In the City of Shy Hunters

In the City of Shy Hunters

4.0 2
by Tom Spanbauer
     
 

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Tom Spanbauer is one of the most enchanting writers in America today, and In the City of Shy Hunters, his first novel in ten years, is a "rich and colorful" portrait of New York in the 1980s, told with "raw power" (David Wiegand, San Francisco Chronicle). Shy, afflicted with a stutter, and struggling with his sexuality, Will Parker comes to New York to escape the

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Overview

Tom Spanbauer is one of the most enchanting writers in America today, and In the City of Shy Hunters, his first novel in ten years, is a "rich and colorful" portrait of New York in the 1980s, told with "raw power" (David Wiegand, San Francisco Chronicle). Shy, afflicted with a stutter, and struggling with his sexuality, Will Parker comes to New York to escape the provincial western towns where he grew up. In New York, he finds himself surrounded for the first time by people who understand and celebrate his quirks and flaws. He also begins an unforgettable love affair with a volatile, six-foot-five African-American drag queen and performance artist named Rose. But even as he is falling in love with Rose and growing into himself, Will must watch as AIDS escalates from a rumor into a devastating tragedy. When a vicious riot erupts in a local park, Will seizes the chance to repay the city for all it has taught him, in a climax that will leave readers shaken, fulfilled, and changed. "In the City of Shy Hunters is so finely crafted ... you'll think you've been reading a modernist classic." -- Peter Kurth, Salon.com "Spanbauer's genius resides even in the asides ... teas[ing] out the genuine complexity of human love." -- Thomas McGonigle, The Washington Post Book World "Ambitious and compelling ... a mixture of the ghastly, the hilarious, and the curiously touching." -- John Hartl, The Seattle Times "In the City of Shy Hunters has the earmarks of a literary landmark ... Its importance and originality are unmistakable." -- Laura Demanski, The Baltimore Sun

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Editorial Reviews

Library Journal
One can't help being leery of this latest work from Spanbauer (The Man Who Fell in Love With the Moon, LJ 10/1/91). Is it just another AIDS story concerning the early plague years? But after a few pages one realizes that it is not. Will Parker moves from Idaho to Manhattan in search of himself and his childhood best friend (and first sexual partner). Will isn't dumb, but he isn't educated either, and he lands a crummy job as a waiter and an even worse apartment. His new family of friends more than make up for this, and Will sets out to find out about life. Just as everything seems to be settling into something comfortable, he begins to lose friends and co-workers to drugs and AIDS. Unlike other "early AIDS" novels, this one acknowledges that AIDS touches all classes, races, religions, and sexual orientations. Excellent characters (real New Yorkers), great writing, and a new twist on an over-used plot recommend this book for most libraries, though some readers might want a more conventional ending. T.R. Salvadori, Margaret E. Heggan Free P.L., Hurfville, NJ Copyright 2001 Cahners Business Information.
Kirkus Reviews
Sexual abuse, incest, pansexualism, and Native American spirituality—explored so well by Spanbauer in the cult favorite The Man Who Fell in Love with the Moon (1991)—combine with early–AIDS-era New York for a work that's utterly fresh but crammed with enough characters, subplots, coincidences, and romances to keep several telenovelas churning for years. Will Parker may stutter and be both sexually confused and dysfunctional, but he's a real people magnet. Having escaped provincial Jackson Hole for 1983 Manhattan, he's not five minutes at LaGuardia before he's hooked up with Two Shots, a Native American van-driver, and Ruby, his gay male side-kick; in no time they've settled Will into his Lower East Side digs and themselves into his life. East Fifth Street is crowded with the requisite New Yorkers of fiction: across the hall is a mad cat-lady, upstairs is Rose, the tough African-American drag queen/performance artist with a heart of gold, and downstairs is the junkie superintendent. Hackneyed types to be sure, but with sharp dialogue and details, Spanbauer infuses them with new life. Waiting tables, Will meets Fiona, a rough-mouthed, Greenwich, Connecticut, would-be artiste who takes Will under her wing and under the sheets. There's plenty of graphic, although not gratuitous, sex as Will trades experience and love for self-knowledge. As 1983 moves on to '84 and '85, AIDS takes over: co-workers die, friends disappear, Rose—now a lover of Will's—sickens, Fiona's two brothers die. The slow slide into the world of the epidemic, with its sense of unreality and despair, has never been better realized. But there's too much more going on here: a murder, asquatters' riot in a local park, cultural repatriation, and Elizabeth Taylor, arriving for a slow dance with her best friend Rose. Will's occasional and abrupt flights into magical realism only serve to make the story—already saddled with superfluous, undisciplined subplots—feel more out of control. A haunting and undeniably powerful work marred by its own excesses. First printing of 30,000; author tour

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Product Details

ISBN-13:
9780802138989
Publisher:
Grove/Atlantic, Inc.
Publication date:
05/28/2002
Edition description:
Reprint
Pages:
512
Sales rank:
1,159,376
Product dimensions:
6.01(w) x 9.01(h) x 1.11(d)

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Chapter One


The airplane landed at La Guardia, August 3, 1983. My first time ever in New York City, and in all the world, I was leaning up against a cement wall, an unrelenting fluorescent light above me, the bill of my red ball cap the only shade for miles. Exhaust fumes. I was minding my business, just outside the doors where you claim your baggage, waiting for the express bus to the city. My wallet was in my inside jacket pocket. Inside my chest, no room for breath. Sweat rolling from my pits. My duffel bag was against the wall next to me. On top of my duffel bag, my suitcase with the travel stickers on it, and on top of the suitcase, my backpack. I was rolling a cigarette with one hand like I can when I saw the van. A 1970 maroon Dodge van with hippie calligraphy DOOR OF THE DEAD on the side.

    Door of the Dead was a game my sister Bobbie and Charlie 2Moons and I used to play.

    I took it as a sign.

    Blue smoke was coming out the back of the van and people were climbing inside, through the side door, white people all in black. Black leotards, black luggage, black hats, black shoes.

    Then, just like that, Ruby Prestigiacomo's face was smiling right in front of me.

    Don't let the van spook you, Ruby said. We just bought it from the band, Ruby said, smiling, The Door of the Dead band.

    There's room for one more, Ruby said. You'll be all night here waiting for a cab. I can give you a ride for fifteen dollars. Cab'll cost you twenty-five.

    Inside my chest, near the sore place where Ismoke, so easy, I felt Ruby's smile.

    I wished I could be so easy, wished I could smile like that.

    My wallet was still in my inside jacket pocket. Ruby just kept there, kept standing in the unrelenting fluorescence, smiling, too close, his blue eyes the way crazy people look at you, moving in on you, like when you go to kiss somebody. Blue eyes and thick red-blond hair, blond hair on his forearms. Beautiful. The kind of skin that freckles and tans gold. His red polyester shirt—buttons open so far down I had to avert my eyes. Hair pulled back in a ponytail. A silver ankh dangling from his queer ear, soulpatch triangle of red-blond hair just under his bottom lip.

    Ruby Prestigiacomo, what am I going to do with you?

    All death did was make Ruby smile all the more.


YOU'RE GOING TO wait all night here for a cab, Ruby said. Fifteen dollars, Ruby said, Anywhere in Wolf Swamp.

    Wolf Swamp? I said.

    Manhattan, Ruby said.

    Ruby reached into his inside coat pocket and pulled out an old blue Velcro wallet, pulled the wallet open, and from the wad of papers pulled out a business card. Ruby's fingers were long and thin and there was grease under his thumbnail. Thumb print of grease on the business card.

    ROMEOMOVERS SPIRIT SCHLEPPERS were the words on the card, WOLF SWAMP. Under SPIRIT SCHLEPPERS was DOG SHIT PARK, then under DOG SHIT PARK was RUBY PRESTIGIACOMO, under RUBY PRESTIGIACOMO a phone number, then under the phone number was CLYDE TRUE SHOT EXPERIENCED DRIVER.

    Shit on a business card.

    What's Dog Shit Park? I said.

    Lower East Side, Ruby said. It's a park. Tompkins Square, but everybody I know calls it Dog Shit Park.

    Where you going? Ruby said.

    Two-oh-five East Fifth Street, I said.

    Between Second and Third, Ruby said.

    Ruby grabbed my duffel bag and my old suitcase with the travel stickers on it. I picked up my backpack and followed Ruby past the line of people waiting for taxis. My wallet was in the inside pocket of my jacket.

    The four white people all in black were sitting on their luggage in the back of the van, all of them with big red lips, even the man. Big hoops in their ears, all of them smoking cigarettes.

    They're from France, Ruby said, Vogue magazine. They only speak French except for fuck you. You got the fifteen dollars?

    My wallet from my inside jacket pocket, when I opened it, my money was suddenly public domain opened up like that on the street. I gave Ruby a ten and a five, stuck my wallet back in my inside jacket pocket.

    Bonsoir, I said in French.

    The French Vogues all looked like mannequins. They all said quick French things back. Twice as hot inside the van. I sat down where I was standing, started doing what I always do when I don't know what to do, rolled a cigarette with one hand like I can, French Vogue mannequins all around watching me. When I got the cigarette rolled, I offered the cigarette to the man French Vogue first. He looked away, poked his left shoulder up, pointed his hand and took the cigarette, silver loop dangle side to side, the fuck-you smile on his red lips, red lips pursing, French grunt.

    Then it was a cigarette for each of the others, each accepting with a choreography of stance, silver loop, hair tossing.

    Sophistication.

    Savoir faire.

    Postured disregard.

    Sexy totale.

    Shit from Parisian Shinola.

    I'll have one of those too, Ruby said. Then: Where'd you learn to roll a cigarette like that?

    A friend of mine, I said. Charlie 2Moons, I said, Taught me, I said, A long time ago.

    I have my mother's nerves, so sometimes I stutter.

    Language my second language.


CLYDE TRUE SHOT Experienced Driver was big, everything about him big, extra lovely as Rose would say—chest, belly, thighs, shoulders, arms, hands. His big hands on the steering wheel, on both hands on every finger, even the thumbs, the same silver ring. From the side I was on, True Shot's nose was a hook that poked out of two high cheekbones. His hair was black and thick and long and tied back in a bun with a red paisley bandanna tied around his head. From his neck, a beaded buckskin bag. The horizontal line was blue trader beads and the intersecting vertical line, red beads. The buckskin bag hung from a buckskin necklace.

    No doubt about it, I was staring. Same way as when you stare at a big snake. And big snakes always look back. On a lava rock ledge in full sun, the big snake doesn't want to even move, but the snake turns, and his eyes end on you.

    On me. True Shot put his eyes on me. I mean, his mirrors.

    True Shot's mirrors. An accessory True Shot never went without, his mirrored Armani sunglasses.

    When True Shot put his mirrors on me, I could see myself in there on the surface, a circus freak, distorted at the state fair, my big circus nose and mustache and bug eyes.

    I saw him first! Ruby said. He's mine!

    Clyde True Shot? I said.

    Drop the Clyde, Ruby said. He's just True Shot.

    True Shot, I said. Would you like, I said, A cigarette?

    No, thank you, Ruby said. He don't smoke socially.

    There was a hand on my shoulder, and it was the French Vogue man handing me one of his cigarettes, rolled fat.

    Merci, I said, lit the cigarette, inhaled. Marijuana? I said.

    Fucking hashish, French Vogue said.

    In the rearview mirror, True Shot's mirrors were on me. Smoke big, True Shot said. His voice was soft, resonant, like a child singing a lullaby in a culvert.


TRUE SHOT AT the wheel, Ruby riding shotgun, French Vogues, me; we are inside, in our smoke cut through with high-beam headlights. Outside, all about us, out the windshield in front, out the windows in back: stars, speeding light, red and amber, huge white flying saucers, eyes.

    I was rolling another cigarette, rolling six more cigarettes around. I was not speaking French or any words of any language. My butt was burning on the van floor, so I sat on the old suitcase with the travel stickers on it. Drops of sweat all around me.

    True Shot hit the brakes and under us was a screeching. We swerved. One French Vogue banged her head on the side of the van. We slid to a stop. From out Ruby's window, I could see a wall of concrete. A backhoe. An electric sign pointed repeating yellow arrows at Ruby's head. There was water flowing onto the right lane of the roadway, and mud. I thought it was mud. The electric yellow made the water look like thin buttermilk. There were cans and things floating. From the embankment, the thin buttermilk was a waterfall onto the roadway over a truck tire and the back seat of a car. Then the turds. I smelled and I knew: The milk was a river of sewage. True Shot started honking.

    Fuck! Ruby said. We should have taken the fucking tunnel.

    Fuck! the French Vogues all said. Fuck!

    Then: Watch for cops! True Shot said.

    True Shot shifted into first and turned the steering wheel to the right.

    Watch for cops! Ruby yelled back at us.

    Then Ruby watched the right side and True Shot the left side, and True Shot guided the van through the narrow space in between the backhoe and the electric yellow arrow sign. Milk-shit river lapped at the bottom of the side door. There was a bump and the front right tire went up on the curb, then another bump for the back right tire. True Shot hugged the wheel, leaned forward, and aimed the van in between the line of traffic on the left and a wall of concrete on the right.

    Clyde True Shot, race-car driver, hit the gas.


WE ARE AN arrow, Door of the Dead arrow, howling through, tilted, banking, racing down where you're not supposed to go, right wheels on the curb, left wheels in the gutter, guard-rail concrete wall only inches from us to the right. To the left, Day-Glo traffic cones, and the Volkswagen Chevrolet Ford Toyota line of cars, pickups, semis, and limousines traffic jam. Where we're heading hellbent is in between, space enough or not.

    Ruby's forehead is shiny with lights on the sweat. Ruby's bones poking through, his smile skeleton big. He's staring straight ahead, like all of us, at the trajectory, our thrust, but he's watching True Shot too. Ruby loves True Shot and he's watching True Shot, race-car driver, the two of them two guys, rodeo yee-haws, Friday-night homeboys, going fast, right-flanking one mile, two miles, three miles of traffic jam and counting.

    French Vogues lit French cigarettes. Fuck. Merde. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

    Toll booth! True Shot yelled, like this was Nintendo and toll booth was the dragon. The right front wheel bumped off the curb back onto the road, then the right rear wheel. True Shot shifted down to second.

    Watch for cops! True Shot yelled.

    Watch for cops! Ruby yelled.

    One of the French Vogues, a woman, reached down, opened the sliding side door. Blast of hot air, city lights, guard rail right there speeding by, air. I held my hand against my heart, my wallet in my inside jacket pocket, pulled my cap off, knelt forward, head out the side door. Wind blowing in my hair.

    There it was right in front of us: the yellow-and-black-striped toll booth STOP arm coming down. True Shot shifted into second.

    Geronimo! True Shot yelled. Geronimo! Ruby yelled.

    I closed my eyes.

    The yellow-and-black-striped toll booth STOP arm karate-chopped into the roof of the Door of the Dead van.

    But it's not the truth.

    I knelt back, opened my eyes. Through the back windows, the yellow-and-black-striped toll booth STOP arm was locked in place behind us.

    Out the windshield, out the back windows, out the side door, there were no cops.

    True Shot yelled, Welcome to Wolf Swamp! And we cheered, all of us, me and the French Vogues, these people I didn't know—we cheered. I rolled more cigarettes, lit six all around, and we smoked and smoked, and it wasn't long before: Waldorf Hysteria! Ruby yelled.

    True Shot pulled up to the bright curb. The doorman opened the van's side door. He wore a powder-blue military uniform. He was speaking French, snapping his fingers. Young brown men in matching outfits rushed to the van.

    One by one, the French Vogues stepped out. The doorman took each French Vogue by the hand. One by one, the bellhops slid the monogrammed alligator luggage out of Door of the Dead van.

    Alligators, True Shot said.

    Dangerous cargo, Ruby said.

    Faux alligators, True Shot said.

    Worst kind, Ruby said.

    The only good faux alligator, Ruby said, Is a dead faux alligator.

    Every extra lovely muscle in True Shot was laughing. Ruby too, but Ruby had to put his fist over his mouth. A deep cough was coming up, rattling Ruby's bones. Ruby's arm held his side.

    I stuck my head out the van's side door, looked left, right, then all around, then up. Waldorf Astoria.

    Lunch at the Waldorf was a game my mother and I used to play.

    Hysteria. The lights of Waldorf Hysteria were bright bright, unrelenting. The light was inside me, moving through me. On the street was the swirl and flash of lights, a high off-pitch ringing, and something else: a sound, like in monster movies. The footfall of a huge monster.


ALL DODGES SOUND the same when you start them up.

    Ruby reached behind True Shot and, from out of a heap, pulled a five-gallon bucket, turned the bucket over, brushed the bottom off, patted it, and said, Here, come up and sit on this bucket, up here between us.

    My wallet was in my inside jacket pocket.

    Can get stuffy back there, Ruby said. Then: Here, this'll help, he said, and pulled a can of Budweiser out from its plastic ring and handed me the beer, put the joint to his Ruby lips, inhaled, and passed the joint to me.

    This'll help too, Ruby said, holding his breath and sucking in the words like you do.

    It'll take the edge off, Ruby said. Ruby was smiling.

    Seemed like a good idea at the time.

    I offered the joint to True Shot.

    He don't smoke socially, Ruby said.

    I handed the joint back to Ruby. Opened the can of beer.

    Driving more like floating.

    Punch in that Sioux tape! Ruby said.

    True Shot punched in his Sioux tape and both he and Ruby, all at once, started singing, howling, and crying singing, Indian songs like in Fort Hall when Bobbie and Charlie 2Moons and I lived on the rez.

    Where are we? I said.

    When my words came out, they did not stutter.

    True Shot and Ruby looked at me, looked at each other.

    Broadway, Ruby said.

    You ain't from here, are you? Ruby said.

    Broadway? I said.

    Earth, Ruby said. His famous smile.

    New York, Ruby said. Here, he said, putting both his hands on my shoulders and pushing down. Here.

    Now here, Ruby said, Or nowhere, Ruby said. Depends on the space in between.

    Outside the windows of Door of the Dead van, neon vegetable stands passed, windows, concrete columns, lampposts, traffic, parked cars, wires, and lights: green, amber, red, go, wait, stop.

    The wind was blowing Ruby's gold-red hair.

    You know, Ruby said, sucking on the joint, I've been trying to figure out who you look like. He handed the joint to me.

    And I think I've figured it out, Ruby said. What do you think, True Shot? Handsome Einstein or intelligent Tom Selleck?

    True Shot's bandanna. His mirrors. The silver ring on every finger, even his thumbs. The buckskin bag with the blue horizontal and the red vertical hanging on the buckskin necklace. True Shot's lips, under his mirrors, moved.

    Handsome Einstein, True Shot said.

    His voice, the child out of the culvert, hollering into the wind.

    You sure? Ruby said.

    Selleck can't look intelligent, True Shot said.

    Then: What's your name? Ruby asked.

    William, I said. William Parker.

    Friends call you Bill?

    Will, I said.

    I'll call you Will then, Ruby said. Ruby's smile.

    This here's True Shot and I'm Ruby Prestigiacomo.

    Glad to meet, I said, You guys, I said.

    I shook Ruby's hand, went to shake True Shot's, but thought, He don't shake hands socially, so I just looked at him.

    I didn't expect, I said, New York folks to be so friendly.

    Ruby ate the roach.

    When you're in the Spirit Schlepping business like ours, Ruby said, Friendly's just part of the program. Besides, that's bullshit. New Yorkers can be the friendliest people you ever met.

    Not what I've heard, I said. Back west, I said, Where I'm from, folks think New Yorkers are rich Jews, I said, Mafia Italians, and black guys in gangs who play basketball and kill white people.

    Ain't too far off, Ruby said.

     Then: Where back west?

    A bunch of places, I said. Jackson Hole, I said. Most of my time in northern Idaho, but I was born in Pocatello.

    Ruby turned his head around quick, put his hands to his cheeks, and screamed: In a trunk in the Princess Theater!

    Then Ruby was laughing the way you do on good dope. I started laughing too, though I didn't know Why.

    You know, Ruby said. The song, A Star Is Born, Ruby said. Judy Garland!

    I was born in a trunk in the Princess Theater in Pocatello, Idaho, Ruby sang.

    Never heard it, I said.

    Then: Brooklyn, Ruby said. I was born in Brooklyn. Bensonhurst.

    I waited for True Shot to say where he was born, but he didn't.

    Staying here long? Ruby asked.

    Living here, I said, Now. Got an apartment: Two-oh-five East Fifth Street.

    Got a job? Ruby asked.

    Restaurants, I said.

    Hard time to get a restaurant job, Ruby said. August. You might try Life Café, Tenth and B, on the northeast corner of Dog Shit Park. You could tell them Ruby Prestigiacomo sent you, but it won't do any good.

    Dog Shit Park, I said.

    Yeah, Ruby said. You remember—Tompkins Square, not far from you.

    Why'd you move here of all places? Ruby said.

    Shit happens, I said.

    Seemed like a good idea at the time, I said.

    If I can make it here I'll make it anywhere, I said.

    But it's not the truth.

    Of all the things I could've said right then, practiced things I didn't stutter, I said this: Because I was afraid to, I said. And also, I said, Because I'm looking for someone.

    True Shot's mirrors were on me from the left, and from the right Ruby's too close with his breath.

    Ruby crossed his hazel eyes. Crossed over, huh? Ruby said.

    Crossed over? I said.

    That's when you stop being one way and start being another, Ruby said. Not something many people can do, or want to do. In fact, Ruby said, The only people who cross over, cross over because they're on some kind of Mission Impossible.

    I could no longer live and stay the way I was, I said.

    But it's not the truth.

    I didn't say anything.

    Then: Two-oh-five East Fifth Street! Ruby yelled, the same way as Waldorf Hysteria!

    We were stopped on a street, in front of a building, double-parked. True Shot turned the engine off.

    Between Second and Third, Ruby said, On the street where you live.

    I have often walked down this street before, Ruby sang.


THE SIOUX TAPE'S drums was the way my heart was beating. Sweat rolling down from my pits, my head still floating. I was way stoned, sitting on a bucket between a guy named True Shot and a guy named Ruby Prestigiacomo, and there I was in all the world, double-parked in front of 205 East Fifth Street, between Second and Third.

    From Door of the Dead van, the light above the steps of 205 East Fifth Street was right behind Ruby's head. The mercury-vapor streetlamp light the color of dust storms, ocher through the windows, hard edges, New York angles.

    I knew it, Ruby said, Soon as I saw you.

    What? I said.

    True Shot's going to tell you a story, Ruby said.

    What story? I said.

    Who can tell? Ruby said. Maybe the Secret of Wolf Swamp.

    My suitcase with the travel stickers on it, my duffel bag, and my backpack were all lined up. I went to open the side door when Ruby put his hand on my knee, grabbing my knee the way you do when you're trying to keep something still.

    My butt was on the bucket.

    Just then outside big thunder and a flash of light.

    But it's not the truth. The thunder wasn't outside. The thunder was inside me, the flash inside.

    True Shot raised his head up and looked at the roof of the van. From under the chin, True Shot didn't look Indian at all, or any one way. He just looked like a kid on a summer night looking up at the stars.

    So Will Parker ... True Shot said.

    Handsome Einstein ... Ruby said.

    In True Shot's mirrors, I was a red ball cap with crooked bottom teeth.

    Only silence inside Door of the Dead van. True Shot cleared his throat, spit out the window. He put his fingers up to the buckskin bag with the beaded blue horizontal and the red vertical hanging from the buckskin necklace, turned around, and put his mirrors onto me.

    Just like that, True Shot took my hand, open palm to open palm, and put his fingers in with mine, his silver rings against my fingers.

    It is this way, True Shot said, You will find your friend.

    I will? I said, How do you know?

    True Shot just knows, Ruby said.

    Meanwhile, True Shot said, Have some fun while you wait for the will of heaven.

    The porch light in True Shots' mirrors made it look like I had a halo around my head.

    I didn't know what to say, so I said something like thanks or Okay see ya, and pulled my hand away.


RUBY GOT OUT of the van and opened the side door, and I stepped out. Smoke out onto the street. For a moment, I thought the smoke was my body smoking. My feet were standing in a rectangle of earth, the rectangle of earth where I'd plant the cherry tree—cement sidewalk everywhere else but where I was standing. My wallet was in my inside jacket pocket.

    Ruby and I were about the same: six foot two. I had twenty pounds on him. Something about the way Ruby looked right then—his jaw, the skin of his face below his sideburn—so beautiful. When I stood full up, I was face-to-face with Ruby's smile.

    Ruby poked his finger in my chest. The will of heaven, Ruby said, Is in your heart.

    Then: New York, new place, Ruby said.

    His hands pressed down the lapel of my corduroy coat.

    Handsome Einstein new self-concept, Ruby said.

    New concept new name, Ruby said.

    New name? I said.

    When you cross over, Ruby said, You need a new name.

    Will of Heaven! Ruby said, his arm in the air; his hand cupped, fingers and thumb together like Italians do, five points of a star: his grand easy smile.

    From inside the van, True Shot yelled, William of Heaven! Ho!

    Ruby pulled the hair tie from around his ponytail and shook his head. His red-blond hair was shiny all the way to his shoulders.

    You got our business card? Ruby said. You're sure?

    Sure, I said, and pulled the card from my side pocket. ROMEOMOVERS. SPIRIT SCHLEPPERS. DOG SHIT PARK.

    Where's the keys to the apartment? Ruby said.

    I took my wallet out of my inside jacket pocket, and out of the side pocket of my wallet I pulled three big keys, one little key.

    One for the outside door, two for the inside, Ruby said. The little one's for the mailbox. Get a duplicate made. Give a set to somebody you trust. You can trust me, Ruby said, his smile. Keep the other set. Always remember, New Yorkers love only those who love themselves. Always put yourself first. Dress down for the subway. Get an answering machine. And remember, New Yorkers take pride in always knowing where they are. Buy a map. Always know where you are. If you don't, act like you do.

    Then: LA is the me city, Ruby said, and New York is the you city. In LA it's fuck me. In New York it's fuck you. Adopt the attitude. It's all in the face. Mostly in the eyes.

    Like this, Ruby said.

    Ruby's eyes were looking right at me, but they were more like looking through me: no smile, his lip curled up, his nostrils in and out.

    New York drop-dead fuck-you, Ruby said. The attitude. Now you try it.

    I made like I thought Ruby wanted me to look.

(Continues...)


Excerpted from IN THE CITY OF SHY HUNTERS by TOM SPANBAUER. Copyright © 2001 by Tom Spanbauer. Excerpted by permission. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.

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In the City of Shy Hunters 4 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 3 reviews.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
In The City of Shy Hunters is a book about a man named Will who moves to New York looking for his brother. There he falls in love with 4 people (each one uniquely weird) and eventually finds his brother, but not in the way he would have liked. It's a great book because of the story and the great way it was written but it is this way the way it was written also was why it was confusing. It's told in choppy sentences and confusing metaphors but still, it's a great book! Though his family life is quite depressing. I definitely recommend!
Guest More than 1 year ago
What a great storyteller. From the prologue to the last page, Tom Spanbauer tells great tales. In this book, he successfully captures so much of what is life in New York City, and especially New York in the eighties. There are rhythms in New York, and Spanbauer translates those wonderfully and smoothly into his prose. And despite the temptation of the story to slide into cliche and melodrama -- AIDS and the loss of friends are major elements -- Spanbauer glides past the obvious choices every time. I'm a gay man who generally can't stand typical gay literature. "In the Cith of Shy Hunters" was a wonderful and gratifying surprise.
Guest More than 1 year ago
I bought this book in an airport because I need something to read on a five hour flight. For the first 50 pages or so I thought this would be a 500 page version of Philadelphia. But, since I was on an airplane, I kept reading. It turned out to be an extraordinarily well written book, but it should have been written ten years ago. I loved the writing style, the symbolism, and the plot flow. I just couldn't get over the thought that it didn't have the right voice. It was appropriate for 1990. In 2001 it needs to at least acknowledge some sense of reminiscence. Otherwise, it needs to offer a new perspective.