At first glance, the protagonist and narrator of this book, Bud Stanley, is hard to like. He’s a middle-aged white guy with middle-aged white guy problems – recent divorce, job dissatisfaction, general ennui. Plus, he’s an obituary writer, which, let’s face it, doesn’t make you want to hug him. But trust me, by the end, you will.
Believing that he hasn’t lived up to his potential as a hard-hitting journalist, Bud resents his obituary gig and, one drunken evening, writes his own sardonic obit titled, “Bud Stanley, forty-four, former Mr. Universe, failed porn star, mediocre obit writer, is dead.” Then he posts it to the news service’s password-protected website; decidedly not a good idea.
The next day, his friends are mostly glad to find out he’s not dead, but his boss has mixed feelings. Given the severe breach of protocol, Bud is summarily suspended – he can’t be fired because the system shows him as dead. His boss takes him out for a drink to discuss the situation and poses the central question of the book: Does anything really matter to Bud anymore?
What makes this book – and Bud himself – come alive are the people in Bud’s life while he’s in this literal and emotional suspension: His fellow obit writer, Tuan, whose acerbic response to Bud’s obit is, “One out of three isn’t bad,” but who ultimately reminds him that what they do is not a chronicle of death but a celebration of life; his boss, with whom he’s inadvertently struck up a meaningful almost-friendship (or as close as Bud can come in his disgruntled state); a mysterious woman he encounters who frequents strangers’ funerals and is alluring enough to get him to come along. Their slow simmer leaves room for Bud to take in the variants of mourning and remembrance he sees at the funerals they attend.
When Bud moves out of an apartment shared with his ex-wife, he meets a convivial paraplegic named Tim who somehow sees potential in Bud and rents him the apartment upstairs. Having been paralyzed in an accident, Tim has enough life experience to understand both the huge disappointment Bud feels in his life as well as Bud’s enduring capacity for compassion. Tim invites Bud to dinners and to salons he hosts for a wide group of friends, and sometimes accompanies him to funerals. Over time their friendship deepens.
If this all sounds a little too pat, Kenney dodges that trap with wit and pathos. Bud himself is always ready to deflect with a wry observation or offbeat remark. A disastrous stab at dating ends with the woman leaving with her ex-boyfriend and Bud calling after them, “Don’t be late! You know how your mother and I worry!” His awkward interactions with the patrons of the funerals he attends are absurdly humorous, as when he mistranslates the Polish word for condolence to say, “I offer you my horse.” “But I don’t want your horse,” the mourner replies. “How do you say ‘horse’s ass’ in Polish?” asks Tim, as they exit the arena. The other characters have sharp wits too, and the depiction of Bud’s interactions with the HR team at the news service will sound familiar to anyone who’s read Kafka.
On the whole, Kenny treats the subject of death – and the way it’s written about and acknowledged – with respect. This book is not maudlin or overly sentimental. It is tender and touching, and I needed three tissues to get to the end.
A version of this story appeared originally on the Porter Square Review of Books. Buy “I See You’ve Called in Dead” from Porter Square Books.
