NAP Authors
was born in the Panama Canal Zone on October 17, 1947. He grew up in Las Cruces, New Mexico, and received his bachelor's and master's degrees from New Mexico State University, studied at Columbia University, and earned a Master's of Fine Arts from the University of Arkansas in 1977. Abbott has won the St. Lawrence Award for Fiction and received two fellowships from the National Endowment for the Arts, as well as a Major Artist Fellowship from the Ohio Arts Council. In addition to appearing in such places as Harper's, The Atlantic Monthly, and The Georgia Review, Abbott's stories have also been published in The Best American Short Stories and Prize Stories: The O. Henry Awards. Richard Ford called Abbott's most most recent book, All Things All at Once, "a florid and rich cornucopia of stories, full of exuberance, passion, gravity, consolation, and utter zaniness." Abbott has taught Creative Writing at Case Western Reserve University, Colorado College, Washington University, and Rice University. He currently lives in Columbus, Ohio with his wife, Pam, and teaches in the Creative Writing program at The Ohio State University.
Excerpt from "One of Stars Wars, One of Doom"
The slaughter hasn't started yet.
Tango and Whiskey, in fact, have just left bowling class at the Mimbres Valley Lanes off Iron Street. No one knows about the Intratec DC 9 or the Savage sawed-off double-barreled 12-gauge. No one knows about Little Boy and FAT MAN, the propane tank bombs set up with egg timers and gallon gasoline cans. Even Mr. DeWine, who's famous for believing he knows everything about anything any kid does, doesn't know that right now, nearly nine in the morning, Tango and Whiskey are parking their cars, a black VW Golf and a blue Camry, in their assigned places in the student lot across from the gym. Sadly, Mr. DeWine can't even guess that in several minutes—maybe ten—Tango, Marlboro in hand, will stop Mike Richardson outside the cafeteria.
"Richardson, I like you," he will say. "Now, get out of here. Go home."
No, Mr. DeWine knows only that it's too early for lunch. and that he has a mountain of civics exams to grade before seventh period. His gut is churning-too much coffee too early, he guesses-and, come four thirty this afternoon, he'll be in his Jockey shorts in a room at the Red Roof Inn off I-10, listening to Ms. Petty—Ms. Leanne Elizabeth P., late of Tularosa—crying in the bathroom. Before or after—hell, often both—she cries in the bathroom: no one is listening to her, she sobs, no one values her opinion, she's a fireplug for all anyone cares. Just a truck or a root or a box of rocks. She'll be wearing a garter belt and seamed hose, the fetish wear Mr. DeWine drools over, and she'll be sitting on the closed toilet lid, sniffling and boohooing that even Mr. DeWine, the guy she's been screwing for the last ten months—Christ, probably the only heterosexual in this goddamn Land of Enchantment who can get from one to ten without using his goddamn fingers, a guy who regularly made her laugh right out loud—even he doesn't listen to her. No, that crumb just climbs on and hollers "Whoopee"'—not a "yes" or "no" or civilized phrase to go back and forth between them until, at 6:30, he says adios so he can hustle back before Sue Ellen, the wife, gets home from Pioneer Realty, Associates.