Dyke, but I wasn't sure if she'd even know who Dick Van Dyke was and I didn't want her to just hear the words "dick" and "dyke." So I offered her a soft drink instead.

"No thanks, I'm fine." She also had a bad complexion. I figured baby-sitting was a relief to her on Saturday nights.

"We won't be late," I told her.

"That's all right. I mean, it doesn't matter." She shrugged her knapsack. "I have lots of work." And she smiled without showing her teeth. I thought the worse: braces and receding gums.

"And he's easy," I said, gesturing toward my boy. "After this, another video, and if he's still awake after that, pop in another." I went over to the folding table that acts as our bar and mixed myself another drink. "He's seen them all a hundred times, the same damn movies, over and over again, but still, you know." My point clinked out in falling ice, and there was silence except for Truly Scrumptious singing her song. I sat back down. On the floor above I could hear Zoe's maneuverings. I didn't want to rush her; she was always feeling rushed. It was better to stay quiet than to bitch about being late. Just accept the situation. And I had that familiar feeling of waiting in an airport lounge for a delayed plane, and the more I waited the more I became convinced that this plane would crash over Ohio or skid into the ocean and that this drink would be my last drink and that this moment would be my last memory of things.

Soon Zoe came downstairs and I was relieved to see her. She gave me an expression of exasperation. "Sorry," she said.

"No problem." I lifted my glass to show her that I had been taking advantage of the lag time.

She said to the baby-sitter, "You must be Gwen."

The baby-sitter stood up. "Yes, hello Mrs. Scott."

"Well." Zoe's hands dropped to her side and she took a deep breath. She was beautiful, tanned from the summer, firm from jogging, and her hair had recovered some of its youthful blondness. "Just put him to bed when he gets tired. He's had dinner but if he gets hungry, give him a fruit roll-up. They're in the cupboard." I used to love to watch Zoe think. Her deep-set eyes have these attractive pouches and when she thinks she seems to search them for misplaced items. "Oh, and the Greers' phone number is by the kitchen phone, along with the emergency numbers."

The baby-sitter was nodding her huge head. "Got it," she said.

Zoe turned to me. "Okay, we're off." She walked over to Ray and slumped her knees against his back. "Ray, we're going," she said in a louder voice.

"Yep."

"We'll be back in just a little bit." I knew that Zoe wanted a child that would cry at such departures and wrap helpless arms around her and wail terribly. But Ray just sat there, hands down his pants, readying himself for a stupid car that could fly.

I ruffled his hair and said, "Have a good time." And as Zoe went toward the front door, I topped off my drink and took it with me. "'Bye now," I said, a bit awkwardly.

The Greers live just far enough away to remind us that we don't live in the truly nice neighborhood. "You know they're not serving any booze," I said.

"Yes."

"They've got more money than anyone and they're not serving booze. That just doesn't seem right. There's no heavy machinery involved." Zoe was quiet and looked like a weight lifter before attempting a clean and jerk. "You all right?" I asked.

"I'm not in the mood for a party tonight," she said.

"I hear you. Especially a party without booze." The sky had this grenadine glow. Months earlier a volcano had erupted on some distant island in the Philippines. A whole village was destroyed, fifty-seven people burned up and blown into the atmosphere -- a definite tragedy -- but all that summer every sunset seemed straight out of Hollywood.

"They have a surprise in store." Zoe pushed down the visor and checked her makeup in the pop-up vanity mirror. She wiped at the corners of her mouth. "I hate surprises," she said.

"Me too." And as we passed under tree-lined streets, I knew that there were eyes on the two of us and that we were somehow talking to those eyes, a third-party viewer, a witness, a ghost. "Surprises are for suckers," I said. The houses and front lawns grew progressively bigger. I rolled down the window so that the rushing air could enter our conversation.

"Malachi?"

"What?"

She paused for a second. I thought she was going to say something that would force me to pull the car over and face her. A hearty dialogue. But there wasn't any melodrama in our life -- no affairs, no unemployment problems, no addictions -- and we still thought that people on daytime talk shows were freaks. We were simply...