First, let me clarify one point about Yet Another Fashion Disaster. The consensus seems to be that those cloggy-footwear thingies were, indeed, an unmitigated mistake. But the other pair I purchased were NOT identical: I repeat, I did not buy another pair of clogs. Yes, they were Aerosoles (so sue me), but at least they were black leather, with high heels. Even vaguely fashionable. Well, maybe.
I read Then We Came To The End, by Joshua Ferris, two weeks ago, and have been planning to write about it here. Ferris, born in 1974, is definitely not a Boomer, not even a Remote Boomer. He is, 
however, published by Hachette. So am I! (Does this mean we're related?)
Today, The New York Times named the book one of the 10 Best Books of 2007. So I guess I'm no longer "discovering" this small, odd little work of fiction. I think the burden of being among the "Ten Best," though, might be too heavy for its slim shoulders. The most unusual aspect of Ferris's writing is that he uses the first person plural throughout the novel. Everything is "we," not "I" or "she" or "they." The storyis set in Every-Office, a modern, cubicle-ridden advertising agency in which "we" work:
"We had visceral, rich memories of dull, interminable hours. Then a day would pass in perfect harmony with our projects, our family members, and our coworkers, and we couldn't believe we were getting paid for this..."
At first, all the "we-ness" is eerie, but it grows on you after a while, sucking you in so far that you feel the story is happening to you. Which, I believe, is the point.
The writing is witty, and often very funny and insightful. Here's Ferris's description of Lynn Mason, the boss of the ad agency who intimidates us.
"She was not a big women--in fact, she was rather petite--but when we thought of her from home at night, she loomed large. When she was in a mood, she didn't make small talk. SHe dressed like a Bloomingdale's model and ate like a Buddhist monk.. .. What you really admired about her, though, were her shoes. As aficionados of design, we--the women among us especially--sat in awe of their sleek singularity, exquisite color, and contoured elegance, marveling at them as others might the armrest of a chiar by Chareles Eames, or the black wing of a Pentagon jetfighter."
The story is infused with a sense of anxiety and dread, because the agency is not doing well and employees are being laid off right and left.
"We hated not knowing who was next. . . How would our bills get paid? And where would we find new work? We knew the power of the credit card companies and the collection agencies and the consequences of bankruptcy. Those institutions were without appeal. They put your name into a system, and from that point forward vital parts of the American dream were foreclosed upon. A back-yard swimming pool. A long weekend in Vegas. A low-end BMW. These were not Jeffersonian ideals, perhaps, on par with life and liberty, but at this advanced stage, with the West won and the Cold War over, they, too, seemed among our inalienable rights."
The writing style, as well as all the "we's," becomes more and more familiar. Then, there's an office tragi-comedy event that could have been horrific, but is semi-comical, instead.
It's a wonderful little book. But little. If you don't expect too much, you'll be pleasantly surprised. Just forget all that stuff about "10 Best." Way too much pressure.
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