An Interview with Nickalus Rupert
In the Fall of 2018, during a regular weekly meeting of The Idaho Review editorial staff, the topic of the week’s reading came up. Had anyone happened upon a story we might want to publish? I smiled nervously, at no one, my pulse quickening. Because I had read something I thought we might want to publish. Only, it contained a vision of tender blasphemy I was unsure if I could champion. Did I dare mention it? The story was “Aunt Job,” by Nickalus Rupert, and my trepidation about introducing its—shall we say—spicy premise was quickly replaced by the pride of discovery. The piece was shepherded into Volume 18 of the journal, by Mary Pauline Lowry, and the next thing we knew it was a Pushcart Prize winner. So, when I heard Nickalus Rupert had a new collection of stories coming out right around the date of the two-year anniversary of my discovery of “Aunt Job,” I felt it was about time I reach out to the writer whose life I had so profoundly and immeasurably and selflessly benefitted.
Idaho Review: Mr. Rupert, I understand you have a collection of stories coming out, will you tell us a little bit about that?
Nick: The stories in Bosses of Light and Sound tend to skew left of realism. In the title story, a pair of movie theater projectionists begin splicing up feature films to make them more interesting. In “Spy Car,” a pair of underachieving barroom musicians try to rekindle their friendship by touring the town in a homemade James Bond-inspired sedan. In “Hale in the Deep,” a many-times divorced pharmacy manager invests in high-tech headgear that “redacts” his ex-wives. Several of the stories are grounded in realism, but I think there’s a surreal quality throughout. Some of the premises follow a kind of perverse dream logic, not unlike an episode of The Twilight Zone.
IR: “Aunt Job” certainly feels grounded in the way of more realistic fiction. It just feels like the reality is a bit more flexible. One of the great pleasures of the story is the way its world accommodates itself to the warped premise: a good-natured youngster is forced to come of age in a world of permanently demented pubescence. Did the world of the story flow naturally from the premise? And, have you dared to ask yourself where the impulse to write it came from?
Nick: Yes, I suspect that the story’s setting is a natural consequence of the absurd premise, in which all male adolescents pass through a highly regulated sexual ceremony. When I let such a deranged premise expand to its fullest, sometimes the entire landscape of the story ends up shifting. I think that’s why “Aunt Job” ends up with its nightmarish version of the Hard Rock Café, for instance.
As for my motivation in writing that story, I had one professor in particular who always complained that my fiction didn’t cause enough discomfort and wasn’t “dangerous” or “scary” enough. “Aunt Job” is my attempt to write something dangerous, and the very fact that we’re discussing it proves my professor was probably right.
IR: It’s fun to talk about the rudderless mental abuse at play in “Aunt Job,” but the story also has some real heart. The protagonist is an endearing young man, and I can safely say I have never read anything else that left me as emotionally invested in an appetizer as I was while reading "Aunt Job." What’s visiting a restaurant like for you?
Nick: I prefer to enter the restaurant while riding a glass unicycle and juggling a set of flaming coconuts. Then, I go from table to table, poking my thumbs into other diners’ entrees and asking whether they buy into that bogus “round earth” theory. Next, I personally lick every menu in sight. I’ll often set fire to the dessert cart before the night is over, but I always leave a generous tip.
In all seriousness, I do find restaurants to be highly entertaining spaces, especially those that commit to some kind of bizarre shtick. Consider a place like the Medieval Times restaurant where you drink mead, eat enormous turkey legs, and watch knights on horseback joust one another. That’s an utterly batshit idea that exists (or used to exist) in reality. Are the appetizers in “Aunt Job” really that much stranger? It seems to me that one of fiction’s duties is to help remind readers that the reality they inhabit is already unthinkably strange.
IR: The subject matter of "Aunt Job" is what some might call dangerously spicy. How did you manage the inherent danger of the story?
Nick: It’s a complicated subject, because from an outside perspective, we’d say that “Aunt Job” involves ritualized incest, and yet, within the reality of the story, the event is so heavily codified that it’s utterly joyless, and considered no more perverse than a quinceañera or a Bar Mitzvah. The unnamed protagonist is the only one who questions the ritual, and I think most readers can sympathize with a character who believes they’re the only reasonable person in the room. The key, I think, is to take that character’s plight seriously as a writer, even if the story itself is sometimes humorous.
I find that there’s often a fair amount of slippage between humor and horror. One of my professors used to remind us that when Kafka wrote at night, his laughter would keep the neighbors awake. Your average reader probably wouldn’t find too many laugh-out-loud moments in “The Metamorphosis” or “In the Penal Colony,” but I suspect that Kafka liked to tiptoe on that fuzzy divide between horror and humor. Writers like Joy Williams and Alice Munro are experts at this kind of balance.
IR: Are you working on something now? If so, would you like to share any details?
Nick: I’ve spent the last few months trying to sell a very “literary” novel that I started writing in 2009, but I’m currently working on a newer, plottier kind of novel. I can’t divulge too much, but I can tell you it will feature sharks, drones, dead bodies, and plenty of weirdness.
IR: "Aunt Job," as many will know, won a Pushcart Prize. I bet that was fun. Does everything always work out for you just the way you want it to?
Nick: As a PhD/MFA/MA who can’t seem to land a basic teaching job, I find this question hilarious. In fact, very little turns out the way I’d wished. Contact me if you ever want to compare rejection stats or talk about books that’ll never get published. I first applied to MFA programs in 2009. I watched my peers go on to MFA/ PhD programs while I was roundly rejected. That threw me into a terrible depression, but it also motivated me to write better material. I didn’t land in an MFA program until four years later (cheers to UCF and USM for giving me a chance!).
Anyway, it’s very gratifying that “Aunt Job” found an audience. My good friend Andrew Gretes tried to warn me: “This is going to be the story you’re known for.” Maybe he was right. It’s a nice thrill to receive nominations and awards, but I know from working on journals like Mississippi Review that there are always hundreds of equally worthy (or worthier) stories out there. Sometimes you get lucky. Mostly, you don’t.
IR: Does all your writing have elements of humor in it, or do you get dour and earnest on occasion?
Nick: My hope is that Bosses of Light and Sound contains a range of moods and voices, although humor does seem to pervade my writing. I do find that stories like “Bonus Round” and “The Temptation of Saint Ravine” strike somewhat more serious, somber tones. “The Temptation of Saint Ravine” deals with a volunteer suicide prevention specialist who’s fairly inept at his trade. There’s humor, but it’s bittersweet. My friend Victoria Campbell used to describe my stories as “funny-sad,” and I think that’s a fair assessment. Steve Almond has an essay titled “Funny is the New Deep,” and I suppose I subscribe to a similar philosophy.
IR: Got any book recommendations?
Nick: The last short fiction collection I read was Adam Johnson’s Fortune Smiles, sent by my friend Lou Mindar. “Nirvana,” the opening story, contains a stealth drone and a holographic version of a dead US president. Many of the other stories are less speculative, though equally impressive. “Dark Meadow,” which deals with pedophilia, is a particularly disturbing read. It’s the kind of collection that haunts you long after you’ve finished.
IR: I happen to be the person who discovered "Aunt Job" in The Idaho Review's giant pile of Open Submissions. I then played an important role in seeing it through the gauntlet of our acceptance process. If not for me the road to a Pushcart Prize may not have appeared on the map of your life. So, for the record, what plans do you have to acknowledge me and celebrate the important role I played in your success?
Nick: I feel strongly that all other journals would’ve had the common decency to pass on “Aunt Job.” The fact that you even attempted to publish such a story indicates that you’re morally bankrupt—and I mean that as high praise.
I am remiss for not acknowledging you sooner and for not including a shoutout in the back of my book, but I’ll make it up to you. Here’s what I’m prepared to offer:
- 1 vicious, bipedal lizard (answers to the name “Justice”)
- The correct lyrics to Toto’s “Africa”
- 1 copy of Peasant-Slayer IV for your iPhone or Android device
- Dinner of your choice at the next AWP event (no Hard Rock Café, please!)
- Drinks of your choice at the next AWP event (no Bahama Mamas, please!)
IR: You had me at bipedal lizard. Where can we get copies of "Bosses of Light and Sound"?
Nick: Bosses is available through the Submittable portal at Willow Springs Books. You’ll need a Submittable account, which won’t cost a dime.
Purchase Bosses of Light and Sound
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