Enough with the incessant Nick Hornby and Tom Perrotta
comparisons made by members of the media (including this sheepish
reviewer, I’m afraid). Jonathan Tropper is his own writer ---
and his books deserve an honor and distinction all their own. His
special blend of wry humor, pitch-perfect dialogue and on-the-mark
pacing make for a wickedly amusing read that encourages, if not
induces, cackling (literally) on the subway, at the café, or
in that cozy armchair in the den. (Hypothetically speaking, of
course. Ahem.)

What makes Tropper’s books so refreshing is that they tend
to flow naturally --- just as they would, say, at your annual
family reunion where Aunt Margie gets sauced, Grandpa George takes
out his false teeth and makes lewd remarks to Grandma Susie under
his breath, and the rest of the relatives try not to notice Cousin
Jane’s lack of underwear underneath her less-than-mini skirt.
There aren’t any heavy-handed monologues that drone on for
pages on end. The characters don’t take themselves too
seriously (except for when they do). And never does Tropper drop in
from his lofty authorial chair with the intent to manipulate his
readers. Like a writer who’s confident in his craft (and with
his talents), he lets his characters speak for themselves while
they bumble through their deteriorating --- but always entertaining
--- lives.

In his latest crackup, THIS IS WHERE I LEAVE YOU, Tropper once
again makes bedfellows out of human tragedy and humor. The story
that unfolds takes place over seven days --- the time it takes for
the Foxman family to sit shiva for their dearly departed (atheist,
mind you) father/husband. Normally, devout Jews endure this period
of formal mourning by following a few strict rules. They cover up
mirrors to prevent vanity. They don’t bathe, work, go out, or
indulge in pleasurable activities. They sit on low stools and
gratefully accept the condolences of visiting relatives, colleagues
and friends. They grieve. The Foxman siblings want nothing to do
with these antics. Instead, they drink, smoke pot in the synagogue,
have sex, have sex with someone who isn’t a partner, get into
fistfights, trash a Maserati with a crowbar, and reconnect with old
friends, family and flings (in more ways than one and in many a
surprising combination!). It’s the first time they’ve
been together under one roof in years --- and in true Foxman
fashion, it’s an all-out free-for-all.

Judd, the novel’s sardonic narrator, is the epitome of a
cuckolded husband. He walked in on Jen, his “Ex-wife
elect,” doing the nasty with his boss (just one of a
14-month-long-line of boss-related dalliances) and has been
bouncing between irate, vengeful and self-deprecating ever since.
Phillip, his coddled younger brother (and the family screw-up), is
“engaged to be engaged” to his blonde, buff, but
significantly older Life Coach. Paul, Judd’s older brother,
is married to the girl Judd lost his virginity to in high school,
and still harbors feelings of resentment about it. And Wendy, the
oldest who has two kids and a bombastic
portfolio-manager-for-a-prestigious-hedge-fund husband, still holds
a (sometimes physical) candle for Horry, her next-door neighbor and
childhood sweetheart who got hit in the head with a bat and was
never quite the same in the noggin. And the matriarch of the
family? She’s a “sixty-three-year-old best-selling
author with a Ph.D. in clinical psychology and Pamela
Anderson’s breasts, who talks about f--king her late husband
like she’s discussing current events.”

The thing is, despite the depressing circumstances, the novel is
anything but maudlin. In fact, it’s a bawdy, rollicking world
to inhabit for the few days (or hours) it’ll take you to read
through it --- mostly thanks to Tropper’s way with words. On
shiva catering: “You could fill an airlift to Africa with all
the food generated by one dead Jew.” On entering into
marriage at a young age: “We knew marriage could be difficult
in the same way that we knew there were starving children in
Africa.” On unhappiness and blame: “People love to do
that, to point to some single phenomenon, assign it all the blame,
and wipe the slate clean, like when overeaters sue McDonald’s
for making them fat pigs. But the truth is always a lot fuzzier,
hiding in soft focus in the periphery.” Always ready with a
wisecrack or a perfectly executed punchline, many of the weighter
moments are palatable precisely because they’re not
forced or over-written, but, instead, infused with an extra dose of
banality that’s oddly…well…refreshing.

But THIS IS WHERE I LEAVE YOU is far from a witty fluff piece on
familial dysfunction. Tropper’s characters aren’t
entirely detached from themselves, nor are they flippant about
life, death and everything in between. A few candid morsels
(“Childhood feels so permanent, like it’s the entire
world, and then one day it’s over and you’re shoveling
wet dirt onto your father’s coffin, stunned at the
impermanence of everything.”; “Things happen. People
get lost and love breaks.”; “You have to look at what
you have right in front of you, at what it could be, and stop
measuring it against what you’ve lost. I know this to be wise
and true, just as I know that pretty much no one can do it.”)
do just the trick to remind us what’s at stake in their lives
--- and in ours as well.

In the end, it’s abundantly clear that the Foxmans ---
like most families --- can’t stand to spend too much time
together. But buried deep beneath their petty annoyances, their
spats and their betrayals, the truth is that they’d risk the
world for each other in less than a moment’s notice, no
questions asked. There’s a simple beauty in that. And therein
lies the rub.

“You never know when it will be the last time you’ll
see your father, or kiss your wife, or play with your little
brother, but there’s always a last time. If you could
remember every last time, you’d never stop grieving.”
’Nuf said.