Tomato Red
by Daniel Woodrell
- 4 Want to read
For Bev Merridew, who can turn a trick as easily as she can roll a joint, life in Venus Holler is tolerable. For her nineteen-year-old daughter, Jamalee, a life guaranteed to be the replica of her mother's isn't good enough. With her tomato-red hair and her barely contained rage, she has plans, and they don't include Venus Holler.
What they do include - indeed, depend on - is her drop-dead beautiful brother, Jason. But Jason may just be a country queer, and in the hills and hollows of the Ozarks, that is about the most dangerous thing a man could be. Into their midst comes Sammy Barlach. With too many entries on his rap sheet, he's passing through on his way to nowhere, looking to be a loser in new surroundings. Jamalee thinks he might be the muscle she and Jason need.
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Book Details
First Sentence
"You're no angel, you know how this stuff comes to happen: Friday is payday and it's been a gray day sogged by a slow ugly rain and you seek company in your gloom, and since you're fresh to West Table, Mo., and a new hand at the dog-food factory, your choices for company are narrow but you find some finally in a trailer court on East Main, and the coed circle of bums gathered there spot you a beer, then a jug of tequila starts to rotate and the rain keeps comin' down with a miserable bluesy beat and there's two girls millin' about that probably can be had but they seem to like certain things and crank is one of those certain things, and a fistful of party straws tumble from a woven handbag somebody brung, the crank gets cut into lines, and the next time you notice the time it's three or four Sunday mornin' and you ain't slept since Thursday night and one of the girl voices, the one you want most and ain't had yet though her teeth are the size of shoe-peg corn and look like maybe they'd taste sort of sour, suggests something to do, cause with crank you want something, anything, to do, and this cajoling voice suggests we all rob this certain house on this certain street in that rich area where folks can afford to wallow in their vices and likely have a bunch of recreational dope stashed around the mansion and gain' to waste since an article in The Scroll said the rich people whisked off to France or some such on a noteworthy vacation."
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First Sentence
"You're no angel, you know how this stuff comes to happen: Friday is payday and it's been a gray day sogged by a slow ugly rain and you seek company in your gloom, and since you're fresh to West Table, Mo., and a new hand at the dog-food factory, your choices for company are narrow but you find some finally in a trailer court on East Main, and the coed circle of bums gathered there spot you a beer, then a jug of tequila starts to rotate and the rain keeps comin' down with a miserable bluesy beat and there's two girls millin' about that probably can be had but they seem to like certain things and crank is one of those certain things, and a fistful of party straws tumble from a woven handbag somebody brung, the crank gets cut into lines, and the next time you notice the time it's three or four Sunday mornin' and you ain't slept since Thursday night and one of the girl voices, the one you want most and ain't had yet though her teeth are the size of shoe-peg corn and look like maybe they'd taste sort of sour, suggests something to do, cause with crank you want something, anything, to do, and this cajoling voice suggests we all rob this certain house on this certain street in that rich area where folks can afford to wallow in their vices and likely have a bunch of recreational dope stashed around the mansion and gain' to waste since an article in The Scroll said the rich people whisked off to France or some such on a noteworthy vacation."
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| July 13, 2024 | Edited by MARC Bot | import existing book |
| February 19, 2022 | Edited by ImportBot | import existing book |
| December 27, 2021 | Edited by ImportBot | import existing book |
| July 31, 2020 | Edited by ImportBot | import existing book |
| December 9, 2009 | Created by WorkBot | add works page |