Short Stories & Anthologies
![Maurice Carlos Ruffin - [object Object] author](https://res.cloudinary.com/readsomnia/image/upload/authors/a_a_maurice_carlos_ruffin.jpg)
The Ones Who Don't Say They Love You: Stories
NEW YORK TIMES EDITORS' CHOICE • A collection of raucous stories that offer a "vibrant and true mosaic" (The New York Times) of New Orleans, from the critically acclaimed author of We Cast a Shadow
SHORTLISTED FOR THE ERNEST J. GAINES AWARD • LONGLISTED FOR THE STORY PRIZE • ONE OF THE BEST BOOKS OF THE YEAR-Garden & Gun, Electric Lit • "Every sentence is both something that makes you want to laugh in a gut-wrenching way and threatens to break your heart in a way that you did not anticipate."-Robert Jones, Jr., author of The Prophets, in The Wall Street Journal
Maurice Carlos Ruffin has an uncanny ability to reveal the hidden corners of a place we thought we knew. These perspectival, character-driven stories center on the margins and are deeply rooted in New Orleanian culture.
In "Beg Borrow Steal," a boy relishes time spent helping his father find work after coming home from prison; in "Ghetto University," a couple struggling financially turns to crime after hitting rock bottom; in "Before I Let Go," a woman who's been in NOLA for generations fights to keep her home; in "Fast Hands, Fast Feet," an army vet and a runaway teen find companionship while sleeping under a bridge; in "Mercury Forges," a flash fiction piece among several in the collection, a group of men hurriedly make their way to an elderly gentleman's home, trying to reach him before the water from Hurricane Katrina does; and in the title story, a young man works the street corners of the French Quarter, trying to achieve a freedom not meant for him.
These stories are intimate invitations to hear, witness, and imagine lives at once regional but largely universal, and undeniably New Orleanian, written by a lifelong resident of New Orleans and one of our finest new writers.
SHORTLISTED FOR THE ERNEST J. GAINES AWARD • LONGLISTED FOR THE STORY PRIZE • ONE OF THE BEST BOOKS OF THE YEAR-Garden & Gun, Electric Lit • "Every sentence is both something that makes you want to laugh in a gut-wrenching way and threatens to break your heart in a way that you did not anticipate."-Robert Jones, Jr., author of The Prophets, in The Wall Street Journal
Maurice Carlos Ruffin has an uncanny ability to reveal the hidden corners of a place we thought we knew. These perspectival, character-driven stories center on the margins and are deeply rooted in New Orleanian culture.
In "Beg Borrow Steal," a boy relishes time spent helping his father find work after coming home from prison; in "Ghetto University," a couple struggling financially turns to crime after hitting rock bottom; in "Before I Let Go," a woman who's been in NOLA for generations fights to keep her home; in "Fast Hands, Fast Feet," an army vet and a runaway teen find companionship while sleeping under a bridge; in "Mercury Forges," a flash fiction piece among several in the collection, a group of men hurriedly make their way to an elderly gentleman's home, trying to reach him before the water from Hurricane Katrina does; and in the title story, a young man works the street corners of the French Quarter, trying to achieve a freedom not meant for him.
These stories are intimate invitations to hear, witness, and imagine lives at once regional but largely universal, and undeniably New Orleanian, written by a lifelong resident of New Orleans and one of our finest new writers.
Editorial Reviews
The Ones Who Don't Say They Love You
You on the sidewalk out front of the convenience store. The sun beat down like it do every morning. The street cleaner pass by spraying lemonade-smelling water. It get on your tennis shoes, shoes that's coming loose at the heel, so your socks get wet, too. Soapy water drip down the curb. Not like this street stay clean long.
Mr. Jellnik round the corner like he being dogged. He ain't much to look at. They never is. He like the other men who come down for foot-fixing conventions and brain-fixing conventions. He got a fat neck and skin like old peaches. His wallet fat, too; that all you care about.
Jellnik eye you from crotch to mouth. He pull out a pack. He smoke. You pull one from the pack and light yours with his.
"Why are you the only one out here this morning?" He cover his eyes halfway. The sun glare off the Mississippi River Bridge like I see you, boy.
"I'm the onliest one you need," you say.
"True enough."
The other tappers already off to work, probably almost done with the men they left with. They left you with the tip box. The box is for your protection. You wear bottle caps on your soles and dance so people think you and the others are cymbal monkeys.
A police car roll up the street. The lights flash blue white blue, but the car don't slow down even though the cop lean over to get a eyeful of your faces. Jellnik's butt cheeks tense up. You could tell him don't sweat it, but you like seeing him squirm. If you didn't like seeing him squirm, you would tell him cops never arrest johns, especially not johns from Ida-f***ing-ho. What you do probably make the cops puke, make them stay away. It's easy to lock up dudes for shooting dudes. That's good business. Putting a junior high slut in jail is bad business. If they hear all about what you do, people stop coming to town. You all starve then.
The stoplight turn green. The police car pull off. Jellnik's ass relax. You don't really need to tap-dance to stay out of jail. But if you don't at least fake it, what else you got?
Jellnik the only one who buy you food after he do his business. Now, you sore inside and out, but you starving, too. The queenie cook behind the counter flipping pancakes. Maybe the pancakes'll take your mind off how rough Jellnik handle you.
Jellnik's toast and runny eggs come out first. He squirt ketchup all over. He gulp coffee, get a refill, gulp that, too. He don't give you none. Your stomach growl. When you bring food to the corner, the other tappers take most of it, leave you the scrap. Most days you don't eat till you go home. But today you hungry. What the shit is the holdup? The queenie cook went in back and your pancake sitting on the cold side of the grill l...
You on the sidewalk out front of the convenience store. The sun beat down like it do every morning. The street cleaner pass by spraying lemonade-smelling water. It get on your tennis shoes, shoes that's coming loose at the heel, so your socks get wet, too. Soapy water drip down the curb. Not like this street stay clean long.
Mr. Jellnik round the corner like he being dogged. He ain't much to look at. They never is. He like the other men who come down for foot-fixing conventions and brain-fixing conventions. He got a fat neck and skin like old peaches. His wallet fat, too; that all you care about.
Jellnik eye you from crotch to mouth. He pull out a pack. He smoke. You pull one from the pack and light yours with his.
"Why are you the only one out here this morning?" He cover his eyes halfway. The sun glare off the Mississippi River Bridge like I see you, boy.
"I'm the onliest one you need," you say.
"True enough."
The other tappers already off to work, probably almost done with the men they left with. They left you with the tip box. The box is for your protection. You wear bottle caps on your soles and dance so people think you and the others are cymbal monkeys.
A police car roll up the street. The lights flash blue white blue, but the car don't slow down even though the cop lean over to get a eyeful of your faces. Jellnik's butt cheeks tense up. You could tell him don't sweat it, but you like seeing him squirm. If you didn't like seeing him squirm, you would tell him cops never arrest johns, especially not johns from Ida-f***ing-ho. What you do probably make the cops puke, make them stay away. It's easy to lock up dudes for shooting dudes. That's good business. Putting a junior high slut in jail is bad business. If they hear all about what you do, people stop coming to town. You all starve then.
The stoplight turn green. The police car pull off. Jellnik's ass relax. You don't really need to tap-dance to stay out of jail. But if you don't at least fake it, what else you got?
Jellnik the only one who buy you food after he do his business. Now, you sore inside and out, but you starving, too. The queenie cook behind the counter flipping pancakes. Maybe the pancakes'll take your mind off how rough Jellnik handle you.
Jellnik's toast and runny eggs come out first. He squirt ketchup all over. He gulp coffee, get a refill, gulp that, too. He don't give you none. Your stomach growl. When you bring food to the corner, the other tappers take most of it, leave you the scrap. Most days you don't eat till you go home. But today you hungry. What the shit is the holdup? The queenie cook went in back and your pancake sitting on the cold side of the grill l...
Readers Top Reviews
ehoward29KasaCkathle
THE ONES WHO DON'T SAY THEY LOVE YOU, by Maurice Carlos Ruffin, is a collection of short stories that look at issues of race, status, bigotry, loyalty, and desperation. New Orleans is the backdrop for all of the stories, and Ruffin uses the grit and determination of the people of New Orleans to force readers to contemplate life in other people's shoes and what in means to be looked at in a different light than what the reader is used to. I really liked the balance of all of the stories. Some short and some longer, some were lighter and left me smiling while others brought me to tears. I felt like the book was a study how people in all walks of life get by in New Orleans. Some get lucky, but most come up against relentless and sometimes insurmountable hurdles to find any sort of success or even just upward momentum. There isn't a bad story on the lot, but my favorite was "Ghetto University". It looks at the effects (or lack thereof) of getting an education. It also turns the perception of race on it's head. That story left me considering how I look at education, status, and race in my every day life. THE ONES WHO DON'T SAY THEY LOVE YOU will stick in my head for a while and I look forward to more stories from Maurice Carlos Ruffin. An excellent read and one I won't soon forget. Thank you to Random House/One World, Maurice Carlos Ruffin, and Netgalley for a copy of this book in exchange for an honest review!
John C. Gruesser
"Ghetto University" is a standout among many strong pieces.
pnkimball
Took this with me on a recent trip to New Orleans and it really added a layer of context. Beautiful, humane stuff.
D. W. Trimm
These short stories are packed with dynamite! Every one is a punch in the gut with raw realism that leaves you wondering and caring about the characters long after you close the book. I’m so glad I bought this book and cannot wait to share a story or two with my students. So good!
Elisa M. Speranza
Maurice Ruffin has done it again. A fabulous collection of characters and writing that get right to the heart of what's so special about New Orleans. The stories are universal too, though. They seem essential for these turbulent days, but also timeless. Highly recommended.
Short Excerpt Teaser
The Ones Who Don't Say They Love You
You on the sidewalk out front of the convenience store. The sun beat down like it do every morning. The street cleaner pass by spraying lemonade-smelling water. It get on your tennis shoes, shoes that's coming loose at the heel, so your socks get wet, too. Soapy water drip down the curb. Not like this street stay clean long.
Mr. Jellnik round the corner like he being dogged. He ain't much to look at. They never is. He like the other men who come down for foot-fixing conventions and brain-fixing conventions. He got a fat neck and skin like old peaches. His wallet fat, too; that all you care about.
Jellnik eye you from crotch to mouth. He pull out a pack. He smoke. You pull one from the pack and light yours with his.
"Why are you the only one out here this morning?" He cover his eyes halfway. The sun glare off the Mississippi River Bridge like I see you, boy.
"I'm the onliest one you need," you say.
"True enough."
The other tappers already off to work, probably almost done with the men they left with. They left you with the tip box. The box is for your protection. You wear bottle caps on your soles and dance so people think you and the others are cymbal monkeys.
A police car roll up the street. The lights flash blue white blue, but the car don't slow down even though the cop lean over to get a eyeful of your faces. Jellnik's butt cheeks tense up. You could tell him don't sweat it, but you like seeing him squirm. If you didn't like seeing him squirm, you would tell him cops never arrest johns, especially not johns from Ida-f***ing-ho. What you do probably make the cops puke, make them stay away. It's easy to lock up dudes for shooting dudes. That's good business. Putting a junior high slut in jail is bad business. If they hear all about what you do, people stop coming to town. You all starve then.
The stoplight turn green. The police car pull off. Jellnik's ass relax. You don't really need to tap-dance to stay out of jail. But if you don't at least fake it, what else you got?
Jellnik the only one who buy you food after he do his business. Now, you sore inside and out, but you starving, too. The queenie cook behind the counter flipping pancakes. Maybe the pancakes'll take your mind off how rough Jellnik handle you.
Jellnik's toast and runny eggs come out first. He squirt ketchup all over. He gulp coffee, get a refill, gulp that, too. He don't give you none. Your stomach growl. When you bring food to the corner, the other tappers take most of it, leave you the scrap. Most days you don't eat till you go home. But today you hungry. What the shit is the holdup? The queenie cook went in back and your pancake sitting on the cold side of the grill like a Frisbee that just stop spinning.
Jellnik been here all week. The first day he show up, he take Pink and Quincy first, one in the morning and the other round lunch. He come back for you after noontime, rocking up the street with hair stuck to his forehead. After he take a piece of you, he never buy what Pink and Quincy selling again. That's a plus on top of the money. It's the only time you won out when they around. You too dark and your hair ain't good and wavy like Pink hair. But now you can laugh inside when you see them. You can't laugh out loud. They punch you if you smile.
Jellnik break out a roll of cash. He put down two twenty-dollar bills. One for the food and one for you. Twenty won't cover the food, so that'll come out of what you earn.
"When I leave tonight," Jellnik say. "I want you to come with me."
He pour sugar in his coffee. His finger got ketchup on it that he don't see. He stir his coffee with that finger.
"I'll get you a plane ticket, and I have a storage unit you can stay in until we find you something more appropriate."
"Man," you say, "I ain't going to nobody Idaho."
"Listen to me," he say, "you can do better than this place. It's not safe for you."
"Nobody mess with me round here," you say.
He put a hand on your face where you bruised from when Pink hit you the other day. You like to flinch away, but you don't 'cause his hand feel warm.
"You don't know anything," Jellnik say. "I've been visiting New Orleans for over twenty years. You think you're one of the first boys to stand on that corner? What do you think happened to the boys who were there before you?"
You could tell Jellnik about Pink's brother, Simmy, who went puff like match smoke last month. Simmy was the first one you met when you came out here. He looked out for you, but now he gone. You know he ain't go to Idaho.
"Why you care about what happen to me?" you ask.
"Just be back at the co...
You on the sidewalk out front of the convenience store. The sun beat down like it do every morning. The street cleaner pass by spraying lemonade-smelling water. It get on your tennis shoes, shoes that's coming loose at the heel, so your socks get wet, too. Soapy water drip down the curb. Not like this street stay clean long.
Mr. Jellnik round the corner like he being dogged. He ain't much to look at. They never is. He like the other men who come down for foot-fixing conventions and brain-fixing conventions. He got a fat neck and skin like old peaches. His wallet fat, too; that all you care about.
Jellnik eye you from crotch to mouth. He pull out a pack. He smoke. You pull one from the pack and light yours with his.
"Why are you the only one out here this morning?" He cover his eyes halfway. The sun glare off the Mississippi River Bridge like I see you, boy.
"I'm the onliest one you need," you say.
"True enough."
The other tappers already off to work, probably almost done with the men they left with. They left you with the tip box. The box is for your protection. You wear bottle caps on your soles and dance so people think you and the others are cymbal monkeys.
A police car roll up the street. The lights flash blue white blue, but the car don't slow down even though the cop lean over to get a eyeful of your faces. Jellnik's butt cheeks tense up. You could tell him don't sweat it, but you like seeing him squirm. If you didn't like seeing him squirm, you would tell him cops never arrest johns, especially not johns from Ida-f***ing-ho. What you do probably make the cops puke, make them stay away. It's easy to lock up dudes for shooting dudes. That's good business. Putting a junior high slut in jail is bad business. If they hear all about what you do, people stop coming to town. You all starve then.
The stoplight turn green. The police car pull off. Jellnik's ass relax. You don't really need to tap-dance to stay out of jail. But if you don't at least fake it, what else you got?
Jellnik the only one who buy you food after he do his business. Now, you sore inside and out, but you starving, too. The queenie cook behind the counter flipping pancakes. Maybe the pancakes'll take your mind off how rough Jellnik handle you.
Jellnik's toast and runny eggs come out first. He squirt ketchup all over. He gulp coffee, get a refill, gulp that, too. He don't give you none. Your stomach growl. When you bring food to the corner, the other tappers take most of it, leave you the scrap. Most days you don't eat till you go home. But today you hungry. What the shit is the holdup? The queenie cook went in back and your pancake sitting on the cold side of the grill like a Frisbee that just stop spinning.
Jellnik been here all week. The first day he show up, he take Pink and Quincy first, one in the morning and the other round lunch. He come back for you after noontime, rocking up the street with hair stuck to his forehead. After he take a piece of you, he never buy what Pink and Quincy selling again. That's a plus on top of the money. It's the only time you won out when they around. You too dark and your hair ain't good and wavy like Pink hair. But now you can laugh inside when you see them. You can't laugh out loud. They punch you if you smile.
Jellnik break out a roll of cash. He put down two twenty-dollar bills. One for the food and one for you. Twenty won't cover the food, so that'll come out of what you earn.
"When I leave tonight," Jellnik say. "I want you to come with me."
He pour sugar in his coffee. His finger got ketchup on it that he don't see. He stir his coffee with that finger.
"I'll get you a plane ticket, and I have a storage unit you can stay in until we find you something more appropriate."
"Man," you say, "I ain't going to nobody Idaho."
"Listen to me," he say, "you can do better than this place. It's not safe for you."
"Nobody mess with me round here," you say.
He put a hand on your face where you bruised from when Pink hit you the other day. You like to flinch away, but you don't 'cause his hand feel warm.
"You don't know anything," Jellnik say. "I've been visiting New Orleans for over twenty years. You think you're one of the first boys to stand on that corner? What do you think happened to the boys who were there before you?"
You could tell Jellnik about Pink's brother, Simmy, who went puff like match smoke last month. Simmy was the first one you met when you came out here. He looked out for you, but now he gone. You know he ain't go to Idaho.
"Why you care about what happen to me?" you ask.
"Just be back at the co...
