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Drinking Coffee Elsewhere
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Description
The acclaimed debut short story collection that introduced the world to an arresting and unforgettable new voice in fiction, from multi-award winning author ZZ Packer
Her impressive range and talent are abundantly evident: Packer dazzles with her command of language, surprising and delighting us with unexpected turns and indelible images, as she takes us into the lives of characters on the periphery, unsure of where they belong. We meet a Brownie troop of black girls who are confronted with a troop of white girls; a young man who goes with his father to the Million Man March and must decide where his allegiance lies; an international group of drifters in Japan, who are starving, unable to find work; a girl in a Baltimore ghetto who has dreams of the larger world she has seen only on the screens in the television store nearby, where the Lithuanian shopkeeper holds out hope for attaining his own American Dream.
With penetrating insight, ZZ Packer helps us see the world with a clearer vision. Fresh, versatile, and captivating, Drinking Coffee Elsewhere is a striking and unforgettable collection, sure to stand out among the contemporary canon of fiction.
”ZZ Packer’s prose is vivid and often comic…Her vision sizzles and fizzes.”—John Updike
”A captivating eye for detail…a bold and often thrilling usage of language and style.”—San Francisco Chronicle
”This is the old-time religion of storytelling, although Packer’s prose supplies plenty of the edge and energy we expect from contemporary fiction.”—The New York Times Book Review
”A true cause for celebration for those of us who feel that fiction exists to crack the world open again and inspire us with new love for it. Funny, fierce, verbally energetic, deeply compassionate—ZZ Packer is a wonderful new writer, who somehow manages to indict the species and forgive it all at once.”—George Saunders, Booker Pize winning author of Lincoln in the Bardo
”Acerbic, satirical, hilarious, nuanced, as fiercely unsentimental and deliciously subtle as Jane Austen.”—O, The Oprah Magazine
”ZZ Packer writes a short story with more complexity and kindness than most people can muster in their creaking 500-page novels. It is the kind of brilliance for narrative that should make her peers envious and her readers very, very grateful.”—Zadie Smith, New York Times bestselling author of Swing Time
”Packer casts an eye both humorous and merciless upon her characters, putting them, in the tradition of Flannery O’Connor, to tests of faith, family, friendship, love, and self that can approach almost Biblical dimensions.”—Elle
ZZ Packer’s stories have appeared in The New Yorker (where she was launched as a debut writer), Harper’s and Story, have been published in The Best American Short Stories, and have been read on NPR’s Selected Shorts. Packer is the recipient of a Guggenheim Fellowship, a Whiting Writers’ Award, and a Rona Jaffe Foundation Writers’ Award. A graduate of Yale, the Iowa Writers’ Workshop, and the Writing Seminar at Johns Hopkins University, she has been a Wallace Stenger-Truman Capote fellow and a Jones lecturer at Stanford University.
INTRODUCTION
With stories in The New Yorker‘s debut fiction issue and in The Best American Short Stories 2000, and as the winner of a Whiting Writers’ Award and a Rona Jaffe Foundation Writers’ Award, ZZ Packer has already achieved what most writers only dream about-all prior to publication of her first book.
Now, in Drinking Coffee Elsewhere, her impressive range and talent are abundantly evident. Packer dazzles with her command of language-surprising and delighting us with unexpected turns and indelible images, as she takes us into the lives of characters on the periphery, unsure of where they belong. With penetrating insight that belies her youth-she was only nineteen years old when Seventeen magazine printed her first published story-Packer takes us to a Girl Scout camp, where a troupe of black girls are confronted with a group of white girls, whose defining feature turns out to be not their race but their disabilities; to the Million Man March on Washington, where a young man must decide where his allegiance to his father lies; to Japan, where an international group of drifters find themselves starving, unable to find work.
Drinking Coffee Elsewhere is a striking debut-fresh, versatile, and captivating. It introduces us to an arresting and unforgettable new American voice.
ABOUT ZZ PACKER
A New Yorker debut writer, ZZ Packer has had short stories published in the Best American Short Stories, 2000 (edited by E. L. Doctorow), Harper’s, Story magazine, and in the anthology 25 and Under: Fiction, as well as a story read on NPR’s “Selected Shorts.” A graduate of Yale and the Iowa Writers’ Workshop, she is the recipient of a Whiting Writers’ Award and a Rona Jaffe Foundation Writers’ Award. She has held Wallace Stegner and Truman Capote fellowships from Stanford University, where she is currently a Jones Lecturer.
DISCUSSION QUESTIONS
Brownies
BY OUR SECOND DAY at Camp Crescendo, the girls in my Brownie troop had decided to kick the asses of each and every girl in Brownie Troop 909. Troop 909 was doomed from the first day of camp; they were white girls, their complexions a blend of ice cream: strawberry, vanilla. They turtled out from their bus in pairs, their rolled-up sleeping bags chromatized with Disney characters: Sleeping Beauty, Snow White, Mickey Mouse; or the generic ones cheap parents bought: washed-out rainbows, unicorns, curly-eyelashed frogs. Some clutched Igloo coolers and still others held on to stuffed toys like pacifiers, looking all around them like tourists determined to be dazzled.
Our troop was wending its way past their bus, past the ranger station, past the colorful trail guide drawn like a treasure map, locked behind glass.
“Man, did you smell them?” Arnetta said, giving the girls a slow once-over, “They smell like Chihuahuas. Wet Chihuahuas.” Their troop was still at the entrance, and though we had passed them by yards, Arnetta raised her nose in the air and grimaced.
Arnetta said this from the very rear of the line, far away from Mrs. Margolin, who always strung our troop behind her like a brood of obedient ducklings. Mrs. Margolin even looked like a mother duck-she had hair cropped close to a small ball of a head, almost no neck, and huge, miraculous breasts. She wore enormous belts that looked like the kind that weightlifters wear, except hers would be cheap metallic gold or rabbit fur or covered with gigantic fake sunflowers, and often these belts would become nature lessons in and of themselves. “See,” Mrs. Margolin once said to us, pointing to her belt, “this one’s made entirely from the feathers of baby pigeons.”
The belt layered with feathers was uncanny enough, but I was more disturbed by the realization that I had never actually seen a baby pigeon. I searched weeks for one, in vain-scampering after pigeons whenever I was downtown with my father.
But nature lessons were not Mrs. Margolin’s top priority. She saw the position of troop leader as an evangelical post. Back at the A.M.E. church where our Brownie meetings were held, Mrs. Margolin was especially fond of imparting religious aphorisms by means of acrostics-“Satan” was the “Serpent Always Tempting and Noisome”; she’d refer to the “Bible” as “Basic Instructions Before Leaving Earth.” Whenever she quizzed us on these, expecting to hear the acrostics parroted back to her, only Arnetta’s correct replies soared over our vague mumblings. “Jesus?” Mrs. Margolin might ask expectantly, and Arnetta alone would dutifully answer, “Jehovah’s Example, Saving Us Sinners.”
Arnetta always made a point of listening to Mrs. Margolin’s religious talk and giving her what she wanted to hear. Because of this, Arnetta could have blared through a megaphone that the white girls of Troop 909 were “wet Chihuahuas” without so much as a blink from Mrs. Margolin. Once, Arnetta killed the troop goldfish by feeding it a french fry covered in ketchup, and when Mrs. Margolin demanded that she explain what had happened, claimed the goldfish had been eyeing her meal for hours, then the fish-giving in to temptation-had leapt up and snatched a whole golden fry from her fingertips.
“Serious Chihuahua,” Octavia added, and though neither Arnetta nor Octavia could spell “Chihuahua,” had ever seen a Chihuahua, trisyllabic words had gained a sort of exoticism within our fourth-grade set at Woodrow Wilson Elementary. Arnetta and Octavia would flip through the dictionary, determined to work the vulgar-sounding ones like “Djibouti” and “asinine” into conversation.
“Caucasian Chihuahuas,” Arnetta said.
That did it. The girls in my troop turned elastic: Drema and Elise doubled up on one another like inextricably entwined kites; Octavia slapped her belly; Janice jumped straight up in the air, then did it again, as if to slam-dunk her own head. They could not stop laughing. No one had laughed so hard since a boy named Martez had stuck a pencil in the electric socket and spent the whole day with a strange grin on his face.
“Girls, girls,” said our parent helper, Mrs. Hedy. Mrs. Hedy was Octavia’s mother, and she wagged her index finger perfunctorily, like a windshield wiper. “Stop it, now. Be good.” She said this loud enough to be heard, but lazily, bereft of any feeling or indication that she meant to be obeyed, as though she could say these words again at the exact same pitch if a button somewhere on her were pressed.
But the rest of the girls didn’t stop; they only laughed louder. It was the word “Caucasian” that got them all going. One day at school, about a month before the Brownie camping trip, Arnetta turned to a boy wearing impossibly high-ankled floodwater jeans and said, “What are you? Caucasian?” The word took off from there, and soon everything was Caucasian. If you ate too fast you ate like a Caucasian, if you ate too slow you ate like a Caucasian. The biggest feat anyone at Woodrow Wilson could do was to jump off the swing in midair, at the highest point in its arc, and if you fell (as I had, more than once) instead of landing on your feet, knees bent Olympic gymnast-style, Arnetta and Octavia were prepared to comment. They’d look at each other with the silence of passengers who’d narrowly escaped an accident, then nod their heads, whispering with solemn horror, “Caucasian.”
Even the only white kid in our school, Dennis, got in on the Caucasian act. That time when Martez stuck a pencil in the socket, Dennis had pointed and yelled, “That was so Caucasian!”
*
WHEN YOU lived in the south suburbs of Atlanta, it was easy to forget about whites. Whites were like those baby pigeons: real and existing, but rarely seen or thought about. Everyone had been to Rich’s to go clothes shopping, everyone had seen white girls and their mothers coo-cooing over dresses; everyone had gone to the downtown library and seen white businessmen swish by importantly, wrists flexed in front of them to check the time as though they would change from Clark Kent into Superman at any second. But those images were as fleeting as cards shuffled in a deck, whereas the ten white girls behind us-invaders, Arnetta would later call them-were instantly real and memorable, with their long, shampoo-commercial hair, straight as spaghetti from the box. This alone was reason for envy and hatred. The only black girl most of us had ever seen with hair that long was Octavia, whose hair hung past her butt like a Hawaiian hula dancer’s. The sight of Octavia’s mane prompted other girls to listen to her reverentially, as though whatever she had to say would somehow activate their own follicles. For example, when, on the first day of camp, Octavia made as if to speak, and everyone fell silent. “Nobody,” Octavia said, “calls us niggers.”
At the end of that first day, when half of our troop made their way back to the cabin after tag-team restroom visits, Arnetta said she’d heard one of the Troop 909 girls call Daphne a nigger. The other half of the girls and I were helping Mrs. Margolin clean up the pots and pans from the campfire ravioli dinner. When we made our way to the restrooms to wash up and brush our teeth, we met up with Arnetta midway.
“Man, I completely heard the girl,” Arnetta reported. “Right, Daphne?”
Daphne hardly ever spoke, but when she did, her voice was petite and tinkly, the voice one might expect from a shiny new earring. She’d written a poem once, for Langston Hughes Day, a poem brimming with all the teacher-winning ingredients-trees and oceans, sunsets and moons-but what cinched the poem for the grown-ups, snatching the win from Octavia’s musical ode to Grandmaster Flash and the Furious Five, were Daphne’s last lines:
You are my father, the veteran
When you cry in the dark
It rains and rains and rains in my heart
She’d always worn clean, though faded, jumpers and dresses when Chic jeans were the fashion, but when she went up to the dais to receive her prize journal, pages trimmed in gold, she wore a new dress with a velveteen bodice and a taffeta skirt as wide as an umbrella. All the kids clapped, though none of them understood the poem. I’d read encyclopedias the way others read comics, and I didn’t get it. But those last lines pricked me, they were so eerie, and as my father and I ate cereal, I’d whisper over my Froot Loops, like a mantra, “You are my father, the veteran. You are my father, the veteran, the veteran, the veteran,” until my father, who acted in plays as Caliban and Othello and was not a veteran, marched me up to my teacher one morning and said, “Can you tell me what’s wrong with this kid?”
I thought Daphne and I might become friends, but I think she grew spooked by me whispering those lines to her, begging her to tell me what they meant, and I soon understood that two quiet people like us were better off quiet alone.
“Daphne? Didn’t you hear them call you a nigger?” Arnetta asked, giving Daphne a nudge.
The sun was setting behind the trees, and their leafy tops formed a canopy of black lace for the flame of the sun to pass through. Daphne shrugged her shoulders at first, then slowly nodded her head when Arnetta gave her a hard look.
Twenty minutes later, when my restroom group returned to the cabin, Arnetta was still talking about Troop 909. My restroom group had passed by some of the 909 girls. For the most part, they deferred to us, waving us into the restrooms, letting us go even though they’d gotten there first.
We’d seen them, but from afar, never within their orbit enough to see whether their faces were the way all white girls appeared on TV-ponytailed and full of energy, bubbling over with love and money. All I could see was that some of them rapidly fanned their faces with their hands, though the heat of the day had long passed. A few seemed to be lolling their heads in slow circles, half purposefully, as if exercising the muscles of their necks, half ecstactically, like Stevie Wonder.
“We can’t let them get away with that,” Arnetta said, dropping her voice to a laryngitic whisper. “We can’t let them get away with calling us niggers. I say we teach them a lesson.” She sat down crosslegged on a sleeping bag, an embittered Buddha, eyes glimmering acrylic-black. “We can’t go telling Mrs. Margolin, either. Mrs. Margolin’ll say something about doing unto others and the path of righteousness and all. Forget that shit.” She let her eyes flutter irreverently till they half closed, as though ignoring an insult not worth returning. We could all hear Mrs. Margolin outside, gathering the last of the metal campware.
Nobody said anything for a while. Usually people were quiet after Arnetta spoke. Her tone had an upholstered confidence that was somehow both regal and vulgar at once. It demanded a few moments of silence in its wake, like the ringing of a church bell or the playing of taps. Sometimes Octavia would ditto or dissent to whatever Arnetta had said, and this was the signal that others could speak. But this time Octavia just swirled a long cord of hair into pretzel shapes.
“Well?” Arnetta said. She looked as if she had discerned the hidden severity of the situation and was waiting for the rest of us to catch up. Everyone looked from Arnetta to Daphne. It was, after all, Daphne who had supposedly been called the name, but Daphne sat on the bare cabin floor, flipping through the pages of the Girl Scout handbook, eyebrows arched in mock wonder, as if the handbook were a catalogue full of bright and startling foreign costumes. Janice broke the silence. She clapped her hands to broach her idea of a plan.
“They gone be sleeping,” she whispered conspiratorially, “then we gone sneak into they cabin, then we’ll put daddy longlegs in they sleeping bags. Then they’ll wake up. Then we gone beat ’em up till they’re as flat as frying pans!” She jammed her fist into the palm of her hand, then made a sizzling sound.
Janice’s country accent was laughable, her looks homely, her jumpy acrobatics embarrassing to behold. Arnetta and Octavia volleyed amused, arrogant smiles whenever Janice opened her mouth, but Janice never caught the hint, spoke whenever she wanted, fluttered around Arnetta and Octavia futilely offering her opinions to their departing backs. Whenever Arnetta and Octavia shooed her away, Janice loitered until the two would finally sigh and ask, “What is it, Miss Caucausoid? What do you want?”
“Shut up, Janice,” Octavia said, letting a fingered loop of hair fall to her waist as though just the sound of Janice’s voice had ruined the fun of her hair twisting.
Janice obeyed, her mouth hung open in a loose grin, unflappable, unhurt.
“All right,” Arnetta said, standing up. “We’re going to have a secret meeting and talk about what we’re going to do.”
Everyone gravely nodded her head. The word “secret” had a built-in importance, the modifier form of the word carried more clout than the noun. A secret meant nothing; it was like gossip: just a bit of unpleasant knowledge about someone who happened to be someone other than yourself. A secret meeting, or a secret club was entirely different.
That was when Arnetta turned to me as though she knew that doing so was both a compliment and a charity.
“Snot, you’re not going to be a bitch and tell Mrs. Margolin, are you?”
I had been called “Snot” ever since first grade, when I’d sneezed in class and two long ropes of mucus had splattered a nearby girl.
“Hey,” I said. “Maybe you didn’t hear them right-I mean-“
“Are you gonna tell on us or not?” was all Arnetta wanted to know, and by the time the question was asked, the rest of our Brownie troop looked at me as though they’d already decided their course of action, me being the only impediment.
*
CAMP CRESCENDO used to double as a high-school-band and field hockey camp until an arcing field hockey ball landed on the clasp of a girl’s metal barrette, knifing a skull nerve and paralyzing the right side of her body. The camp closed down for a few years and the girl’s teammates built a memorial, filling the spot on which the girl fell with hockey balls, on which they had painted-all in nail polish-get-well tidings, flowers, and hearts. The balls were still stacked there, like a shrine of ostrich eggs embedded in the ground.
On the second day of camp, Troop 909 was dancing around the mound of hockey balls, their limbs jangling awkwardly, their cries like the constant summer squeal of an amusement park. There was a stream that bordered the field hockey lawn, and the girls from my troop settled next to it, scarfing down the last of lunch: sandwiches made from salami and slices of tomato that had gotten waterlogged from the melting ice in the cooler. From the stream bank, Arnetta eyed the Troop 909 girls, scrutinizing their movements to glean inspiration for battle.
“Man,” Arnetta said, “we could bumrush them right now if that damn lady would leave.”
The 909 troop leader was a white woman with the severe pageboy hairdo of an ancient Egyptian. She lay on a picnic blanket, sphinx-like, eating a banana, sometimes holding it out in front of her like a microphone. Beside her sat a girl slowly flapping one hand like a bird with a broken wing. Occasionally, the leader would call out the names of girls who’d attempted leapfrogs and flips, or of girls who yelled too loudly or strayed far from the circle.
“I’m just glad Big Fat Mama’s not following us here,” Octavia said. “At least we don’t have to worry about her.” Mrs. Margolin, Octavia assured us, was having her Afternoon Devotional, shrouded in mosquito netting, in a clearing she’d found. Mrs. Hedy was cleaning mud from her espadrilles in the cabin.
“I handled them.” Arnetta sucked on her teeth and proudly grinned. “I told her we was going to gather leaves.”
“Gather leaves,” Octavia said, nodding respectfully. “That’s a good one. Especially since they’re so mad-crazy about this camping thing.” She looked from ground to sky, sky to ground. Her hair hung down her back in two braids like a squaw’s. “I mean, I really don’t know why it’s even called camping-all we ever do with Nature is find some twigs and say something like, ‘Wow, this fell from a tree.'” She then studied her sandwich. With two disdainful fingers, she picked out a slice of dripping tomato, the sections congealed with red slime. She pitched it into the stream embrowned with dead leaves and the murky effigies of other dead things, but in the opaque water, a group of small silver-brown fish appeared. They surrounded the tomato and nibbled.
“Look!” Janice cried. “Fishes! Fishes!” As she scrambled to the edge of the stream to watch, a covey of insects threw up tantrums from the wheatgrass and nettle, a throng of tiny electric machines, all going at once. Octavia sneaked up behind Janice as if to push her in. Daphne and I exchanged terrified looks. It seemed as though only we knew that Octavia was close enough-and bold enough-to actually push Janice into the stream. Janice turned around quickly, but Octavia was already staring serenely into the still water as though she was gathering some sort of courage from it. “What’s so funny?” Janice said, eyeing them all suspiciously.
Elise began humming the tune to “Karma Chameleon,” all the girls joining in, their hums light and facile. Janice also began to hum, against everyone else, the high-octane opening chords of “Beat It.”
“I love me some Michael Jackson,” Janice said when she’d finished humming, smacking her lips as though Michael Jackson were a favorite meal. “I will marry Michael Jackson.”
Before anyone had a chance to impress upon Janice the impossibility of this, Arnetta suddenly rose, made a sun visor of her hand, and watched Troop 909 leave the field hockey lawn.
“Dammit!” she said. “We’ve got to get them alone.”
“They won’t ever be alone,” I said. All the rest of the girls looked at me, for I usually kept quiet. If I spoke even a word, I could count on someone calling me Snot. Everyone seemed to think that we could beat up these girls; no one entertained the thought that they might fight back. “The only time they’ll be unsupervised is in the bathroom.”
“Oh shut up, Snot,” Octavia said.
But Arnetta slowly nodded her head. “The bathroom,” she said. “The bathroom,” she said, again and again. “The bathroom! The bathroom!”
*
ACCORDING TO Octavia’s watch, it took us five minutes to hike to the restrooms, which were midway between our cabin and Troop 909’s. Inside, the mirrors above the sinks returned only the vaguest of reflections, as though someone had taken a scouring pad to their surfaces to obscure the shine. Pine needles, leaves, and dirty, flattened wads of chewing gum covered the floor like a mosaic. Webs of hair matted the drain in the middle of the floor. Above the sinks and below the mirrors, stacks of folded white paper towels lay on a long metal counter. Shaggy white balls of paper towels sat on the sinktops in a line like corsages on display. A thread of floss snaked from a wad of tissues dotted with the faint red-pink of blood. One of those white girls, I thought, had just lost a tooth.
Though the restroom looked almost the same as it had the night before, it somehow seemed stranger now. We hadn’t noticed the wooden rafters coming together in great V’s. We were, it seemed, inside a whale, viewing the ribs of the roof of its mouth.
“Wow. It’s a mess,” Elise said.
“You can say that again.”
Arnetta leaned against the doorjamb of a restroom stall. “This is where they’ll be again,” she said. Just seeing the place, just having a plan seemed to satisfy her. “We’ll go in and talk to them. You know, ‘How you doing? How long’ll you be here?’ That sort of thing. Then Octavia and I are gonna tell them what happens when they call any one of us a nigger.”
“I’m going to say something, too,” Janice said.
Arnetta considered this. “Sure,” she said. “Of course. Whatever you want.”
Janice pointed her finger like a gun at Octavia and rehearsed the line she’d thought up, “‘We’re gonna teach you a lesson!’ That’s what I’m going to say.” She narrowed her eyes like a TV mobster. “‘We’re gonna teach you little girls a lesson!'”
With the back of her hand, Octavia brushed Janice’s finger away. “You couldn’t teach me to shit in a toilet.”
“But,” I said, “what if they say, ‘We didn’t say that? We didn’t call anyone an N-I-G-G-E-R.'”
“Snot,” Arnetta said, and then sighed. “Don’t think. Just fight. If you even know how.”
Everyone laughed except Daphne. Arnetta gently laid her hand on Daphne’s shoulder. “Daphne. You don’t have to fight. We’re doing this for you.”
Daphne walked to the counter, took a clean paper towel, and carefully unfolded it like a map. With it, she began to pick up the trash all around. Everyone watched.
“C’mon,” Arnetta said to everyone. “Let’s beat it.” We all ambled toward the doorway, where the sunshine made one large white rectangle of light. We were immediately blinded, and we shielded our eyes with our hands and our forearms.
“Daphne?” Arnetta asked. “Are you coming?”
We all looked back at the bending girl, the thin of her back hunched like the back of a custodian sweeping a stage, caught in limelight. Stray strands of her hair were lit near-transparent, thin fiber-optic threads. She did not nod yes to the question, nor did she shake her head no. She abided, bent. Then she began again, picking up leaves, wads of paper, the cotton fluff innards from a torn stuffed toy. She did it so methodically, so exquisitely, so humbly, she must have been trained. I thought of those dresses she wore, faded and old, yet so pressed and clean. I then saw the poverty in them; I then could imagine her mother, cleaning the houses of others, returning home, weary.
“I guess she’s not coming.”
We left her and headed back to our cabin, over pine needles and leaves, taking the path full of shade.
“What about our secret meeting?” Elise asked.
Arnetta enunciated her words in a way that defied contradiction: “We just had it.”
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