I have to confess this to you, denizens: I’m severely confused by this book. See, the reason that I checked out Frederic Lindsay’s My Life as a Man was because the cover stated it was a thriller and scarier than Satan’s nightmares. Or something like that. Point is, it was supposed to be a chilling thrill ride, which sounds precisely like something I wanted to read.
There was nothing chilling, thrilling, or, ultimately, fulfilling about this story at all, denizens. I suppose as a coming-of-age story, it succeeded in being different. The problem, however, is that I wasn’t sold just a coming-of-age tale. I was sold “The scariest coming-of-age story you’re likely to read. Lindsay will scare the bejesus out of you.”
So wrote Kirkus Book Reviews.
Apparently, bejesus no longer lives inside me, because he certainly wasn’t scared out by this book.
I will grant Lindsay this: He had an interesting hook for the start of his novel. After being fired after only a week at his factory job, 18-year-old Harry Glass decides that it would be a good idea to leave the factory for the last time in his former boss’s car. Only problem is that the former boss’s wife is in the car. They go back and forth for a little while before deciding to keep going…then they realize there’s something in the trunk of the car that certain dangerous people might want back…then they end up with this really odd couple who might be married or might be siblings…or might be both…and hilarity thus ensues.
I honestly kept expecting things to get interesting, especially when our daring duo end up in the hills with the questionably related creepy farmers. The cover wouldn’t lie to me, would it?
Yes. Yes, it would.
Final Verdict: Back to the library you are sent. I have no interest in ever reliving my life as a man.