The best books whose main characters I’d most like to spend a night at the bar with

From the moment I met Carlotta Mercedes, the main character in this book, I was rooting for her. She’s a convicted felon, up for parole for the fifth time, but she’s pretty sure she’ll be denied: “Them sonofabitches said I had bad behavior, but they definition a bad behavior’s if you scream when a CO whupping yo ass like a Betty Crocker fudge cake.” I’m a sucker for books with lively, laugh-out-loud language. 

Carlotta is all dynamic energy and jambalaya metaphor, even though she has spent twenty years in prison for being in the wrong place at the wrong time and has endured rape and physical abuse because she’s a trans woman in a men’s cell block. 

I am cheering for Carlotta when she’s released and begins making her way through our modern world, “like a brain-damaged African elephant trying to jump into a game of double Dutch.” She laughs and curses and doesn’t tolerate disrespect. And I know she could teach me a lot about how to live life, how to “open myself up to it like Ise a music box, like I been showin Freedom a li’l twirlin dancer inside a me that’s made a diamonds an gold...” 

I bet she drinks mixed cocktails with little colored umbrellas.

Until I readthis book, I thought Satan was a bad guy. But the Satan of this book is surprisingly sympathetic. I love re-reading familiar stories from the point of view of a character who is not what I expect. Satan makes his rebellion of angels sound like a popular uprising against an autocratic ruler, one who was not elected but “upheld by old repute,/Consent or custom.” It’s like Satan is the George Washington of Heaven, rising up against God’s King George. And I applaud his acceptance of his current situation in Hell: “Here at least/We shall be free.” No whining or self-pity.

There’s also Satan’s honest self-appraisal. You’d think he’d spent years in psychotherapy. He admits to his “dread of shame,” his love of boasting, and his joy in his own ambition. I love an intelligent, clever, and complex character. When Gabriel chastises Satan for leaving Hell, Satan says God should have made escape more difficult. Yet even as he slithers off to Eden, he feels remorse when he sees how beautiful Adam and Eve are, “What do mine eyes with grief behold!” 

Satan is a whiskey guy, probably Glenfiddich.

When I sent my agent the first few chapters of a memoir I was writing, she told me to begin a different project. “You’re not famous, and you don’t have a distinctive, unforgettable voice like Mary Karr.” Harsh words, but so true. No one writes like Mary Karr. Her narration of her hardscrabble, traumatic upbringing in West Texas combines harsh truth, horror, and humor. The book is evidence that real life can be far more fantastical and engaging than fiction. 

I always love writers who play with language, and Mary Karr is an expert at creating wild and giddy combinations of words to present indelible images. She uses her poetic sensibility to distance herself from difficult memories, making it easier for me to read about them. When, for example, her mentally ill mother abandons the family without notice and returns several days later, everyone is so relieved, they can’t stop touching her, and Karr writes, “She must have felt like Gulliver being swarmed on by the little people.” Or when the entire family experiences insomnia after a hurricane and everyone walks around the house naked, she explains, “Our bare bodies were walking invitations to any nap that might claim one of us.”

Mary Karr is a recovering alcoholic, so she’ll have seltzer with a splash of cranberry. I know this because I’m in recovery too, and that’s what we all drink at bars. 

I turn to Mrs. Ramsay, the wife, mother, and hostess of this book, whenever I question my value in the world. By Victorian standards, she “has it all”: a doting (if difficult) husband, eight loving children (with whom, amazingly, she seems to have no problems), and a comfortable way of life. She alone, not her renowned philosopher spouse, not the young poet nor the dedicated artist who comes for a visit, brings meaning and harmony to a group of guests over one holiday weekend.

Mrs. Ramsay reminds me that nurturing and feeding (in all the meanings of that word) other people is a sacred task, even if our society doesn’t recognize it as such. Even a simple dinner party can partake of spiritual eternity: “Of such moments, she thought, the thing is made that endures.”

When I spend too much of my own day on seemingly mindless chores or domestic duties, and I feel that I haven’t accomplished anything because I didn’t get to my writing, Mrs. Ramsay reminds me what is important in the world, and what our lives are really made of. She’s also hilarious. I would love to hear her insightful comments and keen judgments of other bar denizens.

Mrs. Ramsay would probably drink a nice glass of sherry.

I aspire to be like Charlotte A. Cavatica, the highly intelligent spider and creative artist here. When she weaves the words “Some Pig” into her web to help save her friend Wilbur the pig from slaughter, and the farmer tells his wife, “[W]e have no ordinary pig,” the wife quite rightly corrects him: “It seems to me we have no ordinary spider.” I love Charlotte not only for her extraordinary loyalty as a friend (working all night and sacrificing meals by devoting her web to messages about Wilbur), but for her devotion to words (“terrific” and “radiant” are impressive vocabulary for a spider, and highly suitable adjectives for a pig-rescuing project). 

Above all, I applaud Charlotte’s humility. After tirelessly creating her spun language masterpieces, she backs into a corner of the barn, allowing Wilbur to take the spotlight for her efforts. Even as she succeeds in garnering wide attention for Wilbur and saving his life, she understands (as I strive to) that the point of her efforts is not recognition for herself but her love for Wilbur. 

Charlotte would enjoy a tasty grasshopper or iced melony June bug.