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Kings Of Infinite Space
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Kings Of Infinite Space

4.0 5
by James Hynes

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"Immensely witty...thoroughly entertaining."--The Washington Post Book World

Paul Trilby is having a bad day. If he were to be honest with himself, Paul Trilby would have to admit that he's having a bad life. His wife left him. Three subsequent girlfriends left him. He's fallen from a top-notch university teaching job, to a textbook publisher, to,


"Immensely witty...thoroughly entertaining."--The Washington Post Book World

Paul Trilby is having a bad day. If he were to be honest with himself, Paul Trilby would have to admit that he's having a bad life. His wife left him. Three subsequent girlfriends left him. He's fallen from a top-notch university teaching job, to a textbook publisher, to, eventually, working as a temp writer for the Texas Department of General Services. And even here, in this land of carpeted partitions and cheap lighting fixtures, Paul cannot escape the curse his life has become. For it is not until he begins a tentative romance with the office's sassy mail girl that he begins to notice things are truly wrong. Strange sounds come from the air conditioning vents, the ceiling bulges, a body disappears. Mysterious men lurk about town, wearing thick glasses and pocket protectors...

Kings of Infinite Space is a hilarious and horrifying spoof on our everyday lives and gives true voice to the old adage, "Work is Hell."

Editorial Reviews

From the Publisher

“This macabre, funny, and very twisted satire of office life displays James Hynes as a wonderfully eccentric and entirely original writer.” —Esquire

“Hynes nails it...Kings of Infinite Space is Wells updated for the 21st century.” —The Washington Post Book World

“Hynes must moonlight as a fisherman for he has mastered the art of luring, hooking and reeling readers in with his salty style and quick wit.” —USA Today

The Kings of Infinite Space is social satire that slides smoothly into horror.” —Time

Publishers Weekly
Paul Trilby is still haunted by the ghost of Charlotte, the cat he drowned in "Queen of the Jungle" (included in Hynes's 1997 story collection, Publish and Perish), in this hilarious supernatural sendup of office life. An affair having destroyed his marriage and promising academic career, Paul now temps as a tech writer in the General Services Division of the Texas Department of General Services (TxDoGS) in the Austin-like city of Lamar. One hot summer morning, stuck in traffic, he has an encounter with a peculiar homeless man who repeats a question from H.G. Wells's Island of Doctor Moreau, "Are we not men?" This is but the first of a series of uncanny incidents-a corpse in a cubicle no one appears to notice, a recycling bin that seems to have no bottom-that dog Paul at TxDoGS. The romance he strikes up with Callie, the appealingly goofy company "mail girl," provides the novel's emotional center. When the feckless Paul is put to the ultimate test, a Faustian bargain with zombies to surrender his soul and sacrifice Callie for a free ride at TxDoGS, readers will be on the edge of their seats wondering whether he'll do the right thing. Amusing incidentals include the subversive sentences Paul pens for a textbook and the cat-related fare that is all Charlotte allows him to watch on TV. While the office may not be quite as juicy a subject for satire as the academic world skewered in the author's last novel, The Lecturer's Tale (2002), the same literate wit should have wide appeal. Agent, Neil Olson at Donadio & Olson. (Apr. 13) Copyright 2004 Reed Business Information.
Kirkus Reviews
A darkly comic portrait of the Job from hell follows the vertiginous downward spiral of a failed academic who loses his wife, his career, his self-respect, and possibly even his sanity. As jobs go, temping is about the worst. So for Paul Trilby, a once-promising literary theorist with a Ph.D. from a top-notch university up north, the Texas Department of General Services (affectionately known as TxDoGS) is nothing less than the ninth circle of hell. Paul lost his wife's affection years ago after she found out-from her cat Charlotte-that he was having an affair with one of his students. This led him (in a roundabout kind of way) to kill the cat, lose tenure, move to Texas, and become a bum. Now he works as a "technical writer" (read: typist) at TxDoGS, pulling down $8 an hour and living in an old motel, where he's haunted by Charlotte's ghost. But, as bad as things are, Paul's world is far from gray-in fact, his life seems to be turning more lurid by the minute. To begin with, the man in the cubicle next to Paul dies on the job while working overtime. Then, some strange Post-its asking "Are we not men? " begin to appear without explanation. In the men's room, where Paul often goes for his morning nap, eerie noises emanate from the ceiling, and a trio of coworkers initiates Paul into an informal lunch club that begins to seem more and more like a secret society. The only sane thing in Paul's life appears to be Callie, the autodidact from the mailroom who becomes his girlfriend and is about his only link to the real world. But can she save him? By turns ominous, hilarious, and genuinely scary: Hynes (The Lecturer's Tale, 2001, etc.) offers a highly original send-up of the most unnaturalactivity ever conceived by the human mind-work. Agent: Neil Olson/Donadio & Olson

Product Details

Publication date:
Edition description:
First Edition
Product dimensions:
5.00(w) x 8.00(h) x 0.78(d)

Read an Excerpt


One brutally hot summer's morning, Paul Trilby--ex-husband, temp typist, cat murderer--slouched sweating in his t-shirt on his way to work, waiting behind the wheel of his car for the longest red light in central Texas. He was steeling himself for a confrontation with his boss, screwing up his nerve to ask for a raise, but his present circumstances were conspiring against him. His fourteen-year-old Dodge Colt rattled in place in the middle of the Travis Street Bridge, hemmed in on all sides by bulbous, purring pickup trucks and gleaming sport utility vehicles with fat, black tires. The electric blues and greens of these enormous automobiles reflected the dazzling morning glare through Paul's cracked and dirty windshield; they radiated shimmering heat through his open window. Waiting for the light, the fingers of his left hand drumming the scalding side of his car, the skin of his forearm baking to leather in the heat, Paul felt less like a man who deserved more out of life than a peasant on a mule cart trapped in the middle of an armored division.

"You're paying me as a typist," Paul said aloud, practicing, "but you're working me as a technical writer."

In the heat, and in the rumble of idling engines, this sounded especially feeble. Paul sighed and peered ahead, where a homeless man was walking through the waves of heat between the lines of hulking trucks and SUVs, turning slowly from side to side as if he were lost in a parking lot looking for his car. Unlike most panhandlers, he didn't carry a hand-lettered sign on a piece of cardboard, telegraphing some tale of woe; even more strange, he wore a white, short-sleeved dress shirt and a tie instead of the usual sun-bleached denims and filthy t-shirt. The bluntness of his large, egg-shaped head was exaggerated by a severe buzz cut and a pair of wire-rim glasses, and his body was egg shaped as well--he looked unusually well fed for a homeless guy. Indeed, in his white shirt and polyester slacks, he looked like a caricature of a middle manager from some draw-this-puppy matchbook school of art, one large oval topped by a smaller one. The shirt and tie are a mistake, Paul thought, he needs a sign-WILL TYPE AND FILE FOR FOOD. But that cut too close to the bone for Paul; he was only a paycheck away from panhandling himself. And anyway, it wasn't his job to offer marketing advice to the homeless. I've got my own problems, he told himself, and he lifted his gaze through the heat shimmering off the trucks ahead and saw, at the far end of the bridge, the time and temperature endlessly chasing each other across the shadow side of the Bank of Texas Building. It was just barely eight o'clock, and already 85 degrees. In the morning glare the bank's brass logo along the sunlit side of the building blazed as if it were burning.

"Bot," said Paul, pronouncing the bank's acronym aloud. "Bee. Oh. Tee." Sweat trickled down his breastbone. Both front windows of his unair-conditioned Colt were rolled down, in the unlikely event of a breeze, and his own dress shirt was tossed on the passenger seat so that he wouldn't sweat through it on the drive to work. A racket like someone violently battering a cookie sheet came from the undercarriage of his unevenly idling car and was reflected back at him by the enormous, neon blue Trooper to his left.

This is not the climate for ambition, Paul thought, and at the edge of his consciousness flickered a retort from his former, more politically engaged persona as a university professor: that this kind of thinking was prejudiced and possibly even racist. Old buzzwords flickered dialectically at the back of his brain like heat lightning along the horizon--colonial/postcolonial; First World/Third World; North/South--but Paul was only barely aware of them. During this moment of distraction, each of the red numerals streaming across the bank at the end of the bridge had grown by one. Now it was 86 degrees and 8:01, and Paul was late for work.

The egg-shaped man had come closer, only a couple of vehicles away. All the other drivers on the bridge sat high up behind their tinted windows, ignoring the man in air-conditioned comfort. Paul had come to think of these more affluent drivers as "the truckoisie," middle-class state employees who faced, at worst, a forty-minute, stop-and-start commute every morning, but who did it in vehicles capable of fording a jungle stream or hauling half a ton of manure. These vehicles had names that bespoke Spartan virtues, a semimilitary asceticism--Explorer and Pathfinder and Samurai--but within, even in the cabs of the pickup trucks, the vehicles were as comfy as suburban living rooms, where the truckoisie drank from huge plastic flagons of specialty coffee, talked on their cell phones, and listened to hyperventilating, drive time DJs on the radio or best-selling self-help books on tape. Paul's own tape player had long since choked to death on a cassette of Jan and Dean's greatest hits, stuck at last on the screeching tires of "Dead Man's Curve," and the FM band on his radio no longer worked, leaving him with only the shrill democracy of AM--jammin' oldies, oompah Tejano accordion music, and Dr. Laura. At this moment he waited with the radio off, his car noisily juddering itself to pieces beneath him, and he sat smelling exhaust, his own sweat, and the nitrous aroma of bat shit rising off the sluggish green river below.

"I'm not a typist," muttered Paul, trying to focus on the matter at hand, "I'm a goddamn tech writer."

Suddenly the egg-shaped man was at the Colt's bumper, swiveling his spectacles in Paul's direction. Paul averted his gaze, trying to avoid eye contact. Too late. The homeless man came up to Paul's window, his eyes huge behind his glasses.

Paul glowered straight ahead, his train of thought derailed. This was a breach of panhandler decorum. The way it was supposed to work was, you waggled your sign, if you had one, and scowled in a guilt-inducing manner; the object of your attentions ignored you; you moved on. Paul sighed ostentatiously and lifted his eyebrows at the traffic light, just barely visible above the tall rear end of the Pathfinder ahead of him. Still red. Over the stink of exhaust and hot metal, he was certain he could already smell the homeless man's riparian scent. But for the heat, Paul would have rolled up his window.

Don't meet his eye, Paul told himself. Pretend he isn't there.

But now Mr. Egg was bent at Paul's window like a highway patrolman. Paul allowed himself only the tiniest roll of his eyeballs to the side and was surprised to note that the man's tie featured some sort of astronomical theme, lines of right ascension and declination and signs of the Zodiac against a background of twilight blue. Still not meeting the man's eye, Paul performed another leftward, double-take bounce of his eyeballs. The tie was faded but tightly knotted and clipped to the man's shirt with a dull, silver tie clip, upon which an eroded engraving read "...OF THE YEAR." Paul risked another eyeball bounce at Herr Egg, then another. The white shirt front was smudged, and the narrow points of the man's collar were frayed, but astonishingly in this heat--Paul himself perspired like an overweight prizefighter--there were no sweat stains on the shirt. Monsieur Egg wore two pens; the lower end of one poked through a hole in the bottom of his breast pocket. Across his other breast, inches from Paul's nose, was a smudgy, creased, blue-and-white paper name tag, the sort with a sticky backing that conference goers wear. It read, in blue sans serif and large, block hand lettering:

Hello! My name is


Paul twisted sideways in his seat and looked the man in his egg-shaped face. "Go away" he demanded.

Senor Egg's face from temple to chin was one long, smooth, hairless curve. His skin--another p0first for a homeless guy in Texas--was pale as a slug, almost albino. His milky scalp gleamed through his stubbled hair, but even this close to him Paul saw not a drop of sweat. The man--Boy G, why else would he wear a name tag?--had a small mouth and a rounded nose, and his tiny, pale eyes were magnified by the bulbous lenses of his wire rims. He was not looking at Paul, however, but past him, appraising the contents and the state of Paul's automobile. His fishy eyes noted the S-shaped crack in the windshield, the greasy dust on the dashboard, the foamy rents in the upholstery. The driver's side sun visor was long gone, torn off in a rage, and the armrest on the passenger door hung by one screw. Behind the front seat a rising tide of Coke cans, crumpled Taco Bell bags, and empty Big Gulp cups cluttered the foot wells.

Paul stared at the man openmouthed and gripped the steering wheel, his stomach tight with anger. Could this bum be judging him? Was it possible that Paul Trilby, B.A., M.A., Ph.D., almost a Fulbright, did not meet the exacting standards of the homeless? Boy G's small mouth curved down at either end, either the beginnings of a smile or a condescending frown, and Paul braced himself for some hoarse obscenity or just an indecipherable grunt. He frantically sought for something cutting to say to forestall this asshole's street witticism.

But Boy G spoke in a whisper, his breath betraying no trace of alcohol nor of anything else for that matter.

"Are we not men?" he said.

Paul's retort caught in his throat. "What?" was all he managed to say.

"Are we not men?" repeated Boy G, with the same ghostly inflection.

The driver of the Ram Truck behind him honked her horn just then, startling Paul, and he glanced in the rearview mirror, then ahead through the windshield glare at the traffic light. It was green, and all the gleaming trucks ahead of him were in motion; a wide gap had opened up between his front bumper and the receding wall of SUVs and pickups. Paul jerked his foot off the brake and the Colt rattled forward. Then he remembered the homeless guy so close to his car, and he hit the brake again. He turned to the window as Ms. Ram Truck leaned on her horn.

"Watch it!" said Paul to Boy G, but there was no one there.

The Ram Truck roared around him and raced through the yellow light. Paul cursed and hit the gas, then jammed the brake almost immediately as the light turned red. His threadbare tires screeched; his arthritic shocks groaned. He lurched against his seat belt, and from the passenger seat his shirt and his lunch slid to the floor; behind him the midden of cans and crumpled bags rustled. Paul pounded the wheel and twisted in his seat, looking right and left, forward and back, for the egg-shaped man. But all he saw were the six sun-baked lanes and the concrete parapet of the bridge, and another fearsome brigade of Troopers and Scouts coming up from behind. Boy G had vanished.

Copyright © 2004 by James Hynes. All rights reserved.

Meet the Author

James Hynes is the author of the novels The Lecturer's Tale, Wild Colonial Boy, and the stories Publish & Perish (all New York Times Notable Books of the Year). He lives in Austin, Texas.

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Kings of Infinite Space 4 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 5 reviews.
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I very much enjoyed this book. It is unusual for me to actually not be able to put down a book, but this one I had to keep reading. Despite the fact that the main character is a schmuck, you feel empathetic towards him and actually annoyed by Charlotte, whom actually has every right to continue haunting him. I highly recommend this one! Bravo James!