David Means writes reflective, attenuated, rather alienated prose, mostly concerned with some of the more disaffected pockets of American life. Much of this is genuinely interesting and involving - the desperate hobo who gate-crashes a wedding party, the itinerant traveller who keeps a tenuous grip on a freight train for miles of desert track because he believes his mother's hands are holding him. Other stories are rather more alienating: the couple making illicit love while the man's wife is out of town; the story where the point is that nobody dies. In other stories people die, you see, so David Means wanted to write a story where no-one dies. A point hardly worth making when he is unwilling to give much attention to the making of it.
There is also the sense that these stories have been crafted, worked on, refined, designed and redesigned to the point where they sometimes desiccate. However, other stories are full of genuine life and its miseries; but this collection is nothing if not downbeat. One admires the writing too much to dismiss this out of hand, but one worries for such a deliberate paucity of even momentary happiness.