Augusten Burroughs

This post was originally written November 3, 2006

So I was just recently introduced to this author by L when, after reading one of my posts here, she came around to my desk and said, "You write like the guy who wrote Running with Scissors."  I didn't know what to make of that, not having ever heard of him, and so I was soon put on a steady diet, starting with the aforementioned memoir. 

It was a disturbing but amusing little read.  There were distinct passages in which I could definitely see what she was referring to in terms of style if not actual content.  I think I try to relate stories and experiences in a rather detached manner which can end up making a rather banal or irritating occurrence seem amusing.  Burroughs, talking about things as ridiculous as people staring into a toilet bowl filled with shit, is the master of this. 

I recently started another one of his books.  Possible Side Effects is somewhat similar to David Sedaris' format.  I imagine that if these two have ever met, it didn't go well.  I could see it quickly degenerating into a contest of 'fucked-upness.' 

I zipped through the current chapter this morning and finally realized why Burrough's stories disturb me.  He seems to regularly start off telling a story that is mildly amusing and then before you know it, it becomes a truly traumatic experience.  Sometimes you relate directly and sometimes indirectly.  I related to this morning's read indirectly.  The title of the chapter is "Unclear Sailing" and is the single day in which he attempts to work at a sailmaker's shop in Marblehead, MA. 

For those who don't know, Marblehead, just north of Boston, is about as WASPish as you can get.  These are the people who don't claim to have come over on the Mayflower but to have financed it so that someone else could lay the groundwork before they had to arrive.  It happens to be my favorite part of the North Shore and is a great place to visit if you're into taking photographs of quaint New England seaside towns. 

Burroughs describes the place spot on, including the locals, who all have sun-bleached hair and perfect white teeth.  So at first, I'm laughing along as he describes the people in the sailmaker's shop.  He's describing people I was friends with growing up and while the sailing thing was something my brother did and not I, I could draw parallels to the 'inside language' used in crew.  As the story progresses, it becomes very clear that he did NOT belong.  It ends horribly when it is clear he has no idea how to cut a sail and one of the guys tells him to get the fuck out.  He has to walk out with everyone staring at him.

Now, the part I could relate to was not his part in the story but the part of the guys staring at him.  I had a vague sensation of having been in similar circumstances:  feeling terrible for some shmuck, and doing nothing to help him, or worse, smirking along with everyone else.  As I thought about the story more during the course of the day, I realized I've always been lucky - either on the 'inside' or 'above it' in social settings or new situations.  But there has been more than one time in which I could have, should have told 'the guys' to cool it.  Leave the guy alone.

My one consolation is that life is sure to hand me other occasions in which I can do the right thing.  Hopefully, I will.  And if I'm ever on the other side, hopefully someone else will too.