you added the amount of undergraduate credits they had together it was
enough for one bachelor's degree, which gave them a bit of confidence in putting their heads together, even though they were
pretty drunk heads by the time they really got into it.
Once they had been peeing clear for hours, when simple things like balancing a bowl of cereal in their hands became nearly
impossible, the conversation often reverted to simple primal confessions. This is when Bobby slurred that he'd burned down
his mother's boyfriend's house after the man raped her, that the man was alive but probably wished he wasn't. This was when
Snowden talked about all the foster homes, told the funny stories he could about the quirks of each one, how he had been returned
to his father in ninth grade, how even he was surprised at the way his father's nose disappeared into his face when he punched
it. How he couldn't even remember the last thing the man had said to him that had pissed him off so much, but would never
forget the smell of the adrenaline-rich blood that filled his own nose, the orgasmic bliss of momentarily giving his anger
free reign.
Bobby's place was smaller than Snowden's, made even more so by the books in milk crates that lined the walls. Aside from the
ones on the shelves in the bathroom, every single book in Bobby Finley's
house was a hardcover first edition of The Great Work, a novel by Robert M. Finley, all signed and numbered by the author himself. He had so many that he used them for furniture,
laying a wooden plank and cushions over crates for his couch and bed. Bobby started this collection four months after the
publication of The Great Work, three years before, picking up the first editions at near 85 percent discount on the remainder shelves of large bookstore
chains. They seemed so forlorn sitting there, each his dream incarnate, rejected, abandoned. That was how the collection began.
The Great Work received only two reviews, both by publishing magazines pretty much obligated to review anything with pages and a spine. Both
were dismissive, seemed confused and not a little hostile, as if the text that had been given to them was not printed on paper
but instead tattooed on the shaved flesh of a large and bemused grizzly bear. After reading them, it took two weeks for Bobby
Finley to stop fixating on burning the buildings that housed the critics, the magazines, and the distributors, in that order.
Later, Bobby managed to douse those desires with the knowledge that both critics had been white and unfortunately had proved
themselves unable to separate themselves from their preconceived notion of what to expect from an author of African descent,
and therefore had blinded themselves to the genius The Great Work really was. This perspective was reinforced by the fact that both reviewers had made major factual errors when describing
the plot, errors that coincided with a misprint in the summary on the dusk jacket, leading Bobby to determine that at best
they'd given it a sloppy, rushed read or, as he suspected, hadn't read the whole book at all.
Unfortunately, The Great Work's reviews proved a harbinger for the reaction of the few readers it managed to attract. Though no readings were ever actually
conducted for The Great Work (several were arranged, but no one showed up; even the bookstore clerks called in sick), Bobby Finley was still able to determine
this by months of long hours of searching newsgroups on the Internet. Bobby Finley took no solace from the fact that all three
people who mentioned The Great Work lacked the imagination to use any descriptor other than a conjugation of the verb to suck.
The purpose of the author's own collection of The Great Work changed dramatically after his first and only signing. A clerk at the black bookstore in the New Carrellton Mall put an accidental
zero on the order form and after seven months local author Bobby Finley was called in an
enough for one bachelor's degree, which gave them a bit of confidence in putting their heads together, even though they were
pretty drunk heads by the time they really got into it.
Once they had been peeing clear for hours, when simple things like balancing a bowl of cereal in their hands became nearly
impossible, the conversation often reverted to simple primal confessions. This is when Bobby slurred that he'd burned down
his mother's boyfriend's house after the man raped her, that the man was alive but probably wished he wasn't. This was when
Snowden talked about all the foster homes, told the funny stories he could about the quirks of each one, how he had been returned
to his father in ninth grade, how even he was surprised at the way his father's nose disappeared into his face when he punched
it. How he couldn't even remember the last thing the man had said to him that had pissed him off so much, but would never
forget the smell of the adrenaline-rich blood that filled his own nose, the orgasmic bliss of momentarily giving his anger
free reign.
Bobby's place was smaller than Snowden's, made even more so by the books in milk crates that lined the walls. Aside from the
ones on the shelves in the bathroom, every single book in Bobby Finley's
house was a hardcover first edition of The Great Work, a novel by Robert M. Finley, all signed and numbered by the author himself. He had so many that he used them for furniture,
laying a wooden plank and cushions over crates for his couch and bed. Bobby started this collection four months after the
publication of The Great Work, three years before, picking up the first editions at near 85 percent discount on the remainder shelves of large bookstore
chains. They seemed so forlorn sitting there, each his dream incarnate, rejected, abandoned. That was how the collection began.
The Great Work received only two reviews, both by publishing magazines pretty much obligated to review anything with pages and a spine. Both
were dismissive, seemed confused and not a little hostile, as if the text that had been given to them was not printed on paper
but instead tattooed on the shaved flesh of a large and bemused grizzly bear. After reading them, it took two weeks for Bobby
Finley to stop fixating on burning the buildings that housed the critics, the magazines, and the distributors, in that order.
Later, Bobby managed to douse those desires with the knowledge that both critics had been white and unfortunately had proved
themselves unable to separate themselves from their preconceived notion of what to expect from an author of African descent,
and therefore had blinded themselves to the genius The Great Work really was. This perspective was reinforced by the fact that both reviewers had made major factual errors when describing
the plot, errors that coincided with a misprint in the summary on the dusk jacket, leading Bobby to determine that at best
they'd given it a sloppy, rushed read or, as he suspected, hadn't read the whole book at all.
Unfortunately, The Great Work's reviews proved a harbinger for the reaction of the few readers it managed to attract. Though no readings were ever actually
conducted for The Great Work (several were arranged, but no one showed up; even the bookstore clerks called in sick), Bobby Finley was still able to determine
this by months of long hours of searching newsgroups on the Internet. Bobby Finley took no solace from the fact that all three
people who mentioned The Great Work lacked the imagination to use any descriptor other than a conjugation of the verb to suck.
The purpose of the author's own collection of The Great Work changed dramatically after his first and only signing. A clerk at the black bookstore in the New Carrellton Mall put an accidental
zero on the order form and after seven months local author Bobby Finley was called in an
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