Standup comic, playwright, and novelist Elton (Popcorn, 1997) comes
up with too little that's new to avoid the soporific in this
account of lost love rekindled - to no good - among the back alleys
of modern London. Polly Slade is one of those left-wing busybodies
who can never be persuaded to leave bad enough alone. A social
worker at the Office of Equal Opportunity, she evaluates
discrimination cases all day long and presses the suits of those
who've been unfairly passed over for housing or promotion. And what
thanks does she get for her trouble? Precious little, unless you
count the deranged stalker who fell in love with her and now leaves
obscene messages in her voice-mail every night. It's
understandable, then, that Polly is less than thrilled to hear her
phone ring one evening near midnight, though it turns out - for
once - that her fears were mislaid: The caller isn't Peter (her
stalker) but Jack Kent, an old flame from the early 1980s. Jack was
a US Army captain, then based at Greenham Common, and Polly was
living in the lesbian commune formed nearby to protest NATO's
nuclear arsenal. They made an odd pair in those days, but managed
to fall in love despite it. Eventually, however, Jack abruptly
broke things off, fearful that an association with a declared
leftist would blight his career. Now, he's risen to the very top
and, as a general, needn't worry about a thing. So he calls Polly
to rekindle the flame. Can he? Before that question can be
answered, he finds himself enmeshed in a weird threesome with Polly
and Peter (who by now is even more demented and violent). Maybe
Jack can save Polly from more than loneliness. Or maybe he can make
a bad situation even worse. An anti-fairy tale sadly lacking the
wit or originality to lift it past the middle grade. (Kirkus
Reviews)
It's two fifteen a.m., you're in bed alone and you're woken by the
phone. Your eyes are wide and your body tense before it has
completed so much as a single ring. And as you wake, in the tiny
moment between sleep and consciousness, you know already that
something is wrong. Only someone bad would call at such an hour. Or
someone good, but with bad news, which would probably be worse. You
lie there in the darkness and wait for the answer machine to kick
in. Your own voice sounds strange as it tells you that nobody is
there but that a message can be left. You feel your heart beat. You
listen. And then you hear the one voice in the world you least
expect . . . your very own Blast From the Past.
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