In the gritty backdrop of rural Pennsylvania, nine-year-old Lulu's encounter with a trucker outside a rundown motel is captured on film by aspiring photographer Quinn who is passing through town. While the image launches Quinn's career, Lulu fights to survive in a volatile home. Decades later, Quinn's "Lulu & the Trucker" has fetched a staggering price at auction as she's preparing for a major retrospective of her photographic work. Lulu, now grown and struggling to make ends meet, stumbles upon her own image in the newspaper. Determined and emboldened, she attends Quinn's exhibition talk with a single burning question: Why didn't you help me all those years ago?
At its heart, Tell Me One Thing explores the unbreakable bonds that connect us across the fault lines of time and memory. From the gritty streets of 1980s New York City to the forgotten corners of the rust belt, the novel unveils the disparities and sacrifices woven into the fabric of America and is a poignant reminder of the enduring consequences of choice and the resilience required to navigate a world shaped by privilege and adversity.
In the gritty backdrop of rural Pennsylvania, nine-year-old Lulu's encounter with a trucker outside a rundown motel is captured on film by aspiring photographer Quinn who is passing through town. While the image launches Quinn's career, Lulu fights to survive in a volatile home. Decades later, Quinn's "Lulu & the Trucker" has fetched a staggering price at auction as she's preparing for a major retrospective of her photographic work. Lulu, now grown and struggling to make ends meet, stumbles upon her own image in the newspaper. Determined and emboldened, she attends Quinn's exhibition talk with a single burning question: Why didn't you help me all those years ago?
At its heart, Tell Me One Thing explores the unbreakable bonds that connect us across the fault lines of time and memory. From the gritty streets of 1980s New York City to the forgotten corners of the rust belt, the novel unveils the disparities and sacrifices woven into the fabric of America and is a poignant reminder of the enduring consequences of choice and the resilience required to navigate a world shaped by privilege and adversity.
Quinn looks around at the installation, pleased with the result of weeks of work and over a year of preparation. Standing in the center of the Whitney Museum of Artâs sixth-floor gallery, it seems as if she has an audience in these subjects. Many are her friends and loved ones. They watch her from their respective photographs, sometimes directly, sometimes as passive observers, but always there, aware. And she can time travel here, among these faces and scenes. They lure her into an elaborate hopscotch over decades or yank her through dense hours and minutes. She closes her eyes for a moment, trying to find some form in the darkness there.
A touch to her elbow brings her back, and William says, âMom, Gary Radcliff from the New York Times is here. Are you ready?â
She nods and follows William to where the young man waits near the massive vinyl lettering at the entrance to the show. He stands with his hands clasped in front of him under the Q and U in Quinn Bradford: A Retrospective.
He smiles when he sees her and says, âQuinn, itâs such a pleasure to meet you.â They shake hands. âI really appreciate your time. I know youâre not a fan of interviews, so Iâm grateful all the more.â Heâs right. Sheâs not a fan of interviews, though she doesnât like how it sounds coming from him, as if sheâs deliberately challenging. She considers explaining why that is. She could tell him about how she was hounded by journalists after what happened to Billy, but she doesnât because doing so would invite that conversation here. Instead, they exchange the usual pleasantries as Quinn leads Gary to a bench in the gallery. Workers in white coveralls are busy making last-minute touch-ups to the walls where things have been rearranged, shifted, and rehung. Gary taps the record button on his phone, and something about that formality changes his tone, deepens it to sound more serious when he says, âIâm excited to dig into the exhibition, but first, I want to ask you about Lulu and the Trucker after what happened this week.â And Quinn thinks maybe this is the real reason she doesnât like interviews, how they can somehow, still, after all this time, make her feel like an impostor. Even so, she assumed heâd start like this.
âWell,â she says, âit was a surprise, for sure.â
âMaybe not,â Gary says, misunderstanding her. âThat photo has long been considered the piece that launched your career.â
âThatâs true,â she says. âAlthough, itâs hard for me to think of it that way. Iâve done so much work since then.â
âUnderstandably, but considering that it just broke records at auction, Iâd say itâs an important one.â His eyebrows raise, and she realizes heâs asking a question with that statement.
âOh yeah,â she says. âI donât mean to diminish it in any way. Itâs an important photo, and it pushed my career in a direction that Iâll forever be grateful for. Itâs why Eric Hoffman ultimately chose to work with me. I meant that the auction was a surprise. Itâs challenging not knowing who owns that piece now.â
What she would never say is there were so many times she thought of destroying the photo, so many times she held its edges and studied the interaction, hoping to find innocence there, but always returning to the dread that set inside her when the Polaroid first processed in the car, in front of her eyes. And the things the photo doesnât show, the monster that she still sees plain as day as if itâs a third subject in the composition. How it looms around Lulu, hovering like an aura. She doesnât need to possess the photo to see it all.
âAnd we may never know who owns it now thanks to the anonymous sale.â Gary brings her back to now, and Quinn swallows hard, her dry throat clamping to itself. She wishes she had a glass of water. âIt has an almost mythical status seeing as it hasnât been seen in quite some time. Would you tell me about that?â
She shifts a bit, unsure of how much she wants to say, then leans in toward him. âWhen I first exhibited it, it was all anyone could talk about. I didnât want it to be the thing that I became known for, but I could see that was rapidly happening.â
âAnd so, you gave it to Billy Cunningham.â Gary watches her as if he knows heâs just treaded into a landmine territory.
âI did.â Quinn takes a deep breath. âFor safekeeping. I always refused to allow it to be for sale, even though it would have helped me financially. And there were some hard times back then, really hard times. I was worried about what I might do. If I might get desperate enough to sell it. I told him not to let me do that, and I knew he wouldnât. But thenâŚâ She trails here because she wonât talk more about this, and she doesnât need to because itâs well known what happened next. She tries to put the lawsuit with Myles out of her mind, the endless arguments about ownership and rights and estates, the things she never wanted to have to fight about, especially not when she had just lost the love of her life.
Gary nods and squints in contemplation. âDo you still think about Lulu?â
Quinn tries to hide her disappointment in this question but then realizes that even though Luluâs part of her DNA after all these years, sheâs an invisible part, like an extra organ tucked deep inside of her that no one else could possibly know about. Her words come out husky when she says, âYeah, of course I do.â She clears her throat to gain more control. âItâs been almost forty years since I took that photo, but Iâve never stopped thinking about her. Now, sheâd be, like, fifty. I wonder what her life is like, if sheâs still alive, married, kids, you know?â
âIn your later series, you followed your subjects for long periods of time. Did you ever think about going back to shoot more of Lulu?â
âI did think about it.â Quinn doesnât offer more, doesnât say that she tried, and, surprisingly, he doesnât ask. She wonders if he can see inside her now, can feel the edges of that aching appendage as it pulses throughout her. Sheâs relieved when he shuffles his small notebook in a gesture to move on. âYour work is often discussed in the context of the downtown arts scene. You certainly chronicle a special moment in New York Cityâs history. Many of your friends who appear in your early work became equally well-known artists, writers, performers, and the like. Liv Brown, Micky Hart, Alex Campeau, Myles Wainwright, and of course, Billy Cunningham. You followed them for years, and itâs a delight that we get to see them grow up in these images. And then you stopped, which felt abrupt to many of those who were following your career. What happened?â
âWell, I started doing more time-based, thematic series, as you noted. But I never stopped taking photos of my friends. I just stopped showing them.â Quinn doesnât elaborate on why. Anyone who was even kind of paying attention could figure that out on their own.
âDo you miss the New York of those days?â
Sheâs been asked this before, and she wonders how old he is, if heâs lived long enough to watch something disappear only to reappear as a stranger. Sheâs never sure how to answer cleanly, simply, because there was nothing clean and simple about that time.
âI donât know,â she finally says. âThat New York is long gone. I mean, it was a free-for-all, like. People doing anything they wanted. Which can be amazing, right, but also dangerous. New York was coming out of near bankruptcy when I started my career. There was so much need, so much desperation. We were all working in these various areas around consumerism, that huge thing. And any time youâre creating in a transitional space like that, you donât really know something big is happening. So, yeah, there are some things that I miss about that New York City. That urgency. Feeling hungry for everything.â
Gary leans intently toward her. âWhat changed?â
More like, what happened? She could blame AIDS, heroin, and crack, which killed so many beautiful minds and devastated the city. Racism, sexism, homophobia. Or the rise of the art market, gentrification, the machine that forced artists who couldnât afford exorbitant rents to move away. She could blame commercial galleries, Wall Street art collectors, real estate tax credits, political lobbyists, and so many other things and maybe even herself. She could tell Gary all that, but she doesnât. Lost now, stuck there, stuck in all of it, she doesnât say anything at all. She knows she hasnât answered his question, but she canât really remember what it was anyway.
[G]
âI had some smokes in my pocket when I came in last night,â Lulu says. âYou know where they might be?â
The clerk waves her hand at the plastic bag that has Luluâs keys, a lighter, and an expired driverâs license. âWould have been in there if they made it. Sorry, hon.â
âAlright then.â Lulu signs the form that itemizes her belongings. She fishes out her things and shoves them into a back pocket, leaving the plastic bag with the woman. Sheâs relieved to find JP outside the precinct, leaning on his car.Â
âThanks for coming for me,â she says, and she immediately feels bad for the worried look on his face.Â
âOf course Iâm gonna be here,â he says. âBut what happened? I tried calling last night but they wouldnât tell me shit.â He pushes off the car and puts his arms around her. She holds onto him, briefly appreciating the feeling of him against her. Jacko whines from the car, his feet perched on the open window frame, his cropped tail zigzagging in excitement. She reaches over to scratch him behind the ear and shakes her head.Â
âJust a dust up with some asshole outside the motel. No fine or nothing. The cops wanted to teach me a lesson by keeping me overnight.â
âJesus,â JP says. âLulu, you canât go beating up on those guys. Theyâre dangerous.â
âDonât I know it,â she says. âBut Iâm tired of this shit. Iâm tired of seeing it.âÂ
JP gives her a cigarette, and she clicks her lighter several times, stopping to shake it before it finally catches a flame. She takes a deep drag, and her head momentarily spins, casting rainbows around her in the brightness of the sunlight. She blows a cloud into the blue sky. âLetâs get out of here,â she says.Â
In the car, she scoots Jacko to the back, but he noses her ear, licks the side of her face, and tries to climb back up into her lap. âYou missed me?â she says, nuzzling the dogâs thick snout. She holds the cigarette out the window, away from him.
Despite yesterdayâs double shift, sheâs due back to the motel in less than an hour. She leans back into the seat, sinking into its worn sides, and she wishes for a day off. Just one full day away from that place. And itâs not just the back-breaking work of cleaning the rooms, itâs the way the motel girls look wearily at her like people do when they donât want to see themselves in you. She remembers looking at her ma the same way.
âYou hungry?â JP gestures to a plastic bag tucked in the console. Lulu fishes out a package of mini powdered sugar doughnuts from it.Â
âI am,â she says, then touches the top of his arm. âHey, donât worry so much about me, okay?â
That brings a small smile to his face as he shakes his head a bit. âIâve been worried about you my whole life.â And she knows itâs true, and she wishes it wasnât.Â
Garth Brooks comes on the radio and JP starts singing off-key to the song. Lulu stuffs a doughnut in his mouth to get him to stop. The white sugar rings his lips, and she laughs, and it feels good to laugh. Jacko begs with a hot breath behind her and chomps his own doughnut in one bite. Lulu lets the last one linger between her teeth, pressing it against the roof of her mouth until it slowly becomes nothing. The sun streams through the windows and she closes her eyes, feeling the warmth on her face. And she wishes they could just keep driving.
At the trailer, JP tells her heâs got to get to work and kisses her forehead good-bye. Lulu goes inside and checks Jackoâs food and water bowls. She rolls her neck. She has just enough time to shower and brush her teeth and she does both before regretfully leaving her bed behind. The night in jail released a barrage of painful memories, dragging her to places she never wanted to go again. The thoughts follow her as she walks the worn pathway through the trailer park, past the diner, past the gas station, and across the parking lot to the motel. She can almost feel Maureen and Hank and Barb and Roy and all of them, trailing her. Their feet having worn these paths themselves.
The rooms are a wreck when she gets there. Doors left opened like surprised mouths. She does a quick scan after resetting her punch card and decides to start at room ten, dragging the cleaning cart behind her down the walkway. Its wheels catch on the small rocks spewed over the broken concrete. The sunshine she appreciated in the car ride now glares.Â
She stands for a moment in the center of the room, deciding where to begin. The bathroom has taken the brunt of the occupants. She decides to get the worst over with first and starts there. The toilet is clogged with a washcloth and the filthy water teeters close to the edge of the bowl. She drags her hand to dislodge it and then tosses it into the wash bin. On the small oval of space around the sink sit several empty baggies. She sweeps them into a trash bag.Â
Lulu strips the bed, though something has stained the sheets and sunk through to the mattress. She doubles up clean sheets over it and hopes whatever it is wonât smell. She tucks the corners and fluffs the pillows as much as they will and she can kind of imagine this is a nice motel, and she gives it the care she would if it was. Thereâs not much to be done about a broken lamp, but she props it best she can and flips the switch to be sure itâs still working. She runs a vacuum over the thin carpet, but the suction is old and it sprays dust out the back. She drags the trash bag and wash bin outside and leaves the door unlocked because soon a young woman will cross the parking lot, a trucker in tow, one of a stream of many over the course of the day, and then sheâll do it all over again. Â
Lulu is finishing the final room when Bob, the manager, comes out of the office and corners her near the supply closet. âWhat was that stunt yesterday?â he asks. Lulu steps back from him. Heâs an old man and try as she might, she canât remember him ever being anything but. âWeâre losing customers over your shit.â
Lulu is still holding the wash bin and she tosses it to the side, rubs at the aches in her arms from its bulky weight. âThen maybe you should get some better clientele. That ever occur to you?â
âThis ainât the Four Seasons, Lulu. Who else you thinkâs coming through here?â And she hates his sagging eyes, the way sheâs seen them scan the girls who rent the rooms here.Â
âAnd where were you yesterday when that asshole dragged Julia out here and started beating on her? I did what any good person would do. Someone has to teach those assholes to respect women.â Luluâs voice has raised, and sheâs perched on her tiptoes to make herself seem taller. She settles back onto her feet, but the anger is still there because she hates this man so much, she hates that this is the only job that would take her with her record, she hates that she has to rely on this filthy place to earn a living after the ways it has ruined her. Â
Bob shakes his head. âYouâre fired.â
âFired? Who else is going to do what I do?â Now Lulu steps towards him and she feels the heat rushing her limbs and she clenches her fists because she cannot hit him, she cannot get into another fight after yesterdayâs fight.Â
âYou donât think thereâs a line of illegals waiting for your job? Come on, youâre not that dumb.â Bob shakes his head again and for some reason that makes her almost angrier than anything else. He walks away.Â
Then suddenly, thereâs a buzzing in the silence. Lulu looks up at the wasp nest that has clung in the same corner for decades now. And she fantasizes, as she has for years, about knocking it down. Letting whatever is inside out. Unleashing whatever mayhem that might bring.
Lulu was nine, almost ten, when Quinn went to a small town with Billy and asked her to model for her. Quinn knew that the motel, where she met Lulu, was a place for prostitution. Later in the day, when she spotted the little girl sitting on the lap of a trucker, cigarette in hand, his hand just below her ribs, she snapped a photo.
Everything and nothing changed. Despite the photograph, Lulu remained struggling with a drug addicted mother, her alcoholic husband and a violent pimp. Quinn was haunted by the moment and unsure how to intervene.
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Lulu and Quinn carry on with their lives, both of them remembering their brief relationship. Both struggle with a painful past and a loved one who deals in drugs. Both face financial hardship. Lulu has no way of knowing how to create a different future, while Quinn has her art, but both women deal with loss, poverty, and pain.Â
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This book challenges the reader to confront difficult questions about power, trauma, and the boundaries of personal responsibility.Tell Me One Thing asks whether it is actually enough to bear witness to pain or suffering, or if there is a need for systemic changes and solutions to generational trauma. What happens because of the choices we make, and when does our power end? Is financial independence ever enough when sometimes those with financial means donât have the power to seek out new paths? And what do we have to sacrifice for our art and the stories we tell?Â
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While there are not many choices, there is still hope that exists within despair, the shared weight of being human, and the desire, sometimes, to have someone who understands. Itâs also about a need for more than just compassion, but for transformation and hope, for consciousness, and for a willingness to actually see the struggle. What pervert would buy the photo of a little girl sitting on a truckerâs lap? Lulu would later ask partner Joey, and Joey answered, âThese people donât care about us, Lulu.â
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This is a must read, and itâs also my book, not just of the year so far, but an absolute highlight that will stand out for a long time to come. Gritty yet deeply empathetic, this book drags gold from the depths of darkness, leaving a lasting impression for years to come.