‘I, Dr. Greenblatt, Orthodontist, 251-1457’ by Gary Barwin

Reviewed by Keith Cadieux 

Literature seems like a natural place to explore ideas, to try new forms and arrangements, to surprise readers with new and unexpected images and implications about the world which surrounds us. It seems that way. Before reaching readers (or at least a good number of readers) literature first needs to pass through the publishing industry, and there are forces here which make publishing the kind of literature mentioned above quite difficult. Publishers have to deal with markets and paying customers. They need to publish books which will be bought in droves, and this often means sticking to books that play it safe. Books that take risks in their content, in their form, in their style, in their language, are risky business propositions. This is not a swing at the publishing industry, just the truth, however cynical, of the situation. Into this publishing world comes Gary Barwin’s latest fiction collection, I, Dr. Greenblatt, Orthodontist, 251-1457. Barwin and publisher Anvil Press have taken a risk here, and the result is a book that is unabashedly and delightfully odd.

Even the title here is enigmatic. I spent a good while puzzling over the meaning of the numbers after the word orthodontist: was it a sweeping range of years? A serial number? Code? Was it an obscure reference to science fiction (was I, Dr. Greenblatt meant to mirror I, Robot?) The acknowledgements page clarified what perhaps should have been clear up front: “The numerical sequence ‘251-1457’ dates back to that Arcadian pre-cellular time when seven digit phone numbers roamed the earth and area-codeless communication with orthodontists was possible.” This small note clued me in to something which is important to keep in mind while reading the pieces collected here: though your brain is sure to be confounded by the weirdness on display, the tone is playful; the weird is meant to allow your logic centre to relax and be receptive to these ideas, and in this way you are left open to experience something profound, moving, and often pretty funny.

While some stories do follow a more established short story—or very short story—form, most of these are more aligned with prose poetry. Many of the entries here are only fragments, clocking in at one hundred words or so. They are mostly plotless, and instead are quick, poetic examinations of metaphorical or downright preposterous images. In “Coffee, Newspaper, Eggs,” a couple share the same pair of legs. When they wake up, one of them puts the legs on to make coffee. Then they swap and the other goes out to collect the newspaper. They swap again so that the first one can start on the eggs (I bet you now see where the title comes from). In “Mahoney Lonesome,” Barwin writes, “The victorious wrestler is an oiled rhinoceros in a green Speedo, stomping the ground with his delicate feet… His broad box-spring torso is a queen bed of slats, sleek and lumpy as after the coitus of mammoths.” Indeed it would be incredibly difficult to maintain or advance a plot with language so devoid of logical clarity. That is not to say, though, that pieces here are not a joy to read. In fact, a great many of them are. However, I find myself stumped by the task of recommending individual stories to others. Much like individual poems, there are stories and fragments in Barwin’s collection to which I feel a definite draw but it is unclear why I have gravitated to those ones and not others. The surreal aspects of the stories­­—their language, metaphors, images, characters—mean that readers are likely to enjoy the pieces in a visceral, reflex-like sense. One reader may find the idea of a pregnant father carrying a son who never emerges from the father’s body, instead floating loosely inside the father’s skin like an unanchored man-sized tumor, off-putting; another may find it heartbreaking and touching.

There are more straightforward stories but even these are a far cry from standard short fiction fare. A definite standout is “The Tell-Tale Heart Retold: A Tale Told by Heart,” which is a retelling of Poe’s classic story from the point of the view of the four ventricles of the heart of the old man who is murdered. Towards the end of the story, Barwin takes a trick from Poe’s original and adopts a cadence not unlike the rhythmic beating of a heart—“We keep beating. We know what we must do. Beneath the floor, we know what we must do”—showing a great poet’s control over the progression of language and sound.

Another somewhat traditional story, or at least traditional in its narrative progression, is “Phil Campbell Was His Town,” which centres on a man named Phil Campbell who lives in the town of Phil Campbell, Alabama. When a tornado hits, over one thousand people, all named Phil Campbell, descend on the town to help rebuild.

Gary Barwin has taken genuine risks with this collection. The oddity on display here will not be accepted by everyone, but those readers who approach the stories and fragments with the right kind of open mind, a willingness to play and be awed, those readers will find something rather enjoyable.

Anvil | 138 pages | $18.00 | paper | ISBN # 978-1772140132