The alchemical melting of images into emotions immediately struck me. The story commences with a lyrical description of a day spent by the boy as he searches through gravel for cross-shaped stones for his "daddy's" collection, then dives into an extended series of violence. I found it remarkable that, throughout, the quality of language always matched the intensity of the scenes, evoking a chaotic nightmare of emotions while simultaneously remaining very lucidly controlled by the first-person narrative; effectively, it all comes off with the intonation of a soft voice whispering in your ear. Incredibly sick occurrences became quotidian, physical pain seemed to be valued as equally as it was repudiated. So I was pretty enthused to see J. T. "Terminator" Leroy's first book, Sarah (Bloomsbury), get published, turning the 20-year-old former hustler into the rags-to-riches literary success story of the year.
Sarah is set on the landscape of the West Virginia highway, where a bevy of truck-stop whores pass the time with moonshine and backwoods folk religion. The story is narrated by one of these "lot lizards"--specifically, a 12-year-old boy who dons his mother's garb to trick. The other lizards and their remarkably cordial pimp, Glading Grateful ETC., serve as a makeshift community for the eager-to-please youngster against the backdrop of Doves Diner, whose main attraction is a classically trained chef. When Mom hits the road with a john, our intern tranny leaves the safety of the Doves Diner lot, sneaking a ride to say a prayer to the Jackalope, a sacred piece of lot lizard road kill. While there, he is mistaken for a "real" girl whore and picked up by the evil Le Loup, resident pimp at rival lot "Three Crutches." Upon arrival, our hero appropriates his mother's name, and through a series of misadventures is mistaken for a saint. "Sarah" willingly plays along, admiring her newly found fame as truckers fork over their wages for admission to Three Crutches' newest attraction. The shit hits the fan when Sarah is forced to reveal his true identity, perpetrating a string of brutal violence whose intensity rivals Leroy's earlier work.
Like Saint Sarah and her worshippers, Leroy himself has quickly attained a loyal following that includes established writers such as Bruce Benderson and Dennis Cooper, as well as curious pederasts, housewives, and rock band Green Day, to name but a few. Leroy devotedly corresponds with all his fans via e-mail, as his ability to leave the house and function in the world has been scarred by a horrifically tough life.
The media remains baffled by the author's refusal to make public appearances. Interviewers continue their attempts to capture the essence of Leroy's persona by obsessing over the veracity of the novel's events. "It's a really uncomfortable question," he told me on the phone recently, "because I feel like I'm damning it either way. I felt comfortable calling it [autobiographical] fiction, then it started to feel disrespectful to my mother and family every time I had to admit, 'Yeah, my mom was a lot lizard,' etc. When I was writing this, I took everything and filtered it through myself. Shit happens. I mean, we moved around lots. We got around with truck drivers. So what?"
In the end, who "Terminator" or "J. T. Leroy" really is doesn't matter--the book stands on its own as an important literary work. Sarah maintains the precise, filmic imagery and unique use of metaphor present in Leroy's earlier stories, while occasionally departing from the structure of gritty realism to explore fantasy and archetypes, such as the moving episode in which Sarah walks on water. While the threat of violence is always present in Leroy's world, with Sarah he is able to manage a more removed voice in the narration, distancing the reader from the biting immediacy of his earlier work, which, for many, admits Leroy, was too much to deal with. Ultimately, Sarah manages to embody the contradictory stance of being an utterly original story with universal implications.
"I think the book brings something out which makes people feel safe to express a certain longing," says Leroy about the public's reaction. "It's funny, 'cause it's almost like a mirror. People bring their own troubles to it and somehow see themselves reflected."
