I am drawn to anything even suggesting a connection with my home state of Arkansas and its burgeoning literary scene, so when I discovered the title of Brandon’s debut novel, published by McSweeney’s, I became excited. One would imagine that the choice of a place name for the title of a book implies some sort of connection to that place. But this is not the case with Arkansas. Brandon doesn’t know Arkansas (which is confirmed by an interview he did with Identitytheory.com, in which he stated that he likes to write about places he doesn’t really know—if there’s no mystery, he doesn’t feel the need to flesh out the locale). There is little in the way of even a Southern feel to the locale; Brandon’s Arkansas lacks the rollicking frontier mentality the state is historically known for, that spirit that makes so many Arkansas novelists read like students of Mark Twain. I could list a handful of examples of Brandon’s lack of research— his characters drive “north” through Jonesboro to get to Little Rock, for example (Jonesboro is northeast of Little Rock). But the point is Brandon’s Arkansas is one that no Arkansan would recognize. As a matter of fact, it’s nowhere. Brandon’s shiftless characters exist in a null-space that could just as easily be Montana, New Mexico, Alaska; pick a place. And this is sort of the point, I think. These characters operate in a limbo that could be anywhere or nowhere—a place with no definable characteristics, no sense of culture, a place with no imprint of personality, which works fine, thematically; no real sense of place easily translates to no moral compass (primo for the drug dealers inhabiting the novel). But why Arkansas?

Well, says I, at least the novel promises to be a violent read, a kind of book I rarely have the opportunity to sample. This is a book about drug dealers and criminals set in a state inundated with crystal meth labs, a volatile business. And what about gang violence? Remember “Bangin’ in Little Rock”? Lots of opportunities there. But these guys sell pot, a somewhat tamer business. And actually, the novel is not particularly violent, with the exception of a couple moments towards the end.

So it seems to me Brandon missed a few opportunities. What he chose to write instead is a picaresque existential character study that would do Camus proud. Brandon’s descriptions are dry, pithy, at times terse, as are his characters.

The novel follows two drifters cum drug distributers, Swin and Kyle. Swin Ruiz is a Vanderbuilt dropout with aspirations of writing the Great American Novel (which will get him out of having to go to classes in order to become an academic). Kyle Ribb, from Athens, Georgia, has a serious work ethic, a violent temper, and a disdain for authority. Swin and Kyle treat societal norms with disdain but with no real direction other than a kind of surly disaffectedness, a la James Dean. They soon end up in a state park in Arkansas, working as couriers for a drug distributor and business manager posing as a park ranger who works for Frog, a self-made kingpin. Mostly, they deliver drugs and work at the park. Swin pines for his left-behind sisters and plots against his step-father and soon reintroduces a feminine presence into his life by hooking up with a local nurse. Kyle mostly just tries to stay frosty.

The novel is split between Swin and Kyle’s story, told in third person, and Frog’s rags to riches story spanning several years, told in second person. Frog is the much more active character whereas Swin and Kyle are more like tumbleweeds. Frog is a self-made man who starts out selling bootleg tapes and works his way up to selling drugs and building a network of distributors like Swin and Kyle. The boys admire their mysterious boss until a misadventure lands them at odds with Frog.

These characters are mostly intelligent and capable, so why drug dealing? Well, mostly, they’re lazy and they lack moral standards. What Brandon doesn’t do is glamorize the lifestyle. All complaints about the title and setting aside, he portrays these characters’ lives as a believable tedium. No shiny-rimmed cars and parties with breast-augmented women for Swin and Kyle. Mostly, they hang out, waiting for something to happen. There’s an old line: if you’re bored, it’s because you’re boring. These guys definitely exemplify the statement. They’ve opted for the quick money of crime over building a slow-and-steady life for themselves, so it’s no wonder they balk at fleshing their lives out with rewarding experiences. They may grumble at the lack of fulfillment in their lives, but they’re not about to go to the effort of fixing the problem.

Balancing their tedium is the rare moment of extreme violence, which Brandon delivers with a deadpan voice. And this is really the core of my biggest complaint about the book. Brandon seems to be shooting for realism by not glamorizing his characters, but he portrays more of a Midwestern stoicism than Southern passion. No one can be bothered to care about much of anything in this novel. Sure, Swin misses his sisters and seems to like his girlfriend, and Swin and Kyle bicker from time to time, but even after committing murder, these boys seem hardly ruffled. That’s fine, but the trap Brandon falls into is making the reader hardly care either. Brandon sacrifices melodrama for believability, but at times he’s a little short on drama as well.