One Hundred and Thirteen (2007)
One Hundred and Thirteen is John S. Cooney's fourth novel, and the first set in Chicago. The story takes place in a single night and involves artists and their patrons, computer programming, radical leftist politics, the plight of contemporary poetry, and snow. But mostly it's about the details.
“It could also signify nothing.” Mary glances up from her work, staring for a moment at Django’s back. She is also wearing a lab coat, pressed wool pants visible beneath the lower hem. Her glossy brown hair is pulled back from her face and angular, tortoise-shell glasses rest on her sharp nose.
There are no windows in the square room. The upper third of the outside wall is glass brick, allowing the exterior darkness to be present in the otherwise brightly lit space. The room is painted white, the ceiling is very high, and the single overhead fixture consists of eight parallel fluorescent tubes (each 4” long). The furnishings are spare: a steel table in the center, a smaller steel table with the crusher against the far wall, the counter with three basins beside the door, and two low filing cabinets on casters hidden under the tables. The surface of the central workstation is covered with garbage, spilling out of a black trash bag that has been split open with a cross-shaped incision.
Django retrieves the crushed bottle from the device. “Look, there are any number of scenarios here—the most obvious is the presence of another individual, either in the sense of a relationship, perhaps someone he’s just started dating or a new colleague at the office, to just someone who’s introduced him to a different product.” Django carefully sets the warm, flattened plastic on the wax paper and reloads the crusher (Diet Dr. Pepper). “Of course, we don’t necessarily need another person to explain this new detail—the simplest explanation is just that he’s finally grown tired of Diet Coke.”
“Simple is good.”
“He’s in a rut, he’s looking to expand his horizons, to break out of the routine, to broaden his perspective on life—let’s say he’s sick of his job, he’s not having fun with his friends anymore, he’s lonely and he doesn’t seem to be meeting any new people.” Django tugs the lever down and holds it in the compacted position. He speaks through gritted teeth. “And maybe, maybe advertising does work—maybe he saw a great commercial and he’s kick starting his life with a new soda.”
Mary uses a pair of long tweezers to drag an empty can of garbanzo beans from the trash bag, the lid almost completely cut away and twisted off at an oblique angle. “If true, that would be devastatingly tragic.”
Django is now squeezing the crushed Diet Dr. Pepper bottle with his tongs. “Well, that’s certainly true, viewed from a certain privileged, judgmental vantage point—if you’d prefer, we can refrain from damning this guy to a pathetic, grasping, and futile existence.”
“He may not be drinking the soda himself,” Mary places the can near four others, including one still dripping thick tomato sauce (Hunt’s) onto the metal table. “He could have a new love interest, someone who likes variety.”
“Call me a cynic if you must, but I’d hardly categorize Diet Orange Crush as romantic.” Django raises his eyebrows at Mary. “A much younger woman, perhaps?”
“A much younger man?” Mary yanks gently on the half-buried rim of a jar of salsa. “Let’s not make any assumptions.”
“Notwithstanding the occasional, and yet consistently reoccurring, bags of pork rinds, invariably so fully consumed as to appear licked clean?”
“A stereotype easily refuted by any gay man who eats junk food—regardless, this is a lot of soda.”
“Sure, sure, there’s definitely plenty of evidence here to support the theory that he’s getting help.” Django is pulling on the lever again, his body straining. “Nevertheless, I feel obliged to point out that there’s also plenty of evidence to support almost any hare-brained premise we dream up.”
“Good thing we’re building a mystery, not solving one.” Mary frowns at the discarded salsa jar, clamped tightly between the textured grips (cross hatched) of her tweezers. She places it with the empty cans.
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