Move over, Karl Ove Knausgård. Here comes autofiction with a Brooklyn bite that's actually fun to read: Everything Happens to Me by the maestro of the micro, Peter Cherches. Ninety captivating chapters present a series of quizzical quagmires and crazy-ass conundrums that Peter must attempt to navigate.
What a life as a little-known writer and Brooklyn apartment dweller. How would you like a next-door neighbor who, on a TV talk show, accuses you of being a walking advertisement for incivility, shows up in your dream as a Nazi kommandant barking orders, and, one day in the elevator, out of the blue, asks you about one of your old grade-school classmates?
But it doesn’t end there. The eccentric neighbor ups the ante, performing as a ventriloquist at a Park Slope street fair, and his dummy? None other than a little, bald replica of Peter Cherches, dressed in a sailor suit and mockingly dubbed “Little Petey.” Outrageous! Peter has loathed being called Petey all his life. The madness escalates when Little Petey is made to recite one of Peter's stories. That’s when Peter decides enough is enough. What follows? Classic Peter Cherches, unpredictable and bold.
And then there’s the unforgettable elevator ride. The neighbor stands there cradling what appears to be a chimpanzee. Peter, ever polite, says, “Cute chimp.” The neighbor, scandalized, fires back, “That’s no chimp—that’s my nephew!” After a few awkward exchanges, Peter learns the so-called nephew's name is Ricky and, surprisingly, Ricky is twenty-five years old. The grand finale? As they reach their floor, Peter, now stuck holding Ricky while the neighbor fumbles for his keys, is treated to Ricky’s pièce de résistance: the chimp turns to Peter, deadpan, and says, “You must be the neighbor,” before letting loose a fart right into Peter’s hand.
Making his way in and around Brooklyn, Peter encounters more, much more. There's good reason his book is titled Everything Happens to Me. A trio of examples: Peter is out on a date at an Italian restaurant when a pigeon comes in and takes a shit on his tablecloth. Another time, at a diner, he finds himself seated across from two clowns — literal clowns — who, when Peter asks them if there is a circus in town or if they are doing a private party, solemnly declare that their outfits are not costumes but their everyday attire, since, after all, they are clowns. Then there's the time when Peter strolled by his local elementary school where three ten-year-old boys asked if he could help them by having them do his portrait for five bucks. Feeling generous, Peter told them, "Sure." Alas, the kicker. The portrait is unbelievably accurate, totally unbelievable—a crayon portrait of what Peter looked like when he was their age.
You want bizarre? Peter doesn't even have to leave his apartment to be hit with an entire string of events and happenings that are weird, oddball, fantastic, and bugged-out impossible. One morning, his talking toothbrush goes off script and begins asking him a series of questions as if the damn thing's a psychiatrist. Another time, someone slips a note under his door that looks like a ransom note that might refer to his putting his toilet seat down. Then there’s the time he woke up to find his cozy studio apartment had magically morphed into a museum overnight, complete with a tour guide cheerfully informing a small crowd that this was, without question, the most unique museum in all of Brooklyn. And, as if that wasn’t enough, one morning he groggily rolled out of bed only to find himself inexplicably standing in his neighbor's living room, still dressed in his PJs. Talk about waking up on the wrong side of the bed!
I’ve barely scratched the surface of the ninety madcap chapters that await you in Everything Happens to Me. Trust me, this is a book that belongs on your shelf, ready to rescue you from even the dullest of days. As the blurb on the book's back cover makes clear, "Rarely has one man's misery been so much fun."
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