Blood test

Charles Baxter, 1947-

Book - 2024

"In this fresh take on love and trouble in the American heartland, Brock Hobson, an insurance salesman and Sunday-school teacher, finds his equilibrium disturbed by the results of a blood test. Baxter, a master storyteller, brings us a gradually building rollercoaster narrative, and a protagonist who is impertinent, searching, and hilariously relatable. From his good-as-gold, gentle girlfriend to the excessively macho subcontractor guy his ex-wife left him for, not to mention his well-raised teenage kids, now exploring sex and sexuality, the secondary characters in Brock's life all contribute meaningfully to the drama, as increasing challenges to his sense of self and purpose crash over him. The final battle--no spoilers, but ther...e is one--couldn't be more delightful, as this quick and bracing novel reminds us to choose the best people to love, accept the ones we love even if we didn't choose them, and love them all well"--

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FICTION/Baxter Charles
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Subjects
Genres
Humorous fiction
Novels
Published
New York : Pantheon Books [2024]
Language
English
Main Author
Charles Baxter, 1947- (author)
Edition
First edition
Physical Description
209 pages ; 22 cm
ISBN
9780593700853
Contents unavailable.
Review by Booklist Review

PEN/Malamud Award--winner Baxter delivers another immensely enjoyable novel, following The Sun Collective (2020). Brock Hobson is a seemingly milquetoast insurance salesman and Sunday-school teacher who, in an out-of-character decision, takes an experimental predictive blood test offered by his doctor. The results, provided by the wonderfully named Generomics, state that this predictable and mild-mannered divorcé is very likely to commit a murder. Ever aware of this supposed predilection, Brock must navigate his ex-wife and her homophobic boyfriend and his teenage children and their distinctly adolescent experiences of love, lust, pain, and drama while delightfully odd interruptions arrive at his door from Generomics, as it seemingly tries to put its thumb on the scale to ensure its prediction is right. Brock is a wry joy to accompany through all of this, and his circumspect humor is similar to that of Joshua Ferris' dry and distant protagonists. A deeply funny, profound, and timely comedy about the contemporary overreliance on data to predict everything and anything, Baxter's latest is another excellent tale to add to his much admired and enjoyed body of work.

From Booklist, Copyright (c) American Library Association. Used with permission.
Review by Publisher's Weekly Review

Baxter (The Sun Collective) pokes fun at religious do-gooders, conservatives, and the medical community in this entertaining if slight offering. Mild-mannered Brock Hobson, a divorced insurance salesman and Sunday school teacher, lives in rural Ohio with his two teen children and is romantically involved with a widowed park naturalist named Trey. At a doctor's appointment, Brock opts into an experimental blood test offered by a startup company in Cambridge, Mass., which purports to predict the future behavior of its test subjects. To Brock's surprise, his results forecast a life of crime, including murder. Though Trey laughs the prediction off, Brock flirts with his supposed fate by shoplifting, and after his ex-wife's boyfriend uses a hateful slur against Brock's gay son, Brock sees red. Then the start-up tries to sell him insurance in case he kills someone, causing him to wonder if he's being scammed. From there, the story barrels toward a violent climax. The ending feels hasty, but Baxter's sharp observations and ear for dialogue are on full display, and he molds a distinctive protagonist in Brock, who thinks of himself as righteous even as he judges others and corrects their grammar. Readers will love seeing Brock break bad. Agent: Liz Darhansoff, Darhansoff & Verrill Literary. (Oct.)

(c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved
Review by Kirkus Book Review

An insurance salesman learns that he's predisposed to murder in this comic novel. Brock Hobson doesn't mind being, as his daughter says, "as predictable as a metronome." He works as an insurance salesman in Kingsboro, Ohio, a town where "a third of the town has a drinking problem, and another third is on meth and/or Oxy," and volunteers as a Sunday school teacher, spending evenings with his girlfriend, Trey, and his two teenage children, Joe and Lena. (Their mother, Cheryl, lives with her new beau, Burt, a doltish subcontractor whom Brock notes "fits quite comfortably into the Mr. Asshole category.") When Brock goes to a doctor complaining of a pain in his side, the physician convinces him to take a blood test invented by a company called Generomics that "predictsbehavior, tells you what you're going to dobeforeyou do it, based on the…arrangementsin your genetic structure, your psychology, and your past and your what-have-you." Brock, an upstanding citizen whose only bad habit is correcting other people's grammar, is surprised when the test reveals that he is "about to embark on a major crime wave." He fulfills the prophecy--well, kind of--when he confronts Burt after the man calls Joe, who's gay, a homophobic slur; Burt slips on a banana peel and ends up hospitalized with a grievous injury. Brock, who's given a gun by Generomics, starts to realize that the company actually wants him to commit a murder: "It's in their interests financially for me to shoot somebody." Baxter's novel is riotously funny, and much of the humor comes from asides: A doctor tells Brock, "Anyway, except for the fact that you're feeling these pains, and you complain that you can't breathe and you've lost your appetite and there's a tightness in your chest, and you feel like you're dying, you're fine"; in another scene, Brock browses DVDs includingAlien vs. Bimbo andVoodoo Chiropractor! At its core, this is a disarmingly sweet novel about family, an entertainment with just the right amount of Midwestern menace. Hilarious and humane. Copyright (c) Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

Copyright (c) Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

"There's one other thing," she said, looking down at the other sheet of paper. "I just saw a patient who stabbed himself in the leg. He had . . . went a little crazy, but it was predicted." I ignored her bad grammar. "Predicted?" I asked. "Predicted how?" "Well," she said, sitting back. "There's this start-up company, Generomics Associates. Bunch of Harvard and MIT graduates, they tell me, mostly in molecular biology and computer science. Genome plus Geronimo, like the Indigenous warrior. They're in Cambridge, the Massachusetts one, across that river from Boston? And they're marketing this blood test, analyzing your genome, DNA and so on. It's somewhat secret, what they're doing. The jury is still out on the science of this thing, but we have . . . I need to tell you that your insurance won't pay for it. It's still somewhat speculative and experimental, this test they've invented." She waited. "I have my doubts about it, myself. If it's what they say it is, whoa. But if you want to pay for it, you can get it. Results come back in two, three weeks." "So what does it tell you?" "Well." She smiled, as if she was divulging a secret. "As I said, they take your blood sample, get your entire genome, run it through a supercomputer, and then they digitize it and, you know, they have these algorithms that . . ." Her voice trailed off. "I'm not sure how they do it. I'm just a country doctor. But we have . . . It's been decided that we should tell people about it, in case they want it." She probably meant: the clinic gets a kickback if you agree to this thing. "But what does the test say?" I asked. "I'm confused." "It's predictive," she informed me, twiddling a ballpoint pen between her fingers. "Like what diseases I'm going to get? Hereditary, like that?" "Yes. Well, and also no. No, not this test." She glanced at the clock on the desk. "It's, I don't know . . . I suppose I should give you the literature. I've got the brochure over there. What it does is, it predicts behavior, tells you what you're going to do before you do it, based on the . . . arrangements in your genetic structure, your psychology, and your past and your what-have-you. Plus your faith history. Plus how you fill out the questionnaire. Plus who knows what. Your internet purchases and browsing history--things like that. With these computers, and the fancy algorithms, and the way you answer their questions and stuff, they can get very specific. There's nothing these mainframes don't know. They can figure out anybody. Like that person I was telling you about. They told him he was going to stab himself in the leg, and, guess what, he went and did it. Or so I heard." She stopped twiddling the pen. "Probably it was an accident. Who stabs himself in the leg? Nobody! Anyway, science marches on." "Pretty specific scientific guess marching on, right?" "You can say that again," she said, and when she nodded, her glasses hanging on their chain trembled a little. "Anyway, you want this test, totally your decision by the way, we can order it up for you. Results take two or three weeks to come back. Did I say that already? But I should warn you: it's expensive--couple of thousand dollars." She turned away from me and fastened her gaze on the computer screen on her desk. I noticed that she repeated herself, pure absentmindedness on her part, an inability to live in the moment thanks to routine boredom. "I'll do it," I told her decisively, and she signed the test order sheet before handing it to me. Maybe I should have been more careful, done a bit of research first, but I've always been curious about what I was about to do. Everybody including me says I'm as predictable as a clock. I have had very few problems with impulsive behavior. And addictions? They never had a grip on me. But what the hell. For the two thousand dollars, I could buy this fortune cookie and find out my future and then eat the cookie. What was I going to do with what remains of my life? I would have liked to know myself. Know thyself! A directive from ancient times. Besides, who doesn't want to know the future? Call it an impulse purchase. Someone came in and took a vial of my blood. That was it. That simple. They gave me the questionnaires, etc. Something about all this was fishy, but I was in. I had signed up. There was a dotted line and my name was on it. Excerpted from Blood Test: A Comedy by Charles Baxter All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.