KEN BRUEN – The Killing of the Tinkers. Jack Taylor #2. St. Martins Minotaur, softcover, 2004.

   The death drive drives to self-destruction. Not just to cease to be, to stop the pain, to nothingness. But towards an earlier incarnation. A oneness with everything. The self is an illusion dividing us against everything and everyone, creating a loneliness we cannot bear. Death is coming, ready or not. But as much as we try to avoid it, to do everything we can to stay alive, to self-preserve, take meds (Christian scientists notwithstanding), to exercise, to exorcise the death from life: It’s coming. And at times we even hurry it along, speed it up along its merry way, brush the front steps, invite it in for tea.

   At the end of The Guards, Jack Taylor kills his best friend. It’s justified. But who gives a crap, justified? What does that mean? What does it matter? Like Sam Spade handing Brigid O’Shaunessy over to the cops. Choosing ‘justice’ over love in this corrupted world. What the hell for?

   So here Jack Taylor finds himself. Alone. Addicted to coke, and drinking himself to death. The usual.

   He gets hired to find out who’s killing the hobos. He fucks up the investigation, gets the wrong guy killed, and hires a hit man to clean it up. The end. A freaking mess.

Meantime, as per usual, he gives the reader a bunch of tips: Songs and books to listen to and read on the road to perdition.

   He reverentially mentions Jernigan. Twice. So I order it.

DAVID GATES – Jernigan. Alfred A. Knopf, hardcover, 1991.

   Jernigan is a failed English lit academic who quits to be a half-assed corporate real estate broker, married to another overeducated souse, raising a teenaged boy in the lower Hudson valley. The suburban dream.

   He picks at his wife constantly, little passive aggressive pokes at her laziness and she at his impotence.

   They have a party. It’s the fourth of July. The neighbors are all there. At the pool. And finally she’s had it. She says ‘fuck you—fuck all of you’, strips off her clothes and jumps in the car, backs out of the driveway full speed, eyes full of hate, only to be instantaneously t-boned by a van. Dead.

   Jernigan starts drinking more and more. Gets fired by his firm. And starts screwing his son’s girlfriend’s mom.

   The mom is in a group of suburban survivalists. They squat in suburban buildings, they dumpster dive for barely expired produce behind the supermarkets, they raise bunnies in their basements. To eat. They make their own moonshine. They have no bills. Their kids go to the nice suburban schools. They don’t work. So they can ‘truly live’.

   This kind of life doesn’t suit Jernigan. Does any?

   So he sells his house, moves in with his son’s girlfriends’ mother, and drinks himself into oblivion.

   The end.

   Can’t say I enjoyed this stuff. But there’s something to this death drive. Maybe.