
“Wide Spot”
by Thomas McGuane
from the September 23, 2019 issue of The New Yorker
Thomas McGuane is a long-time favorite of mine. I enjoy his fluid writing and his focus on some forgotten parts of America, often close to where I grew up in the Rocky Mountain west (this week’s story one takes place in Montana). I also like that he focuses on short stories.
It feels like a while since I’ve read one of his stories . . . I see it was just November 2017, but after years of getting one or two of his stories per year that is a while! Here we have one with a political bent, but look at how interesting the setup is:
The small-bore politics that I’ve been caught up in for the past thirty years has provided, beyond the usual attractions of graft and corruption, a vivid lesson in regional geography, as I’ve had to make sure my constituents would keep showing up to vote. Still, it had been a very long time since I’d last visited Prairiedale. Back then, the town was known as Wide Spot; it wouldn’t have had a name at all if it weren’t for the filling station there, and, had anyone thought about it, would have been called something more dignified, like Fort Lauderdale. In the old days, the Indians led their cattle to the freight yards many miles away on horseback; their wives awaited them in Model T Fords, pulled their saddles off the horses, and drove them back to the reservation. The horses turned up on the res within a week, grazing their way north on unfenced grass. But, when the Northern Pacific laid a spur from the east-west line to pick up cattle and grain, Wide Spot boomed, became the county seat. It got a courthouse, a sprawl of frame houses, a fire station in a quonset hut, a baseball diamond, and its unimaginative name.
I think this will be good. But if you read it and disagree (or agree), please feel free to comment below. I’d love to hear your thoughts.
Great opening! I enjoy McGuane very much, but haven’t read anything of his in awhile. These opening words are enough of an enticement for me to read the story as soon as the New Yorker hits my mailbox. I prefer to wait for the actual magazine rather than read it online. A little bit of anticipation will make reading it all the more satisfying. Thanks, Trevor.
I’m glad to hear that your anticipation is growing, Diana! I hope you enjoy the story and, if you’re so inclined, that you’ll come back and let me know!
i’m not sure if I’m reading this right but did the character seem delusional and some of the events borderline surrealilst? Do politicians, even on the small level, drive around putting up signs? Doesn’t he have a staff? Is he a politician? OK, let’s assume that I’m, living in Los Angeles, expecting a bit more of an operation around a politcian. Stil…the dead vulture in the street? And…how creepy is he really? The going after his friends daughter is creepy but how would the friend know to be upset? Maybe the simple calling the daughter is enough to tip the friend off? Maybe there’s a history of the guy being a creeper while in the band? The unclarity extends to some of the turns of phrases and ways of speaking that the character uses such as after someone says “I didn’t support you” He responds with “Do what?” Maybe that’s a ruralism but wouldn’t most people say “Oh” or “I see” or “You didn’t.” I gather the expression “you sounded like 10 pounds of shit in a 16 pound sack” is a way of saying someone is exaggerating their importance? Anyway…please help me Mooksers. Please!
BTW: I did like this, if that’s not clear, after having been not too impressed with the last few McGuane stories in The New Yorker.
Ken — I think that “Do what” is a pseudo-hip expression, like “Wassup?” And I think you’re right that a politician in a rural district in Montana would be putting up his own signs.
I think that the dad would know that the creepy politico was going after his daughter because she called him — that’s why she told the guy to wait. I like the way the dad expressed himself — wait for a couple of hours and I’ll come and kill you. ‘Nuf said.
This was the first McGuane story that I liked. It’s slight, and short, but it effectively describes how two different guys evolved from their time together in a band several decades before. One went on to become a worthless sleazy politician, the other a useful Mr. Fixit — like his forebears — who has a daughter and keeps in touch with her. Mr. Fixit is also a de facto mayor, because he helps people. While the actual politician goes around spewing shit to get elected.
“Always one more town,” the narrator says at the end. He’s never settled down and is still living the rock band life. Whereas Micah has matured and settled down.
A nice sketch.
Belated thanks, William for your comments.