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Arthur Nersesian's underground literary treasure is an unforgettable slice of gritty New York City life.
This is the darkly hilarious odyssey of an anonymous slacker. He's a perennial couch-surfer, an aspiring writer searching for himself in spite of himself, and he's just trying to survive. But life has other things in store for the fuck-up. From being dumped by his girlfriend to getting fired for asking for a raise, from falling into a robbery to posing as a gay man to keep his job at a porno theater, the fuck-up's tragi-comedy is perfectly realized by Arthur Nersesian, who manages to create humor and suspense out of urban desperation. "Read it and howl," says Bruce Benderson (author of User), "and be glad it didn't happen to you."
are you doing here?” “I’m the projectionist,” she replied. “What’s your problem?” “Oh, sorry,” I replied, flustered. Not knowing what else to say, I nervously said, “How do you do? I’m straight.” And then I bolted out. FOUR I retreated back across Twelfth and down Broadway intending to return to Helmsley’s with the heartening news. But as I passed by the NYU dormitories, specifically the one that housed Eunice, I thought about that olive man in the white suit. Instant anger and hurt eclipsed
like a medieval dungeon, with dark stone walls, puddles of water, virtually no lighting, and the moans. There was constant moaning all around. A hand out of the darkness groped my thigh. “Fuck off!” I yelled. “Shhhh,” Miguel whispered back. “Occasionally someone might reach out; all you do is simply take their hand and push it away. Not rudely or quickly, everyone here is as human as you are.” We went back up a staircase to the front of the theater. “Now look here.” He pointed to a burnt-out
just around the corner.” “And summer’s just around spring’s corner.” They sounded like placidminded housewives leaning out on adjacent window sills. “You should join us. We’re going back out to the Golden State tomorrow.” “Gosh, I’m getting sweaty just thinking about it.” I stared at the ground and listened to everyone contribute a line to this potpourri conversation. It was a three-way dialogue that amounted to nothing more than a show of good faith; all meant well and were sane and shared
the quick and greedy, but history holds all the real laurels. Soon he brought his conversation around to the abode. “It’s kind of a private museum,” he explained, “furnished with personal relics. All I’m going to ask is a mere one hundred dollars a month, a courtesy fee. But I won’t be shy about one demand.” His face tensed and he leaned over his chair toward me. “I don’t want it to be a hangout, do you understand? This isn’t some fuck pad for you and your friends. If I find anyone up there
that moment to bring it to an end. Taking out a piece of paper, I wrote: Dear Glenn, What we had was short lived but sincere and to try to continue it any longer would be prolonging a natural end. I don’t want you to see this as a rejection, but what we have is neither a relationship nor a friendship. All this can lead to is preventing a more important person from entering either of our lives. Enclosed, I’m returning the keys that you entrusted me with. Take care. I signed it and then reread