“Pink is a keen observer of the culture of minimum-wage jobs and low-rent studio apartments that is the reality of life for all those who don’t find a cog space in today’s hyper-capitalist economy.” —The Guardian
It was maybe the first job I’d ever had where people were happy to see me.
An odd feeling indeed, to wield this kind of power.
To be this kind of force.
As near to magical as any mortal should stride.
A technician of unspeakable joy.
Braving the neon mountains to return with blue raspberry concentrate.
Tearing out sundae cone fangs from the mouths of snow beasts.
And so on.
Cone dealer, sunshine stealer, alleyway counselor, lunch lady to the homeless, friend to the dead, maker of sandwiches. Metal wrangler. Stag among stags. And so it goes—another journey through time spent punched in. A life’s work of working for a living. Blood, death, and violence. Dirty dishes, dead roaches, and sparkler-lit nights. Nights ahead and no real fate. So open your mouths because the forecast calls for sprinkles. Thirteen delights, scooped and served. Let it melt down your hand. Let the sun burn your face. It’s the ice cream man, and other stories.
Pink’s best writing . . . wins him fierce and cultish admiration. Part of this, I think, he owes to his chosen subject. For all the attention political theorists and commentators have lately devoted to a definition of the working class, not much fiction chronicles the sheer weirdness of working-class life and labor today.
I love the pulse of Sam Pink’s sentences, the way they can hold the gorgeous and the grisly and the hilarious all at the same time.
Sam Pink is the most important writer in America. This isn’t hyperbole. In a world of literary Bing Crosbys, Sam Pink is our Little Richard.