Editorial Reviews. From Publishers Weekly. The arrival of a long-lost absent father forces a Jonathan Tropper. Download it once and read it on your Kindle device, PC, phones or tablets. Kindle Store · Kindle eBooks · Literature & Fiction. Editorial Reviews. From Publishers Weekly. After Joe Goffman's Bush Falls becomes a by Jonathan Tropper. Download it once and read it on your Kindle device, PC, phones or tablets. Kindle Store · Kindle eBooks · Literature & Fiction. The Book of Joe by Jonathan Tropper Buy the Audiobook Download: . See all books by Jonathan Tropper .. The eBooks you want at the lowest prices.
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This Is Where I Leave You by Jonathan Tropper. Read an Excerpt Buy the Ebook: Kobo · Barnes & The Book of Joe. See all books by Jonathan Tropper. If you like thorny hurtful sarcastic comedy, you're in heaven while reading Jonathan Tropper. Though he does follow kinda same pattern but witty jibes make you. J O N AT H A N T R O P P E R D U T TO N Also by Jonathan Tropper Plan B The Book of Joe Everything Changes How to Talk to a Widower J O N AT.
Read and weep with laughter. He lives with his family in Westchester, New York, where he teaches writing at Manhattanville College. Would you like to tell us about a lower price? If you are a seller for this product, would you like to suggest updates through seller support? A riotously funny, emotionally raw New York Times bestselling novel about love, marriage, divorce, family, and the ties that bind—whether we like it or not. There is, however, one conspicuous absence:
You in the back, come up about six inches. The mourners stand in their dark suits under large black umbrellas, the kind you never have handy in real life, while the rain falls symbolically all around them, on grass and tombstones and the roofs of cars, generating atmosphere.
Friends, neighbors, and business associates all jockey for position under the canvas, the less fortunate ones forced to the edges, where the pooled water pours down from the roof in thick, drenching rivulets. Paul stands beside his wife, Alice, who leans against him to warm him as he cries. I stand beside my mother, whose red eyes are dulled by the Valium she chose not to split today.
The height of her stiletto heels, like the diameter of her breast implants, is inappropriate for both her age and the occasion. The book was a national phenomenon and turned my mother into something of a celebrity expert on parenting. Predictably, my siblings and I were screwed up beyond repair.
The book starts with breast-feeding and toilet training and goes all the way through puberty defecation to masturbation, we used to say , advising mothers in the same frank, maternal, gratuitously shocking tone Mom often used with us. On the back cover is a photo of Mom striking a sex kitten pose on our living room couch. There has been talk of an Oprah segment and the possibility of a face-lift before the book tour. I follow her gaze across the cemetery to the access road, where a black Porsche has noisily pulled up.
And then I do, from the way he runs shamelessly toward us, without the slightest hint of decorum. He is wearing moccasins, of all things. He comes running down the lawn and then slides the last few feet, like we used to do on the slight slope of our front lawn when it rained, coming to a stop right in front of my mother. He pulls back and looks up at me. Phillip, my baby brother, who used to climb into bed with me, smelling of lavender baby shampoo, and press his smooth, rounded cheek against mine, gently pulling at my arm hairs as I told him stories.
He reaches past me to shake hands with Paul, who reciprocates quickly and self-consciously, trying to speed things along and get the funeral back on track. Behind him, Boner clears his throat. Phillip turns around and straightens his jacket. Please continue. Phillip has always been happily impervious to advice and criticism. Phillip winks at me. Paul looks like me, only bigger, broader, and angrier; me on steroids. Once he is down, Boner steps forward and solemnly hands a tall garden shovel to Paul.
You were either screwing up, or you were invisible. He was quiet and stern in a way that led you to expect an Eastern European accent. He mowed his own lawn, washed his own car, and painted his own house. At some point you lose sight of your actual parents; you just see a basketful of history and unresolved issues. I close my eyes against the hot wetness, and I can see Dad, reclining on a lounge chair in our backyard, gripping the hose gun and shooting at the moving targets of his young children as we ran between bases, making a machine-gun noise with his lips.
He liked us as young children. I hand the shovel to Wendy, who digs up maybe a tablespoon or so of damp earth and who manages to miss the open grave entirely.
Chapter 5 1: The house, a large white colonial, stands at the center of the dead end, where the blacktop blossoms into a wide circle, ideal for street hockey and bike riding. Dad was obsessive about maintaining the house. He was a handy guy, always painting and staining, cleaning out the gutters, changing out pipes, power-washing the patio.
The closer you get, the more you wonder what you were thinking. A kindly, regal, Academy Award—winning rat. After that it was just the two of them, living up the block from us and, more often than not, in our house.
A grade ahead of Paul and behind Wendy, Horry integrated seamlessly into our family. In high school, he fell for Wendy, like everyone else in Elmsbrook did at some point or another, but he had the inside track, and so for a year or so we would walk in on them making out in darkened rooms. His shirt is speckled with raindrops from her coat. He kisses her wet scalp, and when she pulls back, her eyes are red.
And the screaming baby is the least of it. From what I can see he is not very good to Wendy, barely registers her existence, and leaves her to do all the heavy lifting with the kids. Linda serves up a meal of poached salmon and mashed potatoes. She circles the table, doling out heaping servings wherever she sees the white of a dish, ducking around Barry, who is still pacing and cursing loudly into his earpiece. Alice helps Linda, because Alice is an in-law and technically not one of the bereaved.
Alice and Paul have been trying to have a baby for a while now, without much success. Ryan has apparently found something else to abuse, and the piano falls silent at exactly the same time that the baby monitor does, and the sudden quiet feels awkward, like we were all hiding behind the noise. Then he strides out of the dining room and hits the front door running.
We all run into the kitchen to peer out the bay window to the street, where a woman has just stepped out of the backseat of a dark Lincoln Town Car.
You can never tell with Alice. They are strippers, actresses, waitresses, hairstylists, bridesmaids who hike up their crinoline for him in the parking lot during the reception, and once, memorably, the bride herself. Anger and resentment are cumulative. I was like you once, her voice pleads. A size two with perfect hair. Actually, he does like me these days, if memory serves.
Cole is in what Wendy refers to as his E. And indeed, the crap in the potty does seem to be shaped like a crude letter T. Paul jumps back like a grenade has landed, so violently that he somehow takes Alice down with him in a jumble of limbs and chair legs. And since neither one of them seem inclined to comfort him, I exercise my uncle privileges and pick him up to blubber into my neck, his tiny kid butt sticky against my forearm.
Bike Girl! She did it like a girl who knew how to laugh, who had a long association with laughing. I was born with one leg shorter than the other. Judd Foxman. This from a boy, she later railed to me, with a concave chest and a pencil-thin dick.
The one before that, David, had returned from winter break to tell her he had gotten engaged and was getting married that spring. Jen was in turmoil; she was grappling with self-esteem issues and a failed attempt at anorexia. It was a quick, soft peck, but I felt the give in her lips, a hint of plush softness just beneath the surface, and I was in love. Just like that. Later on, Jen would swear that was the moment she knew she was going to marry me.
I blame Hollywood for skewing their perspective. Life is just a big romantic comedy to them, and if you meet cute, happilyever-after is a foregone conclusion. Chapter 7 3: B oner comes by with three volunteers from the Hebrew Burial Society to deliver the mourning supplies. The mirror above the mantel has been clouded over with some kind of soapy white spray. There are two silver collection plates placed on the piano. A few lonely bills have been placed on each plate like tips.
This is the shiva candle, and there is enough wax in the glass for the candle to burn for seven days. Phillip nudges one of the low chairs with his toe. Over time, the concept has evolved. Boner, not God. I lost track of God when I joined Little League and could no longer attend Hebrew school classes at Temple Israel, the synagogue we went to once a year for Rosh Hashanah services. Maybe Bone—Charlie misunderstood.
You held up your end. Your father lay dying in his bed for the last half year or so. How many times did you visit him, any of you? And, Phillip. But your father made his last wish known, and we will honor it. All of us. Alice and Tracy are helping Linda in the kitchen. Barry is upstairs, watching a video with the boys.
To make room for all of it in his brain, he apparently cleared out all the areas where things like reason and common sense are stored. When triggered, he will quote thoughtlessly, like some kind of savant.
Paul looks up to catch me staring at the scar on his right hand. He looks at me, considering the question. No plans to expand. I mean, none of you called me. I always liked Jen. Then, after slicing some inchworms with his pocket knife to bait our hooks, he taught us how to cast our lines out across the creek.
We would reel our lines in, stretch the rods out behind us, and try to cast as far across the creek as we could. Paul stood over me apologizing, but angrily, like it was all my fault. Chapter 8 7: Kennedy or Kurt Cobain. Wendy shamelessly takes cell phone calls from her girlfriends back in L. Middle-Aged Woman: My God, Phillip!
The last time I saw you, you were in high school. What do you do now? I run a Middle East think tank in D.
Jonathan Tropper - Wikipedia
I manage a private equity biotech fund. And then there are the platters. Who knows what kind of epic party this might become if someone popped the plastic lock on the whiskey bar? When does it all happen? One day you just wake up and discover that you got old while you were sleeping. I just never imagined a girl like that would want someone like me, and I had this idea that if I applied all of my energy toward keeping her happy, the future would sort itself out.
And now I have no wife, no child, no job, no home, or anything else that would point to a life being lived with any success. I will look back at this time and see it as the start of a slow process that ends with me dying alone after living out my days in an empty apartment with only the television and a slow, waddling dog to keep me company, the kind of place that will smell stale to visitors, but not to me, since the stale thing will be me.
Paul, the older one. He spoke very nicely. We do it every year. Maureen brings the kids.
I step into the air-conditioned quiet of the kitchen and lean up against the wall, catching my breath. And, bear in mind, we have pretty much everything now. And thank you, you know, for all of your help, for taking care of Mom and everything. From the other room, we can hear my mother laughing.
Linda diapered me, fed me, mothered me almost as much as my own mother, without ever being recognized for it. How is it that, in all these years, I never once spared so much as a thought for her? I feel a dark wave of regret for the kind of person I turned out to be.
You always were. Why a retired doctor needs to drive a tank like that in Elmsbrook, New York, is a question for the ages. If you time it right, you can pick up Horry on your way back. Other than the small gold locket that hangs from her rearview mirror, the car is empty and clean in a way that strikes me as sad. Or maybe anything empty is just striking a chord with me these days.
Dad worked as an electrician, but when Paul was born he decided he wanted a legacy for his children. The older we got, the further he retreated into his work, his weekend papers, and his schnapps. The hunter-green awnings of the shop, usually speckled with dried bird droppings and water stains, have recently been cleaned, and the windows, anticipating the fall season, are crammed with hockey, ski, and snowboard gear.
Elmsbrook is the perfect town for a serial killer, and I mean that in the best possible way. Centre Street has a cobblestone pedestrian walkway with benches and a fountain, the stores have matching awnings, and the overall vibe is pleasant and well kept.
Six limbs, maybe. You are. We were friends. Whatever happened to her? The indoor one, where we played hockey. I still skate there sometimes. I was a great hockey player. Lighten up. Penny Moore. What in the world made you think of Penny Moore? She works the register on weeknights. You should go in and say hello.
The name alone conjures up her wicked smile, the taste of her kiss. We once made a pact, Penny and I. I wonder if she still remembers. He shrugs and lets the smoke dance around his open mouth. He shrugs and takes another long drag. T he shiva is still in full swing when I return to the living room.
The shiva chairs, by design, are lower than the chairs of the visitors, and so my view tends to be up the nostrils and skirts of the people seated directly in front of me. Betty nods. Like all banned songs, it became an instant underground classic and continued to haunt Hannah until her peers outgrew jump rope in favor of Run-Catch-Kiss. Beyond that, I remembered a small, mousy girl with bushy eyebrows and glasses.
Her husband was addicted to porn, his wife screwed around. And especially now, being single and all. Phillip is laughing so hard that tears stream down his face as he slides down in his shiva chair. You can feel the house exhaling, returning to its normal proportions.
Unbeknownst to me, the sleeping arrangements were decided while I was out earlier. Phillip and Tracy are on the sofa bed in the den behind the kitchen. Paul and 78 J o n a t h a n Tr o p p e r Alice have unceremoniously taken my childhood bedroom, which is where I always stayed when I visited with Jen. But now, being the lone single sibling, I have been relegated to the basement, which seems to be the default for me these days.
As kids, Paul and I shared a room until he sprouted pubic hair and moved down to the basement, where the hiss and clank of the boiler would drown out his Led Zeppelin, his phone calls with girlfriends, and his ever busier masturbation schedule. Death is exhausting. We are both underground, both gone from the world. At least his legs are fully extended.
I turn on my cell phone. This infuriates her, and so she tries every possible approach to draw me out: Sometimes I play her messages, left over the course of weeks, all in a row, listening to the erratic swing of her tone between each beep. It was around twenty-two thousand dollars last time I checked, although the balance has probably fallen a bit since then.
I have a feeling her next voice mail will break new ground. And then I remember, with a sinking feeling, that my leg had been amputated from the knee down a few years back. I had simply forgotten. The way you can forget in dreams. And that me, the one dreaming of this version, is about to shake himself awake from the nightmare of my life.
There is nothing more pathetically optimistic than the morning erection. And every morning, I face the same choice: Mom looks up at the ceiling and smiles at me. The same ones you suckled at. Do you think you were immaculately conceived? I should think it would make you happy that your father and I were still fucking. Dust mites dance in the sunlight pouring down from the opened door upstairs, and I can see the bags under her eyes, the gray roots at her scalp, and the acute sadness in her eyes as she looks at me.
But he loved you very much. You can hear it throughout the house. Thin and manicured! In this particular case, I was unsure if it was masturbation my father condemned or the relative merits of discussing it over Fridaynight dinner. Chapter 11 8: A shower in the morning is an imperative for the Foxman men, whose bed-head is legendary in this region. Our pillow-bent curls, sculpted by scalp oils, stand up in large, coiled clumps, making us look like electrocuted cartoon characters.
The problem is that the water boiler cannot accommodate so many showers at the same time, and within minutes, the water goes from hot, to lukewarm, to chilled.
Until then, the circuit breakers will bravely go on tripping to protect the overloaded wires. The last time Alice saw me undressed was in this very room, several lifetimes ago. I suck in my gut and fold my arms strategically below my chest. I stand dripping beside her, studying the circuit panel.
Dad was up on the roof, hammering the rain gutters back on or something. It was a Brady Bunch movie, I still remember. The one where they go to Hawaii. He and Wendy have a long history of insulting each other.
Tracy and Alice are on the couch; Linda is in an armchair, her feet up on one of the plastic folding chairs; and Barry is reading the Wall Street Journal in the backyard while the boys run around. The rest of us are back in our low shiva chairs, steeling ourselves for another 92 J o n a t h a n Tr o p p e r ass-numbing day of greeting visitors at crotch level.
Mom has asked us all to remember personal stories about Dad, which she is scribbling into a large brown journal. She turns to Tracy. He was basically raised by the television. Bigger tings dan dis goin to go in dere. And come out. Can you tell another story about your period? And in the last inning, I dropped two balls that cost us the game. Our coach was this fat guy, I forgot his name. He got all crazy and started screaming at me. He called me worthless.
I want to stand up for my kid. I was being insensitive.
Mom casts a dark look at Linda before turning to me. I can only see him in the context of everyone else. Wendy would sit directly behind Dad, lip-syncing to his soliloquy, trying to get me to laugh, while Phillip whined about always having to sit between us on the hump, and Mom looked out the window, humming along to the oldies station on the radio.
In his senior year, Paul was awarded a full baseball scholarship to UMass. Now, not only was he the talented son, he was also paying his own way. Paul was golden. He spent his summer celebrating with his buddies and having sex with a rotation of baseball groupies. Simmering with envy, I wondered what I could do to distinguish myself as anything other than a waste of space.
Instead, I spent my summer in the 7-Eleven parking lot, smoking pot and wishing for something bad to happen to Paul. And then something did. Chapter 12 Applebaum is all over Mom. His dark, bushy eyebrows call to mind political cartoons as they arch compassionately under his wiry silver hair. Mort was wonderful. All those people in the house, and the air handler crapped out. Not that she seems to mind the attention. Day or night. I appreciate that. I thought she may have winked at me, but it was hard to tell.
Linda sticks her head in from the kitchen. Jen used to say that. Once, when she was pissed at me, I went so far as to try it out as an argument for the defense. Linda is looking at Mom, shaking her head. T he bank teller has a great ass. I intuit whole personalities from a single smile, live out entire relationships with the woman sitting in the next car at a red light.
Legs and lips hypnotize me. I am smitten by skin and breasts and hair, by smiles and frowns, by the freedom of an unhurried gait, the grace of a shrug. I imagine myself not only having sex with these women, but living with them and meeting their parents and sharing the Sunday paper in bed. Ha ha. You hate me right now.
Of course you do. What I did was inexcusable, and I feel terrible about it. Then he shrugged those broad spherical J o n a t h a n Tr o p p e r shoulders that throbbed like organs beneath his expensive dress shirt.
Like most guys with genetically superior shoulders, Wade was an asshole, an alpha male who asserted his presence physically, through viselike handshakes and powerful backslaps, the kind of guy who needed to win at everything. His tone now was carefully apologetic, conciliatory even, but still, his expression radiated the smug satisfaction of having asserted his sexual dominance. I fucked your woman, his eyes said.
Wade made fun of him ceaselessly on the air, called him Stuart the Suit. Did he fuck your wife too? If he even had a wife, the odds of Wade or even Stuart himself wanting to sleep with her were probably quite low.
He slid a document in front of me. Numbers had been crunched, risks assessed, and they had estimated the value of my broken marriage at another thirty thousand dollars a year before taxes. My life had just become inordinately expensive. I was going to have to pay alimony and keep up the mortgage on the house while renting my own apartment. Even with this raise, things would be tight, but it would certainly help. The idea of working for Wade sickened me, but this was not a time to be unemployed on top of everything else.
I looked up at Wade, at his furrowed brow, his pursed lips, those goddamn shoulders. He met my gaze as he exhaled, long and slow. I jumped to my feet.
And then I tore up the document. The good ones were probably not listed in the Yellow Pages. I saw the truth in their averted gazes. They all knew.
Everybody knew. Under their scrutiny, my rage dissolved almost instantly, replaced with the hot shame of public emasculation. Chapter 15 7: Our shiva is quite the scene for the over-sixty set. Outside on the cul-de-sac, two men back out of opposing parking spots and lightly crash into each other. She is a long-legged redhead in a skirt that would be appropriate for tennis. That Russian kid with the yacht?
Oh my God, we got so messed up that night. She has a pretty face underneath her spray-on tan and is slightly chunky, but in that way men like. Kelly has a platinum pixie cut and a come-hither smile, and you can just picture her drinking too much and dancing on the pool table in the frat house. You guys remember my brother Judd? I say hi back and try to decide which one I would most want to sleep with. The answer is, all of them.
They are pretty and sexy and friendly and easy and exactly the kind of girls I never had a chance with back in the day. But now. They laugh at pretty much everything Phillip says, and Chelsea, in particular, seems to hang on his every word, her chair gradually inching closer until her ankles rest easily against his.
And then Tracy comes back, having spent the afternoon out of the house after her argument with Phillip. Chelsea and I were also in college together. Fine I guess. He wets his bed. Sometimes he goes into these trances where he just stands there staring at the wall.
Chapter 16 8: When she sees me, her face lights up, and she leaps athletically over the counter to hug me. From twenty feet away, she could pass for a college student. I never know what to say at funerals. You look great. I wanted her so badly then; everybody did. It happens every day. That was harsh, and totally uncalled for. No great traumatic event to blame my small life on.
No catastrophes, no divorce. I tried to make something of myself and I failed. That happens every day too. Do you remember our pact? I was plain-looking back in high school, when we were best friends and the sexual tension was mine alone.
We were on summer break from our respective colleges. One night, as we lay naked and sweaty in the darkness of my basement while my parents slept upstairs, she stopped her moaning and grinding against my erection to press her damp hands against the sides of my face. So we should make a pact. No exceptions. But there were backpacking boyfriends and separate colleges to consider. When I step out of the store, Horry is sitting in the passenger seat, staring straight ahead, trembling.
His head bobs up and down on his neck, and his lips tremble with exertion, like weights are holding his mouth closed. His arm is dead weight as I maneuver it back through the window and onto his lap.
He looks over at me and nods. Where you and Paul got attacked. Horry leans back in his seat and lights up a cigarette. Wendy, who had seen too many movies, decided the best thing to do would be to throw her arms around him and hold on until her love calmed him, but he hurled her across the room, and then when she came back he landed a solid punch, hard enough to break two of her teeth. The next time Wendy came back to Elmsbrook, it was with Barry in tow. Friday Chapter 17 2: I am having sex with Jen.
She bucks and writhes under me, her hips rising up hard against mine. Chapter 18 8: When I step out into the basement, Alice is at the electrical panel again in her bathrobe.
Alice smiles. How are you doing, Judd? The lights come back on. So, if you ever want to talk, just remember, we were friends long before we were family. I lean forward, not so much to accept the kiss, but to avoid any incidental lower-body contact.
Things are hard enough already. So to speak. Breakfast is served. Tropper's hometown of New Rochelle in Westchester County , New York , is a main source of inspiration when creating the characters and settings in his books. Everything Changes was a Booksense selection. Three of Tropper's books are currently being adapted into movies. The novel was optioned by Paramount Pictures for J.
Tropper, together with David Schickler , created the television series Banshee , which premiered in January on Cinemax ; Tropper serves as an executive producer on the show. In October , it was announced that Jonathan Tropper's series Warrior , based off Bruce Lee 's original idea and set against the Tong Wars of 19th century San Francisco , was greenlit for series at Cinemax.
Tropper will write and produced the show. Tropper has three children. From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia. To all appearances, Zachary King is a man with luck on his side. But as the wedding day looms, Zack finds himself haunted by the memory of his best friend, Rael, killed in a car wreck two years earlier—and by his increasingly complicated feelings for Tamara, the beautiful widow Rael left behind.
Inspired by Norm, Zack boldly attempts to make some changes of his own, and the results are instantly calamitous. Soon fists are flying, his love life is a shambles, and his once carefully structured existence is spinning hopelessly out of control.
Charged with intelligence and razor sharp wit, Everything Changes is at once hilarious, moving, sexy, and wise—a work of transcendent storytelling from an exciting new talent. Tropper is the cocreator and executive producer of… More about Jonathan Tropper. Everything Changes is a wonderful and engaging comic novel about the possibility of new life in the midst of emotional disaster. Want to know how men think?
Jonathan Tropper makes me laugh and breaks my heart at the same time. Read An Excerpt. Literary Fiction Category: Literary Fiction Audiobooks Category: Literary Fiction Audiobooks.