Burning Girl, by Ben Neihart.
William Morrow and Company: New York, 1999.
$24.00 -- 245 pages.

Let me tell you about the very rich. They are different from you and me. They possess and enjoy early and it does something to them, makes them soft where we are hard and cynical where we are trustful.
-- F. Scott Fitzgerald

Dear Reader, let us pretend for a few moments that we are young, wealthy and beautiful. We spend each day eating gourmet foods, wearing the current fads and tooling about in one of several expensive cars. It is a Bret Easton Ellis world of excess and privilege where every yen can be immediately sated -- an insular world (no adults) in which we can strut and preen, our bodies sleek and pampered, and our language reduced to cryptic phrases: “Yo, bruh, you fine?” “Totally kick-ass.” “Absolutely! Cool!” If you are feeling uneasy with the language, maybe we should just sight-see. Yes, maybe we should just observe, try not to be judgmental and not attempt to exchange pleasantries.

Not that anyone talks much ... not “in the flesh,” that is, but they do croon and whisper on cell phones as they sip Red Stripes and listen to classic rock on their earphones. No one works either, and each day is spent cruising beaches, changing clothes, doing drugs and, like, hanging out. Sex is indiscriminate (the word “polymorphous” seems apt) and casual, occurring as often as opportunities present themselves. Are you becoming uncomfortable in this world? Well, not to worry, we won’t be staying long. We are, after all, arm-chair tourists, just passing through.

Drew Burke, the protagonist of Burning Girl, is also a visitor, but he wants desperately to “be there.” Drew is a poor scholarship student (anything under $25,000 per annum is poor in this world), but he yearns to belong. Like the good-natured parasite in Patricia Highsmith’s The Talented Mr. Ripley, Drew has learned to be ingratiating. He can “talk the talk and walk the walk.” Consequently, pampered darlings like Bahar Richards and her brother, Jake, will take him home, buy his lunch and let him wear Jake’s $2,000 silk suits to parties. Bahar loans him one of her cars occasionally, and Drew dreams of becoming “a part of the family.” The fact that he sleeps with both Jake and his sister just deepens the bond, so to speak.

Unfortunately, the hanging out with the spoiled and unstable begins to take a toll on poor Drew, and the wonderful world of pills, privilege and sexual excess begins to pale. The Richards siblings are given to making contemptuous remarks about “poor white trash” -- the social strata from which poor Drew originated. Bahar announces that she is pregnant -- an event that she seems to be ambivalent about. Jake becomes unstable, his moods vacillating between menace and cloying affection. A dream weekend with the luxurious Richards becomes nightmarish as Drew begins to realize that something is terribly wrong. Strange faces appear in the dark woods outside the range of the security lights, and distraught visitors arrive and depart on mysterious missions. There seems to be a crisis, and Drew hasn’t the vaguest idea about what it could be.

Gradually, Drew learns that everyone in this world of sated appetites -- all of Jake and Bahar’s friends and relatives -- know something that he doesn’t. Unwittingly, Drew has become enmeshed in a secret that no one will reveal. Why is everyone making veiled references to something that happened in the Richards family before Drew came to town? And then, there is the impending Larry King Show, a Friday night special in which Bahar’s mother will be a special guest? (She has written a book on mental illness and youth.) Finally, Jake confesses that he has been involved in a crime and hands Drew a manila folder filled with newspaper clippings. “Read this,” says Jake and assures the bewildered Drew that then he will know ....

Woven through this dark little erotic tale are numerous references to Sylvia Plath. In fact, Drew is supposed to resemble her and is given to quoting Plath poems in peculiar situations. Then, there is the murdered girl (poor white trash) who also resembled Plath, and gradually, Drew realizes that his apparent resemblance to a dead poet (the burning girl of the title) and a raped and murdered girl may explain why he is here among the bored, indolent and unstable.

Well, the plot is intriguing. I don’t doubt for a moment that Burning Girl will make a fantastic suspense film, filled with “noir” dialogue, kinky sex, a Larry King Show and a dark mansion complete with heart-stopping screams, doors slamming and hushed whispers down a dark hallway. I only have one complaint. I felt uncomfortable surrounded by bronzed flesh and affluence. In fact, I feel prompted to misquote my own favorite poet (Yeats) by noting that this “is no country for old men.” All of these cool, glib-talking, arrogant young folks give me the creeps. Of course, they get their just desserts, but somehow, I wasn’t satisfied. Even after the lavish meals, and sensual desserts of Burning Girl, I was still hungry. I was left yearning for both judgment and justice, probably motivated by a bit of personal resentment about being forever alienated from the world of youth and privilege.
(Gary Carden is a storyteller and writer who lives in Sylva. His most recent book, Mason Jars in the Flood, is available in area bookstores. He can be reached at gcarden498@aol.com)

 

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