Donald Pollock: Knockemstiff

I turned and looked at the old man through the window. He was still watching the men on TV beat each other senseless for a chance at happiness. With my father everything had always been about the fight, and I sadly realized that we would never really know each other before he passed. For the first time since I’d been sober, I began to crave a drink. Even the smell of the wood smoke reminded me of whiskey. As I stood there, I recalled something that Jim told me every time he saw me. “You pick up the phone and call me before you take that first one, Bobby. At least give me that much respect.” But I’d called him a nigger behind his back, just to please my bitter old man, and I wasn’t sure I could ask for anybody’s help tonight.

My father suddenly punched the air and whooped loud enough that I could hear him outside. The look on his face was ecstatic. Then the plastic tube slipped from his nose, and I watched him grab for it. For a moment he seemed to hesitate, as if he might be considering his other option, and it became clear to me that he was tired of it all. But after glancing over at my brother, he carefully fastened the hose back in place. He took a deep breath, and I took one with him. The TV light brightened and then dimmed. Tossing my cigarette in the grass, I turned and started toward my car. The fight was nearly over.

First, I’d like to say that, though the stories in this book were inspired by a real place, Knockemstiff, Ohio, all of the characters are fictional. I grew up in the holler, and my family and our neighbors were good people who never hesitated to help someone in a time of need.

Since this is my first book, I have a lot of people to thank: first and foremost, Michelle Herman, writer, teacher, and mentor, who believed in me when I needed it most; Michael Kardos, who pulled “Bactine” from the slush pile and didn’t send it back; Kyle Minor, my chief adviser in all things literary; my professors, past and present, all of whom have taught me so many things: Erin McGraw, Lee K. Abbott, Kathy Fagan, and Lee Martin at Ohio State University, and Ron Salamone and Veena Kasbekar at Ohio University.

Another round of thanks go to all of my peers in the workshops at Ohio State University, including Jesse Quillian, Doug Watson, Bart Skarzynski, Laurel Gilbert, Maureen Traverse, Kim Brauer, Loranne Temple, Libby Lantz, Brian Wade, and Joe Oestreich; oh, yeah, and that poet guy, Pablo Tanguay; Valerie Vogrin at Sou’wester ; Kelly Daniels and the rest of the gang at Third Coast ; and Richard Burgin at Boulevard .

Also, I’d like to say howdy to all my old friends and coworkers at the paper mill in Chillicothe, Ohio; and offer up a big, big thank-you with all my heart to my parents, Donald and Violet Pollock; my daughter, Amber; and my two granddaughters, Madison and Rachel.

A very special thanks goes to the great Richard Pine, the equally fantastic Nathaniel Jacks, and the wonderful Susan Hobson at InkWell Management. And last, but certainly not least, I want to thank Gerry Howard, my kickass editor, and everyone else at Doubleday who helped make this book a reality.