The Pleasure of My Company

The Pleasure of My Company

By Steve Martin (176 pages)

Published by Hyperion

Bookish rating: 4

Okay, seriously, who doesn’t love Steve Martin? Yeah, he’s a comedic goofball, but he’s also a renaissance man! I mean, the dude can play the banjo, act a hugely wide variety of roles, is hilarious, and apparently he’s a genuinely not-sucky writer.

Did you even KNOW that he was a writer? Oh yes, he has a memoir, which I now totally want to read, and he also wrote Shopgirl, which I haven’t read, but I loved the movie (which starred Martin and Claire Danes).

The Pleasure of My Company is narrated by Daniel, who has some sort of mental health issue—autism, Asperger’s, or some sort of obsessive–compulsive disorder. We never quite know what the condition is, but Daniel is nevertheless a heartbreakingly decent guy, stuck in the mind of neurotic obsessions, compulsions, and fears.

Daniel lives by himself in his Santa Monica apartment, observing the world but unable to participate in it, due to his fear of curbs, need for balanced light wattage, and so on. His narrative voice is very matter-of-fact but also sort of disarming. He pines for three different women—his state-supplied shrink, the pharmacist at the Rite Aid, and a realtor showing the apartment across the street.

Overanalyzing absolutely everything, Daniel hyper-plans ways to interact with these women, mainly trying to appear normal. Eventually, he becomes the go-to babysitter for a toddler of one of the women, and Daniel’s narration of how the little boy interacts with him is extremely amusing and probably my favorite aspect of the novel. The toddler’s lack of predictability and logic matched up Daniel’s need for extreme order and a cause-and-effect is brilliantly portrayed, but they also have moments of being totally on the same wavelength. After all, like a toddler, Daniel loves his patterns and rituals.

The ending was a tad too tidy and almost rushed, but that’s a minor quibble. Overall, recommended. Surprisingly.