"Phonetic Masterpieces of Absurdity" by Shelly Oria, recommended by FSG Originals
Issue No. 128
EDITOR’S NOTE
I am not one of those editors who will tell you they always knew they wanted to work in publishing, or wanted to be a capital “E” editor. I had no idea what I wanted to be (still don’t, really) but I always knew who I wanted to be around. I wanted (still want, always want) to be close to people who take risks I wouldn’t dream of taking, people with talent sizzling under their skin, people whose brains are filled with magic, people who can see through to the soul, people who, frankly, scare me. And Shelly Oria scares the shit out of me. Her writing is fierce yet supple, ambitious but controlled, inspired and studied. It is scary brilliant.
Here, in “Phonetic Masterpieces of Absurdity,” you’ll witness Shelly Oria’s scary brilliance on full display—the beauty in the brashness of the interviewer, the nuance in the guardedness of the subject. Time and space and memory have been altered ever so slightly so something otherworldly can peek through. And yet, Shelly’s work is absolutely rooted in reality, informed by authentic, empathetic, interpersonal interactions. How else could she so accurately convey the irrepressible lust for personal intimacy that haunts her characters, her stories?
I’m not equipped to discuss the technical feats that Shelly Oria pulls off in her writing—I’d likely wind up embarrassing myself if I tried. But I have no doubt she will be studied in creative writing classes for years to come. I do, however, feel comfortable sharing what keeps me hooked on Shelly (this is where I’m cool with embarrassing myself): What impresses me, thrills me, scares me most is that Shelly (let’s call her goddess Kali) is capable of both creating and destroying within a single story—sometimes within a single sentence. This is a phenomenon I search for, long for, in just about everything I consume. If Shelly keeps this up, I’m sticking around.
Emily Bell Associate Editor, FSG Originals/Farrar, Straus and Giroux
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Phonetic Masterpieces of Absurdity
by Shelly Oria
Recommended by FSG Originals
Sometimes after the men leave, Nadine’s body tells her to wait awhile for the water. Make that bath count more. She lies still, and her skin feels too tight on her bones, like someone gave her the wrong size. With a finger that smells of them, she looks for sharpness where she knows she will find it: elbows, knees, shoulder blades. The edges of her bones comfort her, but it’s a feeling that passes quickly, and soon there is need for more, for proof. So Nadine gently touches her cheek with her knuckles; her knuckles are her secret weapon. She thinks: These knuckles could make a peach bleed.
She should probably charge more by now, but she can never figure out what to say, or how to say it.
The men smell of baby carrots, because their five-year-old son mistakes baby carrots for candy, and of sweat, because they are always nervous when they see her, even if they’ve been coming for years. Or they smell of ice cream, because last night their wife tried to revive the marriage with some innovative foreplay, and have Viagra breath, because they stopped trusting their body long before it failed them. It doesn’t matter.
Thursdays are the busiest. She never understood why. On Wednesdays, her BlackBerry keeps buzzing with men’s anticipation until she feels like there are bees inside her ears. So on Wednesdays, saying no is important. I miss you, too, Baby; really wish I could. Every man is Baby, no exception; that she learned early on. Even the sophisticated ones appreciate the gesture: the implicit warmth, the promise of anonymity. But she does know their names, of course, sometimes even their last name, and on a few occasions the name of a wife, a mother, a sister they haven’t spoken to in six years. It pains them, that the sister won’t return their calls. They ask, Why won’t she fucking let it go already? Nadine doesn’t want to look for answers. If they insist on talking, she touches their hair, lets her eyes scroll up and down their torso; she waits for their body to remember what it wants. Really, she waits for the chatter to stop, but the trick is still giving it the space it needs. Once, when it was absolutely necessary, she made tea.
Generally speaking, she remembers more than she should: the bump on the back of their neck, the sweat behind their ear right before they come, the scar on the toe of their left foot and the story behind it. There is always a story behind it. They tell the stories and then retell them. Because, well: if she doesn’t truly exist, surely she doesn’t remember; they desperately need to believe that she isn’t real. But then there are times when she can see sadness in their eyebrows, in their lower back, and suddenly they want her to remember. Temporarily, they acknowledge her presence in the world. It’s funny, but you are the most stable thing in my life, you know? In these moments, she has learned, a nod goes a long way.
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