{"product_id":"fathers-day-isbn-9781400075294","title":"Father's Day","description":"At the age of thirty-five, Matthew Vaber’s life is so messy it can only be at a turning point. In one direction is the neon glare of his father’s recent suicide, and in the other is the tough love of his fluorescent mother. He’d love to find love, but he can’t make it twenty minutes into a first date without spotting that fatal flaw. In spite of Matthew’s better intentions, he always finds himself back at the same old place: 555-PUMP, “New York’s only phone line for men who are serious about their bodies!” Eventually, even Matthew realizes the long odds of making a love connection on a sex line, but then the pound sign connects him to Henry. Much to his dismay, Matthew can’t find a single problem with him. In fact, Henry may be just the one to lead Matthew past his recent tragedies and childhood traumas. If Matthew lets himself follow, that is. Philip Galanes’s dynamic wit and idiosyncratic charm make \u003cb\u003eFather’s Day\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003ea compassionate, heart-melting story and a delightful debut.“Line by tart line, Galanes gives us a curious and even brave thing: a novel at once comic and heartbreaking.” –\u003ci\u003eLos Angeles Times\u003c\/i\u003e\"[Regarding] fathers and Father's Day: This year it's easy. Buy Dad a copy of Philip Galanes' hilarious and brilliant first novel, \u003cb\u003eFathers Day\u003c\/b\u003e.\" –\u003ci\u003eThe New York Observer\u003c\/i\u003e“Galanes’s rapid-fire prose effortlessly gets us into the head of his love-fixated New Yorker, thanks primarily to his quick and quirky dialogue, which sounds as if it really had been overheard on a phone line.” –\u003ci\u003eTime Out New York\u003c\/i\u003e“An important and promising new voice in gay fiction.” –\u003ci\u003eSan Francisco Bay Times\u003c\/i\u003e\"Philip Galanes makes his debut with a novel that is both heartbreaking and deftly comic, the story of a young man struggling with his most primitive desires--wanting and needing. It is a novel about the complex relationships between parents and children, a story of loss and of our unrelenting need for acknowledgment, to be seen as who we are. And in the end it is simply a love story for our time.\" –A. M. Homes“An utterly readable tale. . . . Galanes succeeds at painting complicated, tender as well as racy moments of desperation.” –\u003ci\u003eHamptons Magazine\u003c\/i\u003e“This is not your typical debut novel. . . . Philip Galanes is a powerful writer, and he deserves praise for bucking typical expectations of a first novel.” –\u003ci\u003eDallas Voice\u003c\/i\u003e\"In Matthew Vaber, Philip Galanes has created a delightful paradox, a character both superficial and profound, casual-sounding yet compulsive, very funny and borderline desperate--in short, a classic human being. As Matthew himself might say, \u003cb\u003eFather's Day\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003eis \u003cb\u003eHigh Noon\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003ein loafers.\" –Mark O'Donnell“\u003cb\u003eFather’s Day\u003c\/b\u003e pulls you in every bit as much as the classic ‘The Snows of Kilimanjaro.’ . . . Galanes’s writing is truly a pleasure to read, staccato sentences, finely noted details, and quirky metaphors that are meant to be savored.” –\u003ci\u003eEDGE Boston\u003c\/i\u003e\"Philip Galanes has fashioned a novel both bleak and funny about a young man's struggle to sort out his troubled love: the too-strong love for his mother, the too-weak love for his suicidal father, and the all-consuming love of anonymous sexual encounters. Pointed and acute, this story tells of the narrator's many betrayals of others and their many betrayals of him. It exists in an uncomfortable moral space where the humor of terrible things sometimes outweighs, but never obscures, their poignancy.\" –Andrew Solomon“\u003cb\u003eFather’s Day\u003c\/b\u003e is about dealing with loss and grief . . . it will absolutely make its readers want to pick up the phone and call their dads.” –\u003ci\u003eThe Weekly News\u003c\/i\u003ePhilip Galanes is a graduate of Yale University and Yale University Law School. He lives in East Hampton and Manhattan. \u003cb\u003eFather's Day \u003c\/b\u003eis his first novel. It was selected by Barnes and Noble Booksellers for its Discover Great New Writers Program, and was a finalist for the Violet Quill Award.CHAPTER ONE\u003cbr\u003eLoud Blouse\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt wasn't so long after my father killed himself that Sheila Gray  came to town and told me quite a story.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWait.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLet me try that again.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd this time, I need you to pay attention to Sheila and the story  she told me about my mother. That's what I wanted you to hear. The  part about my father was just for chronology, but it felt like more  than that, didn't it? It made more noise than that.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMy father's death turns out to be like a very loud blouse, like a  shrill leopard print or an acid Pucci pattern--nearly impossible to  coordinate. It overtakes just about anything I put next to it.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt would have been simple enough, I suppose, to say that Sheila came  to town after my father died. I could have left it at that, and his  death might have floated by like a little silk blouse in that  version--like an ecru blouse at that, just as unremarkable as can be.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSheila's story about my mother would be front and center then.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut somehow I can't say that.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTime and again, I'm drawn away from the little silk blouse, toward  the screaming colors of a Versace print: My father killed himself.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt feels almost like I have to tell you.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOnce I've said this much though, I don't want to say another word. I  want to retreat. Just this much, and not a word more.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI want to use his suicide like a stun gun--to shoot you into  submission with it, have you defer to me because of it--but I know it  doesn't work like that. This story doesn't make you docile.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAs soon as I say my father killed himself, the question \"how?\" comes  roaring back at me, as if the information I gave were disinformation,  as if my confession just begged the real question: \"So how did he do  it?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd that's just the beginning.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut after I've climbed so far out on a limb that I've actually spoken  the word--suicide--all I want is to crawl back to safety, toward the  solid trunk of a hundred-year-old maple.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI'd like to take a break then--tell you next that he was six feet  tall, or that he had lovely gray eyes and smooth, smooth skin.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut I know how this works.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHis faint smell of citrus is of no interest to you.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNo, you want to know how he did it.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMy father put a bullet through his head.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThere, I've told you.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut now you might think he placed the gun at his temple, sideways, and fired.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThat's not how it was.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eYou see, when you ask for the \"how?\" of it--the \"where?\"--you take me  right back to the crack of the gunshot, when I'm nowhere to be found  and everywhere at once. Like a man with an airtight alibi whose  fingerprints cover every square inch of the murder weapon.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhen the steel gray bullet with its shiny copper tip is loaded into  the empty chamber. Click.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhen the nicely manicured hand lifts the gun heavily upward.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhen the jaw goes slack.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eYou can't ask for more than this: He shot himself through his open  mouth and straight out the back of his head.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHappy now?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e When Sheila Gray started talking, I most definitely didn't ask any  questions. Not a one.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNo, I receded. Let her tell me what she would.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI'd met her only once before, after all.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThink 1974.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe flew into town from New Mexico back then--some place she insisted  on calling a colony--with long, center-parted hair and a gauzy red  gypsy skirt that she wore three days running. She smelled of  sandalwood and guessed all our astrological signs correctly. With one  look, she saw straight to the heart of me, and still she gave me the  highest grade: Libra, just like her.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSo proud to be seen through, for a change.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAre you sure there's no mistake?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"No, no,\" she said. \"It's clear as day.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eGrateful not to hide any telltale sign of who I might really be--not  from her anyway. No, she saw it all, and she liked me just the same.  The pride and the gratefulness swirling together like tasty ribbons  of Bundt cake batter--all my hidden worthiness baking into something  delicious at last.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThen she left.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eGood-bye, Sheila.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOnly to return twenty years later--this past April--almost six months  to the day after we buried my father like a tulip bulb in the fall,  never to bloom again in any spring.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Within three hours and fifteen minutes of Sheila's arrival, my mother  calls me at home in New York. \"Darling,\" she whispers into the  receiver, but loud, the way she whispers.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShiny little needles prickle my cheeks and the nape of my neck. We're  sharing secrets again!\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"I would love to know what the hell she's doing here,\" she says,  still whispering.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt's going to be all downhill from here, I know that. But it's so  much fun at the start.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe idea of her: My mother!\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe must be off alone in her dressing room, sitting on that spindly  wooden chair without arms: A short, plump woman on a chair as  delicate as she is sturdy, pinning it down. She'll have pulled the  bedroom door closed behind her and the dressing room door too, but  you can still hear her whispering anywhere in the house.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"It's turned nasty already?\" I ask.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"What do you know about it,\" she says. It's supposed to be a  question, I think, but it doesn't sound like one. Her voice stays  flat at the end.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe picture of her eyes rolling on the other end of the phone is as  clear to me as the little puff of frustration I hear through the  receiver. She's worked up now and ready to accelerate. Given Sheila  the slip, like the cleverest driver in the fastest car chase ever. I  can either climb into the passenger seat or get the hell out of her  way: Those are my choices.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Life is a one-woman show for that woman,\" she says, not even trying  to whisper anymore.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"She's come three thousand miles to visit you,\" I say.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSheila and my mother have spoken on the phone nearly every Sunday  afternoon since time began. She's my mother's oldest friend.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"But enough about me,\" she interrupts.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eReally?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"What do you think of my Birkenstocks?\" she asks.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOh, I see. She was only joking, just mocking Sheila and her hippie sandals.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"I'd relax if I were you,\" I say, mastering the loss. \"She's only  been there for a couple of hours.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Yeah,\" she says. \"A couple of hours too long.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe's playing tough now. I've seen it a million times.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOnce, we were parked at a service station, and she was arguing with a  mechanic about brake shoes. He said she needed new ones. She said the  problem was that he hadn't aligned the tires properly the last time  she was in. Soon they were raising their voices and repeating  themselves. They were escalation incarnate.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThen he called her a bitch.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI heard him. He said, \"Lady, you're a first-class bitch.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe wasn't fazed though, didn't even blink.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"That's Mister Bitch to you,\" she said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut I was with her when she drove away too, trembling from the danger  so narrowly averted and the heavy price she paid standing up for  herself. It wasn't as if there was anyone else to stand up for  her--or for me either, for that matter. No, she was forced to become  the man of the family. Taking care of everything as my father slipped  quietly away. It wasn't her choice at all.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut I'm in New York now, safe in my own apartment. I try not to care  whether she relaxes or not, whether she drives Sheila off or doesn't.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"I'll tell you one thing,\" she says. \"She's drinking me out of house and home.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe's on a rant now. Doesn't mean a word of it.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Just roaring through the liquor cabinet.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI've heard it all before: She offers people drinks, then holds it  against them if they accept.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Why her kidneys haven't packed it in by now is the  sixty-four-thousand-dollar question around here.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"I know, I know,\" I say, mock solicitous, a singsong signal that I  couldn't care less. I got it from her.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDefending Sheila is pointless now. Everything about her is horrible  to my mother at this moment. Every defense would only constitute  further proof of her horribleness.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eYou see, it's always black and white with her, and very black right  now. But Sheila will be back in her good graces in fifteen minutes.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThat's the trick: Never counting on her to stick with either  one--neither black nor white--because sooner or later, every black  reverses to white, every white to black, and never faster than when  she has an opportunity to disagree with you.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThere's just no predicting which end is up at any given moment.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eEven if I took up her position right now, mimicked it as flawlessly  as an expert drag queen, even if I carried on arguing for her in just  the way she would argue herself, it would backfire on me.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Listen,\" she says, \"I'd better hang up before she gets into the cough syrup.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I adjust the white pillow behind my neck. Reach for the telephone and  dial: 555-PUMP.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMy phone bills have grown enormous, but I don't care.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Welcome to the Pump Line!\" a male voice announces, prerecorded and  extremely upbeat. \"New York's only phone line for men who are serious  about their bodies! Hang up now if you're not serious about yours!\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThen he pauses, giving me a chance to assess my seriousness, I  suppose. Don't worry. I'm dead serious.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"I'm Scott!\" he says. \"I'll be your guide!\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLike Virgil, I thought once, and now again too, like an echo.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Calls cost fifteen cents a minute,\" he says. \"Twenty-five for the first.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHis whole rap is like a persistent echo.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"You must be at least eighteen years old to use the Pump Line,\" he  says. \"When you hang up, you will definitely be pumped!\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSomehow this call has wormed its way into my daily routine over the  past several months, as inevitable now in any evening as brushing my  teeth, or gazing at my face in the bathroom mirror when I do,  checking out my sex appeal through toothpaste foam: The dark, wavy  hair and slate gray eyes, the long sharp nose that's just like my  father's.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Let's do it!\" Scott says. \"Press 'one' to speak to other guys, one  on one! Press 'two' to...\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI always press \"one.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI'm not much interested in the alternatives to flesh-and-blood men.  The other options mostly involve prerecorded messages from hustlers  or invitations from hard-to-fit men with fetishistic specialties--tie  me up, tie me down, take an orange, cut it into slices--that sort of  thing, painfully elaborate rituals that just seem like too much work,  especially at bedtime.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThere are group calls too--press \"three\"--a free-for-all sort of  party line, but I can never distinguish between the voices there.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI press \"one.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Hang on,\" Scott says. \"I'm making your connection right now.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThen he gives away the golden key: \"And remember, when you're  finished talking to one guy, just press the pound key, and you'll be  automatically connected to someone new.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe men appear and disappear too with the push of a button. With the  push of a button we create and destroy. I try not to think too much  about the ones left behind--the victims of the pressed pound key.  It's an individualized world here, a party of one really, with all  manner of interior hot spots and land mines. The architecture  designed for sexual efficiency--like pneumatic supermarket doors  swinging open and shut with the pressure of an index finger on a  dialing pad--hair triggers for the just-off detail, the  not-quite-right tone of voice.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eEveryone knows what it's all about here: Where were you when I  created my sexy universe? It's hard to begrudge a man his pound key.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThere's a short interlude of electronic music, then Scott again:  \"Here's the next guy.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe next guy?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI've got a connection.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut there was no first guy.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNever mind that now.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Hello?\" a voice says.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA real voice too, not prerecorded at all.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI'm on fire in a flash! Like Judy Garland at Carnegie Hall!\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Hello,\" I say.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMy heart is pumping faster than a hummingbird's--a thousand beats a minute.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNo response from my gentleman caller though.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMy whole body is vibrating with excitement--thrumming on top of the  snow white duvet.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhere is he?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMy face feels as flushed as if I'd been in the sun all day.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI reach over and turn off the bedside light. I'm hot. Even that  single bulb is generating too much heat for my racing metabolism.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Hello?\" I say again.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut I feel my heart in my mouth.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFeel my prospects dimming.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe should have said something by now.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"I'm here,\" he says.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThat was a close one!\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI feel a pain in my right hand.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLook down at it.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI'm clutching the receiver, squeezing it like a drowning man grabs  onto the side of a lifeboat, bobbling along in the middle of the  ocean.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"What's up?\" he asks.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI loosen my grip.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Not much,\" I say.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eCareful to hide the thrill inside me.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Just hanging around.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut my heart is racing still!\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"You?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI'm careful of my voice too, its pitch and tightness. Nervous that it  sounds prissy, too controlled.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"I'm looking to get together,\" he says.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI like the sound of him--not like a friend, but not lurid either.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Me, too,\" I say, trying for deeper, trying for looser.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Where are you?\" he asks.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHis voice is exactly what you'd want in a boyfriend.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"In the Village,\" I say. \"How about...\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBeep.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"You?\" I ask, but it's too late.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe's already moved on to the next guy.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe pressed the pound key, which beeps loudly--painfully so, in  fact--when you have the receiver at your ear, when you're still  talking. I liked that one too, I think.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThere are mysteries here, and you might as well get used to them.  Maybe he's far away from the Village. Or maybe he didn't like the  sound of my voice. Maybe his lover just walked into the room.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI'll never know.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eCut and switch, that's what I've learned here. You can't spend too  much time worrying about the last guy.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI really wish they could improve that beep technology though--make it  just a little softer for the recipient, hopeful still, receiver  pressed against his ear.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Here's the next guy,\" Scott says.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eYou see.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt's all about moving on.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Hello,\" I say.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhat's one false start?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Hey, man.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"How are you?\" I ask.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eRevved up all over again.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Great, man,\" he says. \"How are you tonight, man?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI'm not so sure about this new guy though--with his \"man\" this, and \"man\" that.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"I'm fine.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHasn't he noticed that we're all men here? There's no reason to draw  a thick red line beneath it.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Yeah, man,\" he says. \"I'm feeling real horny.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThat's the nail in his coffin.A Novel","brand":"Vintage","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46303818088677,"sku":"NP9781400075294","price":24.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9781400075294.jpg?v=1767726772","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/fathers-day-isbn-9781400075294","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}