Bob the Gambler Pa

Barthelme nails the perfect disasters of a gambling addict. His compassion, detail and heart sit Ray and Jewel down on either side of me as we bet ourselves into bliss and oblivion. I'd write more but I don't want to give anything away...except to say that I've never read as clear and tender a description of the workings of the mind of anyone in love with the action.

The night after I finished this book I found myself before a slot machine in a small casino. I had a feeling and put a quarter in. I won and won again. I stuffed the quarters in my pockets but there were no buckets available. When I lost two quarters in a row I left. Unfortunately this was a dream and I awoke empty handed. Bob the Gambler is a beautifully observed, enviably perfect novel by a master who doesn't seem flashy because he stays within his means. It is also a surprisingly, even surreally loving story. The novel centers around the fissioned nuclear family of down-on-his luck Biloxi architect Bob Kaiser, a plump transplant moved by the Mississippi coastal decay before it was invaded by "gussied-up Motel 6 hotel rooms [and] an ocean of slicked-back hair," his pretty, witty, and wonderful wife of nine years Jewel, who is tough and stable, and yet the first to thirst for casino action, Jewel's daughter RV, an amazingly rendered, very sweet fourteen year old mid-90's teenager whom Bob adores, and Frank, the family dog. All the principals, as well as Bob's mother, whom we meet later in the book, are expert at the art of the cryptic tough-talking but secretly loving epigram. One of the great charms of this book is the depths of love of the family members both concealed by and revealed by their fragmented banter and quips. There are some wonderful moments and descriptions of daily life and teenage rearing, the euphoric swirl of casino gambling, and the decrepit Mississippi coast. The lasting impression one is left from this book, aside from the controlled brilliance of Barthelme's prose, is in my opinion a meditation on the meaning of money vis-à-vis love. Bob's wife's name, Jewel, is a token of facets of wealth unobtainable by any number of markers or wild infatuation-like risks; theirs, an irreducible love that includes and absorbs others (such as RV) in its understated wake, is the multicolored antithesis of liaisons such as those between David Duke (who make a cameo appearance)-and a sprightly young thing-of any coupling that can be price tagged, exchanged, or discarded. The casino and noncasino lights that surround Jewel, in her preternatural (and perhaps ultimately unrealistic, or at least extremely rare) stability, enact a preciousness beyond money and its temporary accumulations. They symbolize the nonmonetary values of the gift of being, the privilege not of accumulating but of existing-of the privilege of being alive, a spectator of phenomena in a world whose mortal decay, far from being its downfall, guarantees the preciousness of the light show it displays. Anyone who has taken junkets to Atlantic City may have noticed how on the flight there everyone chatters; they are full of excitement on hope. The way back is different. Everyone, or almost everyone has lost. They are quiet-until the plane lands, at which point they clap. Why? Because, although they have lost their money, they are newly appreciative of the far more precious gift

I read this book as soon as it came out, have recommended it to friends, and just now purchased another copy as a gift. It's one of the best books I've read in years. The characters are so acutely observed, the dialogue so on target, that I got carried away with it. The well-written gambling scenes made my hands sweat at points. And the ending -- the ending is absolutely perfect.

Barthelme's new book is fantastic. Rich in detail like his earlier "Two Against One," and chilling in its ability to paint the down and out life of its characters.

Barthelme's latest may mine some of the same territory as his other books, but he handles the dark world around the pathetic gambling boats on the Gulf Coast so deftly that it all plays like a miniature masterpiece.