This well-written debut novel is a suspenseful Victorian mystery that reminds us that people are not always what they appear to be. Of course, I could have told you that myself. In fact, I am perfect example. People who don't know me assume that I am just a surly old recluse, pissed off at the world, suspicious of my neighbors, looking for reasons to exact revenge on people while brooding away in my La-z-boy, soaking my bunions, eating pickles, and drinking gin out of a coffee mug that says "World's Greatest F*ck You." In reality, however... OK, so this is not as good an example as I initially thought. But let me tell you another story.
My son came over the other day to take me for a walk. Of course, it was more like a forced death march than a walk - did he ask me if I wanted to go for a walk? No, of course not. I mean really, what is it with all you people and walks? If I hear one more person tell me that walks are good for senior citizens, I will finally make use of the switchblade I had installed in my cane all those years ago. You think walks are so great - take your own walk! Preferably away from here. We know what's healthy for us - if we didn't, we wouldn't have gotten to be so god damn old!
In any case, my son is wearing this t-shirt he bought for $200 at some Save the World charity event (I know how much he spent because he told me seven times) that has a picture of the earth on it. At least he got it on right side out and forward, so I should give him some credit. Then this guy walks up to us and tells him how much he likes his shirt, and I am thinking, oh great, here comes some hippie love fest where they talk about how to save humanity by "thinking beyond borders" and buying expensive t-shirts. But before my son can even tell him how much he paid for it, he follows up with "There's just one problem though - the earth isn't round." And now I can smell blood in the water.
My son tries to play it off as a joke, but this guy is set on pushing his flat earth theory, and he is raising the crazy level quickly. I figure he was in town for the Trump anti-mask rally and probably got lost looking for the corner of the world or something, but I was not going to let this opportunity pass me by. "Tell me more," I said encouragingly, swatting my son with my cane as he tried to pull me away. Our new friend, delighted by a receptive audience, expounds on his theory and a few other conspiracies and asks me what I think.
I took a minute, and then I told him that even though I am old, I still pride myself on having an open mind, but that what he had just told me was the most inane, idiotic bullshit I had ever heard in my life and that I could cry thinking about the time I would never get back that I had just wasted listening to him. And that was just my opening line! Then I really let him have it. Surprisingly, he didn't take my constructive criticism particularly well. In a matter of moments, we were in a full-on public screaming match (my first in months!), and my son was pulling me away and trying to convince the guy that I had dementia. Lawrence and I walked home in silence, and believe it or not, that part of the walk was quite enjoyable.