Rudy, a goodhearted fellow in New York, has been trying to phone Kevin
Wafer, a kid he knows in Palo Alto, California. Only trouble is, one
thing or another keeps getting in the way. For starters, Rudy doesn't
have a phone in his apartment, and he can't manage to get a dial tone on
his pillow or his alarm clock. When he tries to use a pay phone, the
phone booth gets carried off by a crane, deposited in a warehouse, and
left with Rudy trapped inside. What's worse, the only repairman who
shows up can't help because he's due to leave on his vacation and won't
be back for a month. Rudy tries to call for help, but all he can get on
the line are other people locked inside other phone booths located other
in warehouses all over the world. The only sensible thing for Rudy to do
is to sit down with his trusty portable typewriter and write Kevin a
letter, telling him what's happened. Like Bob Dylan's "115th Dream,"
Letters to Kevin obeys a certain logic, but it's a shifty, nighttime
logic that's full of surprises. Letters to Kevin is an absurdist,
screwball farce, and certainly Stephen Dixon's wildest and weirdest book
ever. It's also, sneakily, one of his most affecting.