But these aren't frothy pieces. Drugs, dereliction, damage and death are always nearby. Grief and loss glint through the irony, "pain as real and immediate as a broken bone".
Characters lose their way, their partners and their purpose. A tearful, failed sports star, an unintentional killer, a forlorn supermarket worker are typical figures. They endure with a shrug of the shoulders, which makes them all the more affecting.
Sherman Alexie is a rich stylist. He tries all sorts of forms; he builds memorable images: "Eucharist, that glorious metaphoric cannibalism of our Messiah."
He can be lyrical, meditative, subversive on the same page: "There it was, the central dilemma of his warrior life - repetitive stress injury."
When an intruder's baseball bat shatters an apartment window, it turns out to be a tiny Little League bat, which then proves lethal, which then leads to at least three more disconcerting changes of direction.
A mood of irreverent redemption quickens the collection. It's often evoked through the defiant comradeship of the down-at-heel but seldom down-trodden protagonists. "Being homeless is probably the only thing I've ever been good at."
Characters are stripped of nearly everything but still hold up their heads - and a finger to the establishment.
Take note of this guy for your 2013 reading. He's a discovery, as far as I'm concerned. He's very, very good.
David Hill is a Taranaki writer.
