Saint Cole by Noah Van Sciver

There is no Saint Cole. No one was ever canonized under that name - there is a Saint Colette, but given the subject of Noah Van Sciver's graphic novel, there's no chance that's the reference meant. It is not the name of a town. It is not metaphorical; there is no one named Cole in the book.

"Saint Cole" is a random squawk, emitted by a minor character whose whole point is that he's mentally damaged. It is meaningless. I have no idea why it's the title of this book. There is something vaguely ironic that the story of a man named Joe who is deeply unsaintly is named Saint Cole, but 99% of life is that ironic to begin with. It's not much to hang a story on.

Saint Cole is the story of an alcoholic, a loser who thinks he isn't a loser, a bad man who thinks he's pretty good. I find that I have less and less sympathy for characters like that every year, so I may not be giving Joe his due here.

But, to be honest, Joe isn't due much. Sure, he works long hours, but he's a jerk who drinks too much, has no aims or plans, and is unpleasant to everyone around him pretty much continually. Just working hard doesn't buy you anything.

Joe is a waiter at the restaurant New Yorkies, in some minor city somewhere: it's roughly walkable, so it's not deep suburbia, and Joe lives in an apartment with a parking lot. He's in his late twenties, living with his girlfriend Nicola and their baby son. They're just barely making it: Joe takes every last shift he can, working every single day, and Nicole stays home with the baby, which Joe resents. Over the course of four days, starting on a Saturday, Joe...well, I shouldn't give it away. But Joe is a loser and a fuck-up, so he fucks up and he loses things. Take that as read.

Angela, Joe's mother-in-law, moves in with them on the first day, which adds to the friction. He doesn't like her, for reasons that don't seem sufficient. But then, Joe hates just about everyone and everything: he doesn't seem to need reasons. He's just that kind of young man, fueled by anger and self-loathing and loathing for everything else in equal measure. Oh, and by alcohol. He's fueled by a lot of alcohol.

Saint Cole is the story of Joe drinking and then fucking things up, to to give a quick log-line. I called him an alcoholic before, but he really comes across as a drunk: a guy who isn't compelled to drink; he just drinks because he wants to, and he always wants to drink more. That kind of guy can easily turn into an alcoholic, but I don't think Joe is there yet.

Yet.

Van Sciver draws this in a mostly indy style, more conventional than I remember his The Hypo being. It's all thin lines, lots of details of dingy rooms and sad lives: indy in the matter and the style equally.

I'm not a good reader for a book like this, and I can't really recommend it. If you like stories of self-destructive losers more than I do, you might take a look. It's smartly written, it looks good, and Van Sciver tells the story well. But it's an unpleasant story about an unpleasant man, and all I felt at the end was happy that I didn't have to spend any more time with Joe.