Read by chance several Summers ago across a handful of carefree afternoons basted in hot light, my back propped against one of the old trees aiding in the bisection of Vic West park’s off-leash dog section from the great burned field and baseball diamond, beyond that pair the skatepark and shaded playground before an apartment building and more encircling road, John Hawkes’ fever-dream book entered swiftly my personal literary echelon, and I subsequently commenced a John Hawkes’ paperback odyssey, reading as many of his rather difficult-to-find works as possible. Don’t skip it. It’s only 192 pages.