Motel Life

Q: You know what happens when you play a country song backwards?
A: You get your house back, you get your girl back, and your dog comes back to life.

The two brothers Frank and Jerry Lee Flannigan are losers in every sense of the word. They lost their parents when they were young, they've lost their chances at making something of themselves, they lost their house, Frank lost his girlfriend and Jerry Lee lost his leg; now they're stuck in Reno, surviving from day to day in any way they can, drinking far too much and hanging onto their dreams not because they have any illusions about them coming true anymore but just because it seems to be all that's left. Until Jerry Lee bursts into Frank's room one night, inconsolable, and tells him he got behind the wheel after one drink too many, ran over a kid and now he doesn't know what to do. And all the things in their lives that have remained at a shaky status quo for years suddenly get put to the test.

And us, we took the bad luck and strapped it around our feet like concrete. We did the worst imaginable thing you could do. We ran away.

Vlautin's debut novel has a fantastic sense of... presence. He plants his reader right in the narrator Frank's head as he tries to save his brother and himself, in a succinct but incredibly descriptive prose. You could make much of the similarities to American storytellers like Carver, Denis Johnson or Yates, and the dustjacket does, repeatedly; but at the same time, Vlautin is a musician as well and The Motel Life reminds me of nothing so much as some song Tom Waits should have written - perhaps "Burma Shave", the story of a young girl who hitches a ride with Elvis Presley's ghost and ends up dead in a ditch to the tune of "Summertime", or "Christmas Card From A Hooker In Minneapolis", or "9th and Hennepin"... it's all dingy bars, used car lots and empty whiskey bottles, but also a set of characters that for all their fucked-up lives never come across as clichéd white trash jokes. Vlautin genuinely loves his losers and wants them to make it even though both he and his readers know they probably won't, and there is something beautiful in all of them. Jerry Lee draws every part of his life in black and white, and Frank keeps telling elaborate stories that all seem like fictional variations on his own life and dreams; anything to stay alive.

Look, here's a piece of advice. I don't know if it's any good or not for you, you're the only one who'll know if it is. What you got to do is think about the life you want, think about it in your head. Make it a place where you want to be; a ranch, a beach house, a penthouse on the top of a skyscraper. It doesn't matter what it is, but a place that you can hide out in. When things get rough, go there. And if you find a place and it quits working, just change it. (...) Hope is the key. You can make shit up, there's no law against that. Make up some place you and your brother can go if you want. It might not work, but it might. Ain't too hard to try.

And it does work, if not always for Frank then at least for Vlautin. Sure, there's a few points where you wonder just how much more he is going to put his characters through the wringer, but he always stays on just the right side of melodrama... after all, what is a good country song but a series of just slightly exaggerated everyday stories set to music that tugs at something in your chest? Willy Vlautin knows how to make a typewriter sound like a weeping pedal steel guitar, I just got to know Frank and Jerry Lee better than I might have wanted to, and it breaks my fucking heart.