- - - - 826 WRITING & TUTORING CENTERS - - - - On Friday, October 17, at 6:30 p.m., Deb Olin Unferth will be reading from her debut novel, Vacation, at the Raven Book Store, in Lawrence, Kansas (6 East Seventh Street). To learn more about the book, - - - - New Yorkers: This year's "Revenge of the Book Eaters" benefit show is a doozy, and there are some tickets still available. Join Paul Simon, Ira Glass, Jonathan Franzen, Tunde Adebimpe and Kyp Malone of TV on the Radio, Parker Posey, Patricia Clarkson, Bobby Cannavale, Grizzly Bear, Rogue Wave, Thao Nguyen, The Daily Show's John Oliver, and Dave Eggers. For details and tickets, click here. - - - - There are some new and beautiful David Foster Wallace Memories and Tributes this week. - - - - The 826 writing centers are looking for interns. For details, click here. - - - -
- - - - We're ready, at last, to announce the winner of this year's Amanda Davis Highwire Fiction Award: it's going to Shivani Manghnani, currently of Honolulu, who's working on a very good story about a mixed martial artist, a little bit of which you can read below. Once again, we received a great many entries, and some wonderful letters, and read a whole lot of topnotch work—we're truly grateful to everyone who sent us their writing, and really glad to be able to offer our congratulations to a new writer in honor of Amanda Davis. So congratulations, Shivani, and thanks, thanks, thanks to everyone who participated. - - - - A N E X C E R P T F R O M Fight Night.BY SHIVANI MANGHNANI- - - - It was Kiki's boyfriend Frank who got Nimisha the receptionist job at his old gym in Astoria. "I don't know," Nimisha said when he first mentioned the idea, imagining how silly she would look, watching people sweat while she grew bigger and bigger. But Nimisha had lost her job at the catering company and her father was ignoring her e-mails about money and child support (he owed her for all those years), so really she had no choice. The manager of the gym, Willie, was a Jamaican with arms as wide as Nimisha's thighs. He hired her on the spot. "Just don't bring your crazy boyfriends around," he warned her playfully, "and we'll be fine." Already, Nimisha knows the regulars. The boxers walk with their heads tilted to the floor, as though listening to the ground beneath them. Some are as old as her father but ask more questions about her life than he ever did. They tell her they have sons and nephews who would love to take her on boat rides around the city. Nimisha's favorite member is Marie, a tall woman from Kerala who stretches with colorful rubber bands. Marie used to work for Mother Teresa and wears soft, loose clothing, her silver hair in two tight braids, and never speaks to anyone. Every morning, Willie makes Nimisha coffee and they sit in his office, the Times spread like a tablecloth between them. Today, Willie sips vanilla Muscle Milk and asks her about the date she had last night. "I don't think he liked me," Nimisha says, trying to recall the face of the software engineer from Antigua who took her to eat seafood at a restaurant with lime-green walls and plastic chairs. He was the tallest man she'd ever kissed, and he threw compliments at her like darts. "Do I make you uncomfortable?" he asked, rubbing the inside of her palm, insisting that she dance with him. "In front of all these people eating chicken?" Nimisha shook her head. The engineer rapped his knuckles against the table and ordered a pitcher of mojitos. "Sounds like a nice guy," Willie says. "And then he told me about his girlfriend, a belly dancer." Nimisha laughs dryly. "He said there were things she could teach me." Willie covers his face with big, veiny hands. He sighs. "That bad, huh?" Clicking on the mouse of the computer, he brings the blank, sleeping screen to life. Nimisha waits for him to elaborate. Sometimes, Willie is a talker. Most of his sentences begin with "In Jamaica ..." Usually, Nimisha has no patience for old people and their stories about their home country, but she likes her new boss. At 50, he is still smooth, his face lineless. On the rare occasions when he laughs, Nimisha never wants him to stop. "We have a new guy," Willie says later, when Nimisha is stocking the fridge with energy drinks. Willie is wearing a gray muscle tee with sweat stains that mark his ribs. "Indian, like you." Willie gestures to the free-weights section, to the light-skinned, lanky figure sweeping under the barbells, his back hunched like a question mark. He wears his pants low, the white shirt big and untucked. "Be nice to him," Willie says. Passing her when she's at the front desk, the new guy gives Nimisha a little nod. She buries her head in the Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue that's been in a drawer for the entire month she's worked there and tries not to be bothered by the bodies. "You shouldn't read those magazines." It's the new guy, smelling like cigarettes. He points to the black, bikini-clad woman on the cover. "It's mind control." "Thanks for the tip," she says, twirling a piece of hair. She allows herself to notice the details of his face—the big mole by his lip, the eyes that look lined, the sideburns she would have laughed at under other circumstances. "The new guy's creepy," Nimisha says later, emptying the trash in Willie's office. "Well, the creep works for free. And his name is Rishi. Says he wants to be a boxer, but he's broke. I let him work out so long as he keeps the place clean." "He boxes?" Through the open door, Nimisha studies him. "That skinny thing?" Willie flips open a composition book full of numbers. Then he closes it. "I'm gonna need you to work the next shift," he says. "It's an emergency." "No way," Nimisha says. Sameer Khan is fighting tonight, and she refuses to miss the undercard or the countdown. "Can't the new guy cover?" "Can't trust someone new." "Sure you can," she says, getting up to find him. Rishi is in the bathroom, refilling the paper towels, wearing headphones. "Willie needs someone to stay late and I can't," she blurts. She'd planned to be smoother. She wonders if her hair is frizzing. "I'd do anything for the man," Rishi says loudly. His earphones are still on and from the sound of it it's Tupac. "Owe him my life." Upstairs, Nimisha shows him how to check people in, how to use the cash register. Rishi moves like a sleepwalker but listens carefully. He runs his fingers over the row of protein bars, nodding constantly. "You box, right?" Nimisha says. "I've seen you," she lies. "What do you know about it?" he says, eyes narrowing. "You're pretty good." "I don't box," he says. "I mean, it's cool, but it's tired. It's at the end of its era." "Didn't know sports had eras." "Fighting does. You heard of MMA?" "Is that Ecstasy?" He drops his head to his chest, a huge grin spreading. "It might just be," he says. "Mixed martial arts," he enunciates. "I don't know about all that," Nimisha says, waving a hand through the air. "You know who Sameer Khan is?" "That Paki from England? He's still wearing diapers." "Watch it," she says, tossing towels in the bin. "And make sure you take these down to the laundry before Tiffany comes." Tiffany is the late-night receptionist, a Korean girl with a self-admitted Indian fetish. They have the best eyes in the world, she once told Nimisha; too bad their mothers spoil them. Nimisha wonders if Rishi's met her, then tries not to care, watching him chew on the edge of his lip. "I'm just saying," Rishi says. "He's not really one of us." "Well, he's fighting tonight." "Oh!" Rishi circles her like a shark. "So that's why I have to work late." For a second, he reaches forward, as though to grab her. "So you live around here?" He picks up a mop resting against the wall and stabs it in the bucket. "I should know where I'm going after this is over." "Thought you said you didn't box," she says, but it's too late. She's already started giving him directions to a house that isn't hers. - - - - OTHER McSWEENEY'S FEATURES: - - - - Announcing the Winner of the Amanda Davis Highwire Fiction AwardLast Crumbs of My Childhood Still Available for Feature-Film Adaptation By Michael Kaplan The Expectations Game By Scott Blaszak A Populist's Speech for the Patriotic Masses By Maria Parrott Chapter One of The Miracle Worker, as Written by the Other William Gibson By Brantley Bryant |
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