March 24, 2020 

 

Willard “Mitt” Romney was the 70th governor of Massachusetts, and currently serves as a Senator from the great state of Utah, despite spending his formative years in the even greater state of Michigan. In the earliest years of his life, Senator Romney was called Billy, but showed a clear preference for Mitt by the time he reached primary school. While at Cranbrook High School in Bloomfield Hills, Michigan, young Mitt did not distinguish himself academically or athletically, per the 29th citation on his Wikipedia page. After a brief stint with the high school pep squad, Mitt’s preparatory school days culminated in 1969 with an informal engagement to Ann Davies, an arrangement I imagine to be marked by the exchange of class rings and dancing ‘round a bonfire, hand-in-hand with classmates, singing something by The Beatles or actually probably The Monkees. 

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By now you may be wondering why I'm sharing my wealth of knowledge about Senator Mitt Romney. Mr. Rimney, a suspiciously close variation of the Romney name, is the tyrannical leader of the Air Force base on which the narrator of “CommComm” by George Saunders is employed. Since the names of characters have proved to be windows into the twisted mind of their creator, Mr. Saunders, for a majority of this book, I thought this story would be no different. I searched Wikipedia, the sure-fire site for accurate biographical information, for any indication that there is a history of military service in the Romney family. My search came up short, and I am inclined to believe that Mr. Rimney is probably not even loosely based on Mr. Romney, yet I am pleased to have found a description of the current Senator’s early years, in which he “fell short of excellence". 

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There is a more telling reason for why I took a detour into Romney family history while trudging through this 27 page short story. The detour was a happy distraction from the narrative. I am usually a fan of Saunders’s use of hyperbole and the eccentric world he creates for readers. Yet with this piece, it seemed like every small detail was a life-size version of itself. From where I am sitting, Saunders attempted a commentary on religion, the military-industrial complex, the after-life, media, and grief - all at once. Taken alone, or even in pairs, there is much to say about each of these topics. To take each concept, dice it up, season it, and throw it into one giant serving of socially critical stew, was overwhelming, and detracted from my ability to relate to the characters. The characters felt like aliens, in a parallel world with close resemblance to the world in which we live: they held jobs, went to grocery stores, and lost loved ones. But I did not recognize any of the characters as people I could potentially know. Isn’t at least one aim of satire to reveal or pay special attention to our vices, our contradictions, our shortcomings, and our faults? But if we cannot be made to believe that the object at the butt of the joke is anything like us, the introspection that hopefully follows an encounter with satire is less probable. 

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One of the wonders of hyperbole is its ability to point to one facet of something, and exaggerate that trait to the point where what exists is the most immediately obvious trait. The first example that comes to mind is the commonly known story of Pinocchio. Pinocchio’s nose grew each time he told a lie, so that when looking at him, his nose was immediately obvious. But if the entirety of Pinocchio’s body was exaggerated, the part that symbolized his deceit of others, would lose it’s symbolic value. The result would be a giant man-boy that in no way reminded you of any man-boys you personally know. Similarly, the lives of the characters in “CommComm” were enlarged for our entertainment, filled with absurdities such as the curse of reliving their death every single morning, in a morbid cycle reminiscent of Groundhog Day. 

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To give a glimpse into the winding road of this story, it went a little something like this: Narrator is a media spin doctor for the Air Force. Narrator lives with his parents. Parents are dead. Parents stick around as ghosts, forced to relive their deaths between the hours of 8am and 9am every single day. Air Force base is closing. Mean boss (Rimney) doesn’t like anyone, except for the narrator. Rimney has a job at the Center for Terror (Terrorism?) after the base closes. Job is jeopardized when a dead body is found under the Center for Terror. Rimney hides the body in the office. Office smells bad. Rimney ropes the narrator into helping him rebury the body, in exchange for a job at the Center for Terror. Uber-religious safety worker, Giff, responds to complaints about the smell. Giff threatens Rimney’s plan. Narrator and Rimney rebury the body. Giff finds out. Rimney kills Giff and writes a note from Giff to Giff’s wife saying he had to leave. Ghost Giff uses his singular allotted earthly visitation to come to the narrator's house. Rimney comes to the narrator's house, asking for help to bury Giff’s body. When the narrator refuses, Rimney kills the narrator. Ghost narrator uses his singular visit to go to Giff’s wife and tells her that Giff never meant to leave. 

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Halfway through the story, I needed a mental break. I don't doubt that a close reading of this story would reveal some profound truth. But I was simply too tired to look for it. And without much meaning, I would at least expect some narrative tension to keep my interest throughout and inspire me to finish the story. But for me, this story lacked both. I finished it so that I could write this piece, and live to tell you all about it, along with some factoids about Mitt Romney that you can dish out at your next trivia night, where there is sure to be either a “Failed Presidential Nominee” or “Famous Mormons” category.