FICTION BOOK CLUB

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Claire Baglin's On the Clock packs a family saga, a penetrating picture of social inequality, and a coming-of-age story into a compact tale told in two alternating strands. The first follows the 20-year-old narrator's summer job at a fast food franchise and the other shows us moments from her childhood with her family, with a particular focus on her hapless, infuriating, good-hearted father, a low-paid but devoted electrician in a factory with an upside-down smile. These two skeins sketch out in swift turns two stories of underappreciated work: one covering several decades, the other a summer; one constituting a sort of life, the other a stopgap on the way to something different (the narrator is a college student). With a keen eye for eloquent details and sharp ear for workplace jargon, her dry humor, and a crisp compelling style, Baglin's depiction of their lives is particularly rich, at once affectionate and alienated. Working the alternating strands in a way reminiscent of Georges Perec's W or the The Memory of Childhood, the past is remarkably vivid in On the Clock: her childhood memories of their bleak small town and of summer vacations spent at campgrounds by the sea in Brittany. And the present blazes in scenes of the young woman's current fast-food trial: the awful boss, the nasty manager, and all the tedium and horror of dead-end work:

Slowly the oven door opens and a nursery-school tune announces that the salad rolls can come out [and] I'm mired in the heart of pointlessness. I stick a straw into the whipped cream but don't take off the end of the paper wrapper so they'll know it hasn't been used, I'm conscientious.

NON-FICTION BOOK CLUB

In a series of deeply personal essays, Mester explores how the things we buy, eat, amass, and discard become an intimate part of our lives. We guiltily watch Amazon boxes pile up on the porch, wade through endless reviews to find the perfect product, and crave the comforting indulgence of a chain restaurant. With humor and sharp intellect, Mester reflects on the joys and anxieties of Costco trips, how a seasonal stint at Ulta Beauty taught her the insidious art of the sale, and what it means to get "mall sad." In a nuanced examination of diet culture and fatness, Mester recounts her teenage summer at fat camp and the unexpected liberation she finds there. Finally, she ventures to Storm Lake, Iowa, to reckon with her grandmother's abandoned hoard, excavating the dysfunction that lies at the heart of her family's obsession with stuff. American Bulk introduces readers to a striking new literary talent from the American heartland, one who dares to ask us to regard consumption not with guilt but with grace and empathy.