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Pryor Rendering
     

Pryor Rendering

by Gary Reed
 

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Editorial Reviews

Publishers Weekly
'I'm gay now,' Rae finally blurted.... 'Yea,' I nodded, 'me too, I guess.' " With this confession and self-revelation, Charlie Hope, the 18-year-old protagonist of Reed's bittersweet debut novel, experiences an emancipating epiphany. Born in the beer joint owned by his alcoholic grandfather, Chick, in the bleak town of Pryor, Okla., Charlie spends his boyhood accompanying Chick on a marathon bender through the bars and whorehouses of Tulsa. When Chick dies, 13-year-old Charlie is left to fend mostly for himself. Brought up in the confusing isolation of his pious, man-hating mother's home, the boy finds nothing to admire in the town's loutish male role models, most of whom work at Pryor Rendering, where the local slaughterhouse's discarded animal parts are melted down into lubricants and fertilizer. A friendship with Dewar, an opportunistic older inmate of the state-run correctional institution for incorrigible boys, initiates the acting-out of Charlie's disturbing secret sexual fantasies. After an alcoholic escapade at an Indian reservation, he is abandoned by Dewar to find his own way. This lyrical and hauntingly forthright novel avoids psychosocial analysis, offering instead poignant insights into the soul of a youth desperate for acceptance in a world filled with rejection. Copyright 1996 Reed Business Information, Inc.

Product Details

ISBN-13:
9780452277977
Publisher:
Penguin Group (USA) Incorporated
Publication date:
04/01/1997
Pages:
288
Product dimensions:
7.00(w) x 5.00(h) x 1.00(d)

Read an Excerpt

Even though he died of drinking, I never saw him touch a drop outside a bar. It's the truth. Only on Sundays, when county law prevented him for selling beer out of his place, he'd spend the day sober rather than than drink at home. Of course, more Sndays than not, he'd take of for Tulsa and hop the bars there. Sometimes, when I was just a boy, he'd take me along...

Meet the Author

I was born in a beer joint in Pryor, Oklahoma. The joint was called Chick's. It belonged to a gnarly old cuss named Charlie Bash - "Chick" to his friends - who built it with his own sweat and know-how out of the aggravation of having to drive seventy-five miles from Pryor to the nearest barstool and cold keg in Tulsa. Chick was my grandpa. I got his name, and my mother, Ida, got his bar.

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