By Victor LaValle
Ricky Rice is a middling hustler with a lingering junk behavior, a bum knee, and a haunted brain. A survivor of a suicide cult, he scrapes by way of as a porter at a bus depot in Utica, long island, till in the future a mysterious letter arrives, summoning him to enlist in a band of paranormal investigators made out of former addicts and petty criminals, all of whom had sooner or later of their wasted lives heard what could have been the voice of God.
Infused with the beauty of a disquieting dream and laced with Victor LaValle’s fiendish comedian sensibility, Big Machine is a mind-rattling secret approximately doubt, religion, and the monsters we feature inside of us.
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Additional info for Big Machine
Imagine that. I still couldn’t. I’d been living in this one-room efficiency, sharing a bathroom with four sour men. I expected the cabin to disappear as soon as I touched the door handle. An illusion. A trick. A game. Can you guess that I’m a bit of a skeptic? Doubt has a long history with me. Lake returned with my duffel bag. Hanging from his index finger, it looked as small as a fanny pack. ” I reached the steps that led up to my cabin, just a few. I touched the wooden door. A brass number hung on the front: 9.
The driver had opened one of the luggage bays. Now many of the passengers got out of their seats. Even one old woman whose snore had been louder than the bus engine. I’d thought for sure she was asleep, but she stopped in the middle of a snort and got up to take a peek. Even the nut leaned over an empty seat to take a gander. The old woman smiled at him. ” “It don’t matter,” he said. He sneered to seem defiant, but already his voice had weakened. It looked cold out there. The bus driver disappeared inside the luggage bay.
I reached for the wall with my right hand and shaded my eyes with the left. There, in the dim room, sat an enormous circular dining table with tall candles lit in its center. For a moment the table looked like a giant radio telescope, the kind scientists use to survey outer space, and the candles were its great antennae. I watched the flames flicker rhythmically as if messages were being received. I walked around the table, but didn’t touch. Wouldn’t even brush the tops of the chairs. There was a plush gray tablecloth that draped all the way to the floor.
Big Machine by Victor LaValle