by Benjamin Parzybok
2008, Small Beer Press
Somewhat recently I wound up visiting Salem, Massachusetts with some friends who were interested in some of the spookier aspects of that particular township's colonial history. Salem, of course, is cluttered more with hokey tourist traps than it is chilling reminders of its troubled past. Salem never fails to disappoint me (with the notable exception of the graveyards) but on this particular trip we wandered past an independent bookstore called Cornerstone Books located on Lafayette Street. I was enticed by the interesting assortment of used books located on the sidewalk outside the store and entered as is my booknerdly duty.
I love independent bookstores. When in one, I succumb to a wonderful feeling of camaraderie; the books are arranged in lovingly assembled themed displays, the clerks are usually very friendly, and best of all, the shelves are adorned with four-sentence-long descriptions of books suggested by employees.
I usually spend a good deal of time perusing those employee recommendations, usually storing as many as I can in my cellphone for later library requests. I do however, always feel obligated to purchase at least one book that looks interesting to support the store in an effort to "think local, buy local".On this particular occasion, I happened across a book with a charmingly cartooned cover with an intriguing premise: three slacker friends find themselves unable to put down a bright orange vintage couch and carry it for weeks on end in a voyage of self-discovery. While I do not generally shy away from quirky concepts (particularly if they have high comedic value or metaphysical angst like, say, Vonnegut or Auster, respectively), I do need a little bit of encouragement to take the $16 plunge. In this case, the employee recommendation was just the thing. It began "I approached this book warily, but..."
Ah! Just what I needed to hear. So I bought the book, the woman who had written the enthusiastic recommendation rang me up, and as I left the store I discovered that my copy was autographed, no less!
Several weeks later I picked up the book and began reading.
Couch, unfortunately, does not live up to the promise of its central narrative conceit. The prose is self-consciously modern (references to computer program code and indie rock bands abound), and regardless of how intriguing a plot is, I struggle if the prose reads to me like something I just as easily could have written myself. The characters are poorly fleshed out and work neither as generalized concepts nor as realistically evocative people.
The plot of the novel saunters self-assuredly into the realm of the absurd as gunmen attempt to steal the couch, the couch casts magical sleeping spells on its carriers like the poppy scene in Wizard of Oz, and the characters float for several days on the ocean on the couch with seemingly no other provisions than a cooler of beer that they float across.
Coincidences and contrivances abound - for example, all three of the main characters die at some point during the book and are resurrected within twenty pages no worse for the wear. The jokey self-aware tone of the prose (one of the narratives more tongue-in-cheek gimmicks is having the socially awkward computer nerd character in confrontational conversation with his brain; to wit, "He uncased his laptop, tracked down a wireless signal, and got on his knees in front of his desk to check his email. 'As if to pray,' brain said. 'I know, I know,' Thom replied.") does not seem to match some of the deeper themes Parzybok wishes to address.
The idea is basically that the couch represents the laziness of American culture, its apathy and stagnation, its inability to imagine or reinvent, its willingness to succumb to the numbing qualities of television and advertisements. The characters are forced to reinvent, to move as opposed to remainign mired in unemployment and a lack of ambition.
This is fine except that the book's flights of fancy and relatively unmagical prose do not encourage the reader to suspend disbelief in order to carry (as it were) an extended metaphor over the course of three hundred pages. With the exception of the aforementioned comupter nerd character, whose journey of self-actualization is too contrived to move the reader, none of the characters undergo the kind of fundamental arc from passivity to passion that the author is trying to herald.
It's not that I take issue with that message of stagnation, complacency and laziness. But it seems that having the nameless cutthroat thieves attempting to steal the couch be corporate giants and world governments cheapens that message. Although, on second thought, perhaps I do take issue with it. After all, I read the book seated where else but on my own bright orange vintage couch.
Post-script: The nerd character gets laid towards the end and this is the cringe-worthy description of the sex: She pulled him toward the bed. Thom conscious of the size of him, his size everywhere. She grabbed him there, by that size. Directed him onto his back with it. Yikes.
