jay mcinerney

"Invisible Fences," a story from JM's new collection, is one of my favorite three-quarters of a story, perhaps ever. "Invisible Fences," a story from JM's new collection, is one of my favorite three-quarters of a story, perhaps ever.

Why favorite? It manages to combine the story of two swinging suburbanites with that of their dog who ignores the electronic fence around its property. And the resulting tale of boundaries disregarded is as satisfying a piece as I've read in years.

Why three-quarters? Because, after ramping up to a chilling conclusion, the story just inexplicably... stops.

This is my complaint about most of what passes for literary short fiction these days; the "admire" rather than enjoy aspect, that somehow the story is meant to be gazed upon rather than lived with. And JM is quick to smash this notion right through the hot air-filled, low glass ceiling his peers pass off to the New Yorker, week after week.

Except that in the end, he commits the same sin they do: he doesn't end the piece so much as he does stop it. It begs for resolution, but leaves the main character in mid-thought, roughly three-quarters of the way through.

Still, three-quarters of JM on the top of his game beats every single one of the "I am in the room where my grandmother sits" bits o'pretentia from the products of our nation's finest writing programs. It's like they used to say about Bernard King of the Knicks, following his comeback from a knee injury: King at 75% is better than almost every other NBA player at 100%.