This “minor classic” (according to introduction) takes place on Polk Street in San Francisco at the turn of the century. It is part of that funny scandalously-realistic-depiction-of-the-common-man-according-to-some-rich-kid genre, so it includes lots of interesting detail about daily life in San Francisco at that time. For example, did you know that tamales have been an integral part of the San Francisco bar scene for at least a century? At that time, there was a tamale man instead of a tamale lady and he sold tamales in street kiosks near the bars, instead of on that rad bicycle cart that the tamale lady pulls around to all of the bars. But it seems to have filled that same late-night dinner/bar food niche. Mmm, tamales.
The story describes the downfall of a dumb dentist and his avaricious wife, apparently inspired by a real crime in San Francisco. I have to say, and maybe I am an avaricious wife, but for the first two thirds of the book I thought she was completely reasonable in refusing to dip into her savings so her husband could fritter it all away on beer and a bigger apartment like he wanted to. Now later, when she started rolling in gold coins so she could feel the cold money on her naked skin, I conceded that this seemed a little weird. (But what an excellent, Dynasty-esque image! Nice break from all the ‘realism.’) I do not want to spoil the ending for anyone, but all of this avarice winds up leading to crime.
The introduction, written by Kevin Starr, is pretty interesting. It clarifies that Frank Norris was a rich, artsy kid (died young) who wanted to write a starkly realistic novel about working class people on Polk Street. He lived two blocks away on a much posher street, which he grandly calls “the avenue” throughout the novel. This sheds some light on the somewhat condescending fascination he seems to have for regular cable car drivers and saddle makers and bartenders on Polk Street. I believe the book also exhibits some of that condescension that trustafarians always have for people who “care too much about money,” because it is so non-bohemian to worry about that sort of thing, especially when you will get a fat check from your parents at the end of the month.
In short, this book is good trashy fun. Much better than that Jackie Collins. I recommend reading it, then going back and reading the introduction, which is much more informative after reading the book. The part of the introduction describing his time as a “banjo-playing fraternity man” at Berkeley is priceless. One time he and his frat brothers rented a giant horse and carriage from Wells Fargo from which to watch the Big Game. Notwithstanding the fact that I have never seen an actual football game, I am now desperate to recreate this experience with the chief’s great aunt and uncle, a mixed Cal and Stanford couple who have big screaming arguments about the big game every year.
