{"product_id":"gallatin-canyon-isbn-9781400075188","title":"Gallatin Canyon","description":"\u003cb\u003eFrom   the acclaimed author of \u003ci\u003eNinety-two in the Shade\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eCloudbursts\u003c\/i\u003e—the stories of Gallatin Canyon are rich in the wit, compassion,   and matchless language for which Thomas McGuane is celebrated. Set mostly in   famed Big Sky Country, McGuane brings us an \"astonishing\" (\u003ci\u003eThe New York Times Book Review\u003c\/i\u003e)   collection in which place exerts the power of destiny.\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e A boy makes a surprising discovery skating at   night on Lake Michigan; an Irish clan in Massachusetts gather around their   dying matriarch; a battered survivor of the glory days of Key West washes up   on other shores. Several of the stories unfold in Big Sky country: a father   tries to buy his adult son’s way out of virginity; a convict turns cowhand on   a ranch; a couple makes a fateful drive through a perilous gorge. McGuane's   people are seekers, beguiled by the land's beauty and myth, compelled by the   fantasy of what a locale can offer, forced to reconcile dream and truth.\"Tremendous....   [McGuane] evokes characters so vivid and universally pained that they'll keep   you up at night.\" —\u003ci\u003eThe Philadelphia Inquirer \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Astonishing.... [McGuane] knows something about writing, real   writing—which is to say, words as access to the soul.... McGuane has driven   so hard into the heart of a received wisdom concerning American manhood ...   that he has broken through to the other side.\" —\u003ci\u003eThe New York Times Book   Review \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"McGuane is a master.... To see the world through the eyes of his   characters ... is to feel unsettled, precarious, and yet certain ... of one   thing: change.... [He] turns each story into a kind of pressure cooker.\"   —\u003ci\u003eLos Angeles Times\u003c\/i\u003eTHOMAS McGUANE lives on a ranch in McLeod, Montana. He is the author of ten novels, including the National Book Award-nominated \u003ci\u003eNinety-two in the Shade\u003c\/i\u003e, three works of nonfiction, and four collections of stories\u003ci\u003e. \u003c\/i\u003eHis work has won numerous awards, including the Rosenthal Award of the American Academy and Institute of Arts and Letters, and has been anthologized in the \u003ci\u003eBest American Stories\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eBest American Essays\u003c\/i\u003e, and \u003ci\u003eBest American Sporting Essays\u003c\/i\u003e.Vicious CircleJohn Briggs sat on his porch on a dreary hot August day with a glass   of ice water sweating in his hand, listening to opera on the radio.   The white borders of the screen doors were incandescent with mountain   summer. Through them he could see the high windswept ridge above his   house, where the bunchgrass could not get a hold, leaving only a seam   of shale to overlook the irrigated valley.Earlier, at the farmers' market at the fairgrounds, he'd strolled   among the pleasant displays of food and craft. A bearded youth   offered handmade walking sticks; next to him, with a cage full of   rabbits, a woman in Chiapas folk costume sold angora tooth-fairy   pillows while tugging strands of angora from a rabbit asleep in her   lap. An extraordinary variety of concrete yard animals surrounded a   display of bird feeders with expired Montana license plates folded   for roofs. A hearty woman with her fists on her hips offered English   delphiniums, which, she explained again and again, had never been   crossed with Pacific Giants, \"not ever.\" The Hutterites, in   suspenders and straw cowboy hats, had a vast array of vegetables;   their long table faced lines of people, five deep, eyes fixed upon   the produce. A girl in jeans and a bustier played a harp, almost   inaudible over the sounds of the crowd, beside a table selling geodes   and specimens of quartz.Briggs had a large shopping bag into which he placed his purchases:   carrots, kohlrabi, baby beets bought from a woman in a Humane Society   T-shirt, and Flathead Lake cherries from an old man in an \"Official   Party Shirt\" from Carlos and Charlie's in Cozumel. A woman with the   forearms of a plumber spotted Briggs and stepped from behind a meager   display of home-grown lavender to block his path. She gazed at him   fixedly and, as he grew uncomfortable, asked, \"Is anything coming to   you?\"Briggs shook his head tentatively. The woman let out a vehement laugh   with a faint whistle in it. A mirthless grin spread ear to ear.\"Is it possible,\" she asked, \"that you don't remember me at all? Two   a.m.? January? Roswell, New Mexico? Ring a bell?\"Trying to conceal his discomfort, Briggs said that he was afraid it   was possible he didn't remember.\"You glutton!\" she roared.He could see that the onlookers were not on his side. The woman   followed him for several yards, a steady, accusing stare as he made   his way through lanes of boxed produce. He heard the word \u003ci\u003eglutton\u003c\/i\u003e   again, over the otherwise gentle murmur of the market. He also heard   her ask the crowd whether people like him ever got enough. She was   right; it was outrageous that such a thing could have slipped his   mind, whatever it was. He was dismayed to have shared some potent   event with this woman and be now unable to even recall it. He tried   again, but nothing came. Perhaps it had been long ago—but no, she'd   said \u003ci\u003eJanuary.\u003c\/i\u003e Was he losing his memory?He stopped to look at the midsummer light bouncing off the hoods of   cars lined up alongside the park. Someone touched his elbow, and he   turned to a young woman with a blue bandanna tied around her neck.   She had on one arm a basket filled with parsnips, heavy August   tomatoes, onions shedding golden paper in the hard light. \"Don't   blame yourself,\" she said shyly. \"She's asked a dozen people the same   question, and they couldn't remember either.\" The woman seemed to   redden. He was greatly absorbed by her gray eyes and her fine, clear   forehead; it seemed to him the kind of face that only profound   innocence could produce.Her name was Olivia, she said, and she was buying vegetables for   herself and her father. Not today, not tomorrow, not until Wednesday   could she meet for a drink. In fact, she didn't want to meet for a   drink at all, but in the end they could agree on no convenient   meeting place other than a bar. He would have to wait.Olivia was on time. She'd suggested the Stockman Hotel, which had a   popular bar and was midway between their homes. Her yellow cotton   dress was stylish but out-of-date, maybe a generation out-of-date,   and must not have originally belonged to her—an elegant   hand-me-down. The bar was busy with ranchers, an insurance man, a   woman who drove for UPS, and two palladium miners; everyone was   talking, except for three men from a highway crew who didn't know   anyone and stared straight ahead, holding their beers with both   hands. An empty booth remained, and Briggs led her there, trying not   to appear coercive. Olivia sat quickly, clasping her fingers, elbows   on the table, and looked around. She seemed happy. Her   shoulder-length hair was parted in the middle and pulled behind   small, pretty ears that were unpierced. She had a sensual mouth for a   shy girl, though he supposed he ought not to have seen this as a   contradiction.\"Do you know something?\" she said, almost whispering. \"I don't   remember your name.\"\"John Briggs.\"\"Oh. I see. Just like that.\"\"What do you mean?\"\"I mean . . . it's just two syllables!\"\"I know. It's like a dirge or a march, isn't it?\" he said.\"John-Briggs-John-Briggs-John-Briggs,\" she chanted.\"Exactly. In second grade, Roland Ozolinsch sat next to me, and he   had such a hard time learning to spell his own name, I became   grateful for mine's brevity. I worried about other things instead. I   wished for jet-black hair that would lie flat like Superman's.\" His   own hair was russet brown and sprang out. He wished he'd said  \u003ci\u003e shortness\u003c\/i\u003e instead of\u003ci\u003e brevity.\u003c\/i\u003e There was something silly about the   phrase \u003ci\u003egrateful for mine's brevity,\u003c\/i\u003e but it seemed to have gone   unnoted.A barmaid came to their table, in jeans and a T-shirt advertising a   whale-watching boat on Prince of Wales Island; the breaching whale in   the drawing was bigger than the boat, whose worshipful passengers   were lined up like a choir. She knew Olivia, and they exchanged   pleasantries. Briggs ordered a St. Pauli Girl and Olivia ordered a   double shot of Jim Beam, with a water back.Briggs was careful not to react. When their order was in, Olivia   studied the time on her watch and then on the wall clock, before   adjusting the watch. \"Four forty-two,\" she said.He guessed she was nearly, but not quite, thirty, at least a decade   younger than him. She wore no rings or other insignia and, in   general, was remarkably undecorated, though a glance revealed   possible eyeliner and just enough lipstick, the absence of which   might have been odd—not pretentious, but odd. Her eyes traveled   around the bar and landed on him, just as their drinks arrived.   \"Still hot,\" she said, and smiled brilliantly.This felt like a journey to Briggs, though he couldn't have said why.\"Still hot,\" he concurred, thinking, I need to add something. Hot   plus what, Dry? Windy?\"Drought drought drought,\" she said, much as she'd said his name, in   modest march time. \"We lost our well and had to drill another, two   hundred feet at I forget how much a foot, but a lot. Ruined our yard,   that man out there with his machine, hammering away.\"\"I saw on the bank that it's ninety-seven.\" Jesus Christ, Briggs   thought, tell her you saw a zebra!As she drank, reacting to the bitterness of the whiskey, she looked   straight at him. \"You know what would be so sweet,\" she said, \"is if   you'd get me a paper from the lobby.\" Smiling in compliance, Briggs   got up and went out. At a table in the large bay window, three young   Mormons in suits craned to watch the heat-struck pedestrians. One   unfurled the sports section of the \u003ci\u003eGazette;\u003c\/i\u003e another leaned forward,   holding his head in his hands. Briggs dropped a quarter into the   honor-system jar and took a copy of the paper to Olivia. She had a   new drink in front of her.The bar's manager, Jerry Warren, who was small, ingratiating, and   somehow like a frog in a polo shirt, sidled up to the table. Olivia   knew him.\"In September,\" he said, \"I'm going to Ireland—\"\"Are you Irish?\" Briggs interrupted.\"No, to hike the Ring of Kerry, hike all day, booze till two, feel up   German girls—\"Briggs glanced at an expressionless Olivia.\"—and visit ring forts or the odd castle. The brochure promises your   money back if you don't, like, burst into spontaneous verse by Day   Two, though I expect most of the poetry ends up being directed at   your raincoat.\" He rested his hand on the table, then slowly extended   a forefinger. \"Next round's on me.\"\"The trouble is, when you just want to get to know someone,\" Olivia   said, with surprising volubility once Warren was gone, \"there's no   such thing as neutral ground. Like just now, people come up and   assume. . . . But, well, here's another round.\" She raised her face   in gratitude to the barmaid. \"Jerry always tells me his travel plans,   no matter how late it gets. He has some crazy jet-lag remedies you   ought to hear. By the next morning, I can hardly remember what they   were.\"\"It's five o'clock,\" the barmaid said. \"You're entitled to all of   this you want.\"When she was gone, Olivia said, \"I suppose we did start before five.   That woman at the farmers' market, she must've had someone in mind.\"\"Funny way to figure out who.\"\"Or she was just, you know, revisiting the experience.\"\"Anyway, that's how we met!\" But this didn't feel right, so Briggs   added, \"Neighbor.\"After thinking about this, she asked, \"Have you noticed that out in   the country \u003ci\u003eneighbor \u003c\/i\u003eis a verb?\"This struck Briggs as a sudden move away from intimacy. Five o'clock   had brought a crowd big enough to elbow up to all surfaces—not just   the bar but the walls—and the air of day's-end ebullience was   infectious to Briggs, who was a loner, and tired of being one, but   seemed unable to do anything about it.\"It's kind of aggressive, isn't it?\" he said. \"Usually about how   someone failed to neighbor.\"\"Yes.\" She sighed. \"And the speaker always makes you think that \u003ci\u003ehe\u003c\/i\u003e   neighbors even while he's asleep.\" She covered Briggs's hands with   her own. \"How 'bout you?\"\"I don't do a lot of neighboring,\" he said.Olivia took this in somberly. \"I must strike you as desperate,\" she   said. The tone had changed, and her smile was slack.\"You do not.\"\"Thank you.\"She had nearly finished her complimentary double, and Briggs, on his   third shell of draft, realized that she'd put away six shots of   whiskey, which suddenly seemed to be sinking in; the slow movement of   her eyes beneath lowered lids, which he had first taken for   flirtatious warmth, now appeared to be the start of some narcosis.\"That Ring of Kerry thing doesn't sound like much fun, does it?\" she   said into space.\"Oh, I'll bet it's beautiful there.\"\"But just getting through a wet day to end up in a pub . . . Is that   the reward? And where did he get that about German girls?\" Only now   did she look up at Briggs.\"He was probably trying to entertain us.\"Olivia looked surprised. \"Oh! Well. Now I'll be grateful. I'm so   dense.\" At that moment, Warren passed their booth. \"Hey, Jerry! That   was great,\" she called out.He stopped.\"What was great, Olivia?\"\"About the ring of German girls in raincoats.\"Jerry glanced at Briggs before moving on. \"If I can just get through   this drought,\" he said, as he plunged into the crowd.\"What does he \u003ci\u003emean?\u003c\/i\u003e\" Olivia asked. \"I'm missing connection after   connection.\" She gestured for another round. The barmaid waved back,   and Olivia commented, \"I really like her, but she's a huge slut.   Ready for another?\"\"I don't know if I can drink more beer. My teeth are floating.\"\"Your teeth are—?\"\"I'm bursting with beer.\"\"Maybe you should drink something more concentrated. Beer's mostly   water. I wish alcohol came in the same size as an aspirin. You just   wear out your digestion trying to cop a buzz. And this stuff\"—she   pointed—\"tastes like \u003ci\u003ekerosene.\u003c\/i\u003e Your teeth are floating! That's a   scream.\"Briggs didn't feel comfortable doing more to prevent the arrival of   another round, but when she'd finished it, he wished he had.\"Olivia.\"\"What.\"\"You okay?\"\"Where are we going with this?\"\"I thought you were about to faint.\"\"Oh, how wrong you are.\"Briggs caught Jerry Warren's eye and made a writing gesture with his   right hand on his left hand. Warren winked his understanding, and   Briggs turned back to Olivia. \"Let's get outside while we have a   little of this day left,\" he said. He could tell that this was heard   from a great distance. He stood up to enforce the suggestion and then   thought to extend a hand, which Olivia took as she got to her feet   and quickly leaned against him.\"Going to have to do it like this, aren't I?\"\"Not a problem. Out we go.\"Briggs escorted her through the front door so deftly that their exit   was barely noticed. The one woman who stared was told by Olivia, \"No   worries,\" in an Australian accent. Once outside, the heat hit her and   she began to topple. Briggs had to take her around the corner to find   a quiet spot. \"I want to help you here, Olivia. You're having a bit   of trouble with your balance.\"\"How did I let this \u003ci\u003ehap\u003c\/i\u003e-pen? A little birdie says it's time for me to   scoot,\" she said. With her hands at her shoulders, fingers fluttering   outward, she did the birdie.\"How about if you let me drive you home?\"\"\u003ci\u003eBor\u003c\/i\u003e-ing.\"\"I'm afraid I require it. Where is your car?\"\"A, we identify make and model.\"\"Can you do that for me? And parking place?\"She looked left and right. \"You know, John Briggs, I'm going to flunk   that test.\"\"No problem. We'll go in mine.\" He helped her into his   twenty-year-old sedan. She told him they'd be lucky if the jalopy   made it to her house. The car had old-style seat belts, and fastening   hers across her lap produced from Olivia a languorous smile. \"There!\"   he said briskly, to undo the smile, then went around to his side, got   in, looked over at her amiably, and turned the key.\"Doesn't look like you're going to try to take advantage of me.\"\"Nope.\"\"It wouldn't be hard. All aboard!\" She imitated a train whistle.They headed north and, just as they left town, she said, \"Hey,   there's my car!\" But then she was uncertain. It didn't really matter   to Briggs, unless she turned out to be right in wondering whether his   car would make it. They were halfway to her house before she spoke   again. She said, \"Ooh, boy, this is a bad idea.\"","brand":"Vintage","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46303381422309,"sku":"NP9781400075188","price":19.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9781400075188.jpg?v=1767727841","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/gallatin-canyon-isbn-9781400075188","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}