Everything Matters! by Ron Currie, Jr.

If you are the type of reader who would never pick up a book with an exclamation point in the title, then this is the book for you!

Everything Matters! by Ron Currie, Jr. breaks a lot of guidelines that I usually drill into my students' brains in September as the cardinal rules (or at least my cardinal pet peeves) of writing: don't use punctuation to speak for you instead of words, writing in second person doesn't work, use past tense, not present, to tell a story. And it breaks them so successfully and so convincingly that I began to reconsider not only these petty conventions of writing but a million more significant ones as well.

The story of Junior Thibodeau, boy-genius who knows from birth that the world will end when he is 36, never did what I expected it to do. The redemption I expected at the ended turned out to really be more anti-redemption. And that, I believe, is the point: nothing is neat or pretty and nothing lasts. And everything matters because nothing really matters at all.

With the portentous destruction of the Challenger when Junior is in elementary school on one end and the inevitable actual end of the world on the other, Junior's life feels like a cataclysm in and of itself, even without the whole countdown-to-annihilation thing. Junior is paralyzed by his insight and tormented by ... pretty much everything.

Much of the story is narrated by The Voices (emphasis mine) who, from his birth, provide Junior with not only the precise date, time, and astronomic statistics of the impending Armageddon, but also a wide number of other truths and advice, complete with admonitions about, suggestions for, and criticisms of Junior's decisions. The Voices come across as part omniscient narrator, part Hal the Computer, and part interior monologue. Since they address Junior directly, they also made me feel like I was Junior. And, even though Junior might actually be crazy, seeing as he hears voices and all, I am pretty sure that I, and probably a lot of other neurotic-twenty-to-thirty-somethings, actually am Junior in some important ways.

As counterpoint to Junior's angst-ridden and drug-addled life, his father, John Sr., was for me Currie's most convincing evidence in support of the assertion of the title. As a rule I wouldn't say that father-son relationships are a particular area of interest for me. But John Sr. is so solid, simple, straightforward, and strong that he makes Junior's fractured internal life ridiculous and tragic. There's a sense that if only Junior could see things his dad's way, he wouldn't have nearly so many problems. Just listen to this:

John Sr. meets his hero, baseball player Ted Williams, and he explains:

And it was one of the great moments of my life, walking with Ted William's arm around my shoulders, right up there with my boys being born.

John Sr., a man who works three jobs because he simply can't stand inaction, has a moment of such pure paternal love for his ridiculous son that it made me want to hit Junior over the head. And cry. In a good way.

Later, The Voices put a finer point on the difference between Junior and his sainted dad:

In fact it seems true, at least in this case, that great intellectual capacity (that is, Junior's) can sometimes be a handicap, because we're pretty certain that someone of average intelligence would have this figured out fairly quickly ...

The narration is punctuated with these offhand articulations of simple truths that are in no way aphoristic or trite. And while The Voices by no means coddle Junior, they do provide insightful, if unhelpful, advice suggesting ways Junior should just get over himself already.

Amy, the unsuspecting and for the most part of the book unwilling Juliet to Junior's doomed Romeo, also provides good ballast for the bobbing vessel of his psyche, and grants him some grace, especially by the end.

At one point, Amy asks herself:

But what does being an adult teach you, daily, if not how to function in the face of fear?

And, unlike Junior, Amy seems to have found a way:

Move your feet, I tell myself, and I manage one slow step, then another.

This is the magic of the story: somehow, even the most incredibly complex, messed up things in life have a very simple solution that diffuses their significance at the same time that it underlines how deeply important they are. Currie is talented enough that he can say things like "Love, in its purest form, is biology" and have it sound, not cynical, but reassuring.

As they grow ever closer to the end of the world, Amy tells Junior a story about a cross-country drive she made in college. She tells Junior:

I had decided to take the long route through the South. And do you know why I went so far out of my way?

Here, The Voices interject:

You do not. We could tell you, but listen:

Amy goes on:

Because someone had told me about these flowers in Texas that I just had to see. Bluebonnets ... Said it would change my life. And I guess my life felt like it needed changing at the time, because I went to Texas instead of just shooting straight across the plains.

The experience of reading this book was complicated and joyful and left me feeling resolute. To do what, not sure. But definitely to remember that things matter.