This artless and disappointing novella-length fiction from the author of the well-received novel Judas the Gentile
presents a detached, impersonal overview of one man's troubled past and current life. Faintly reminiscent of Hemingway's In Our Time, the narrative sandwiches flashbacks of ex–marine corporal Richard Santo's Vietnam combat experience between longer vignettes set in 1970s Florida. Recently returned to civilian life and living out of his car, Santo encounters three young men and a woman occupying a decrepit halfway house at 613 West Jefferson, just off the campus of Florida State University in Tallahassee. Representing a likely source of money for drugs and booze, Santo is welcomed to join the group, whose members also take in a prostitute with a knack for cashing bad checks. Santo is experiencing post–traumatic stress syndrome, having out-of-body experiences while searching to find meaning in his life. He befriends a smalltime drug dealer, and the housemates sign on to make a midnight run to pick up a shipment of marijuana in Panama City for a local hood. The deal goes bad, and both the drug dealer and the hood die. Splitting $500 Santo takes from the hood's corpse, the misfits plan to leave for Atlanta, hoping for a better life. On the eve of their exodus, the house burns down and they all have an epiphany of sorts. Sadly, neither the plot nor the protagonist of this work enjoy much success in finding meaningful direction. The manifest lack of a credible narrative voice and the clichéd, pedestrian Kerouackian plot deprive this tale of animation and credibility. (Mar.)
