Jeff Arnoldby KMN ’12

The reviews poured in, but they were not good. Six weeks had passed since Jeff Arnold finished his debut novel. In the ensuing time he bit his nails anxiously; he pulled his hair nervously; he moved his bowels hysterically; but most of all, he worried. Jeff Arnold was at the end of his rope.

"Drivel," dismissed the Times. "Retarded," explained the Journal. "Not bad for a Honda," wrote Car and Driver. Although he knew the media was virulently anti-Polish (and not without cause), in a rare moment of clarity Jeff Arnold was forced to admit: he was not at all Polish.

"The dialogue," chided the New Yorker, "betrays the ear of a man who may never have spoken with a single human being." But that was untrue. Jeff Arnold spoke to plenty of people. He shouted at apartment buildings; he shook his fist at airplanes; he banged his television set. He wrote dozens of letters to relatives (mostly dead), which he then burned (the relatives), and used to heat cans of refried beans on Cinco de Mayo, and on every other day he chose to eat.

Jeffrey Arnold had known failure all his life. He had failed as an academic (his theories, too radical for the students); he had failed as a family man (his sexuality, too radical for his wives and children); he had failed as an activist (his radicalism, too radical for the radicals).

But more than anything he had wanted to write the first Great American Novel. "Gahh," he despaired. "I'll have to move to Toronto and settle for the first Good Canadian Pamphlet." Illiteracy was rampant among the benighted cold-people so it wouldn't take much, he figured. So he hopped in his 'car,' adjusted the handlebars, and furiously peddled South. Years before, Jeff Arnold had also failed as a cartographer.