The Party Upstairs: A Novel
Categories: Books, Literature & Fiction, Genre Fiction



Dimensions: 5.3 x 0.7 x 8 inches
ISBN-13: 978-1984880291
Language: English
ISBN-10: 1984880292
Publisher: Penguin Books
Print length: 320 pages
Publication date: July 6, 2021
subtitle: Paperback – July 6, 2021
author: Visit Amazon's Lee Conell Page search results Lee Conell
review: Editorial Reviews Review Winner of the Wallant Award “ The Party Upstairs is a nuanced, heartfelt novel that offers righteous anger spiked with enough good humor to keep the cocktail balanced, and a refreshing twist on an old genre: it doesn’t try to disentangle character from class. The tangle, it suggests, is the point.” —Washington Square Review “Conell creates a microcosm of life on the s*** side of the wealth gap in New York City, fills it with absurd, infuriating, and endearing characters, and hilariously skewers privilege that can’t (or won’t) recognize privilege.” —Buzzfeed “Lee Conell has a keen eye for the grand delusions and small daily hypocrisies of a ‘classless’ America . . . brisk, canny fun—an upstairs-downstairs for the modern age.” —Entertainment Weekly “A gripping tale of class and privilege . . . page-turning.” —The Economist “Singularly suited to the specific times we’re in. . . The novel’s portrayal of class, the real and lasting effects that wealth, or lack thereof, can have on your mentality and outlook, is unparalleled.” —Literary Hub “Sharp and well-observed.” —New York Post 's Best Books of the Year “There’s nothing like a great New York City novel, and praise be to the novelists who take us there: Think Cathleen Schine, Elinor Lipman, Emma Straub, Jennifer Egan and now Lee Conell, whose exquisite debut gets to the heart of the city . . . Like Kiley Reid’s Such a Fun Age , The Party Upstairs will make you laugh even as you grapple with how money defines many of its characters’ most significant choices. . . . an on-the-nose, of-the-moment dark comedy that delves deep into issues of wealth, gender and privilege in the most iconic of American cities.” — BookPage (starred review) “Masterful . . . A portrait of aspiration, class immobility, love, and rage, it’s a gem.” —Kenyon Review “Conell manifests a tension so tangible that we are left on edge, desperate for some cathartic return. But in a tale that is as poignant as it is funny, Conell’s portrait of class division and privilege ultimately reminds us of the gaping disparities between our expectations and the harsh realities that often follow.” —ZYZZYVA “A portrait of social class in New York City, The Party Upstairs is at once witty, spooky, and lively, with several realities all performing themselves simultaneously. Lee Conell is a maestro.” —Lorrie Moore “ The Party Upstairs brings the Aristotelian unities to one Upper West Side apartment building in her debut, which follows a single day in the life of Ruby, the daughter of the super who oversees a gentrifying complex. What follows is Conell’s perceptive observation of how class and politics plays out in the real world, behind the metal chain securing an apartment door.” —The Millions “Conell, who won the Nelson Algren Literary Award for short fiction in 2016, ignites this suspenseful novel, taking place over a single day, with a passion, psychological insight, and a keen sensibility about class and economic difference.” — The National Book Review “The chapters alternate focus between Martin and Ruby, depicting their self-interrogations and flickering emotions with a nimble facility that recalls Virginia Woolf. . . . sharp and affecting.” —Chattanooga Times Free Press “Conell’s smashing debut creates a vivacious microcosm of life inside a tony Manhattan co-op building . . . Conell’s talent for storytelling, wicked sense of humor, and compassion for her characters will leave readers eager for her next book. ” — Publishers Weekly , starred review “Lee Conell is already one of my favorite writers, and The Party Upstairs is a triumphant debut novel. She writes with such precision, utilizing a sharp sense of humor, that the cuts go deep, so expertly placed, and you find yourself irrevocably changed. Conell's voice is wholly original, unafraid to work with issues of class and gender and family. A wonder in every way.” —Kevin Wilson, author of Nothing to See Here and The Family Fang “Conell’s debut perfectly captures the co-op’s ecosystem and the ways class informs every interaction, reaction, and relationship inside it. . . . Conell’s writing remains cleareyed, darkly funny, and deeply empathetic. A slow-burning debut that keenly dissects privilege, power, and the devastation of unfulfilled expectations.” —Kirkus “ The Party Upstairs made my pulse race. It builds its tensions expertly, like a thriller, unearthing suspense from the daily struggle to earn and keep a paycheck, the never-ending threat of job-loss and destitution. Lee Conell perceives everyone she writes about, rich and poor alike, with perfect clarity: on the one side those who gaze out on poverty as a kind of spectacle, on the other those who endure it as a kind of bombardment, and in the middle Martin and Ruby, the superintendent of an Upper West Side apartment building and his debt-ridden daughter, who pretend—but only pretend—that they're able to watch the bombs fall from afar.” —Kevin Brockmeier, author of The Illumination "In The Party Upstairs Lee Conell follows Martin and Ruby, father and daughter, through a single day as they negotiate the exasperating occupants, living and dead, of the co-op where Martin works as the superintendent. Conell writes with wonderful wit and empathy about the importance of money, the longing for a larger life and the confusions between a parent and an adult child. An irresistible novel." —Margot Livesey, author of The Flight of Gemma Hardy and The Boy in The Field “I savored every word of this funny, wise, and cool book. Ruby's post-college return to her parents' apartment in the basement of a building near the Museum of Natural History is hardly triumphal, yet on one March day and night she and her father—the building's super—manage to do and undo their best-laid plans and beliefs about who they are to each other and in the world. Lee Conell is profound, wise, and witty, and in The Party Upstairs has offered us all a manual for how to care for the spaces we inhabit and the people and events that upset our equilibrium in ways both good and bad—including ourselves. This novel will take its well-earned place among the enduring books about young women. It is serious-minded and relevant in the hardest times, and also offers the pleasures of a great party.” —Alice Elliott Dark "The Party Upstairs is a dazzling and dioramic novel--Lee Conell situates so much intricate life and energy inside of one day, one building. I'll be recommending this smart, funny, suspenseful, timely, and beautifully constructed book to friends and strangers." —Chris Bachelder, author of The Throwback Special “ The Party Upstairs is thrilling—fiercely intelligent, meticulously crafted, and darkly, painfully funny. At every turn, on every page, Lee Conell offers rare insight and rewards her lucky readers’ attention. This is a first-rate writer, unafraid and illuminating and vitally necessary.” —Bret Anthony Johnston, author of Remember Me Like This About the Author Lee Conell is the author of the story collection Subcortical , which was awarded The Story Prize's Spotlight Award. Her short fiction has received the Chicago Tribune' s Nelson Algren Award and appears in the Oxford American , Kenyon Review , Glimmer Train , American Short Fiction , and elsewhere. She is the recipient of creative writing fellowships from the Japan-United States Friendship Commission and the National Endowment for the Arts, the Tennessee Arts Commission, and the Sewanee Writers' Conference. Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. 1 The Intruder It was still dark out when Martin and his daughter, Ruby, sat down on opposite sides of the living room floor, closed their eyes, and tried to forget each other. Ruby, twenty-four, had moved back home only a week ago, and this was the first time she had agreed to meditate with her father. But instead of being present with his inhalations and exhalations, Martin found himself leaping into the future, stupidly hopeful that after they'd finished meditating, Ruby would hug him and say she could already feel her sense of wonder swelling and her anxiety ebbing and her inner light growing more numinous, and oh, even though her dad was just a building super he was smarter than any of her college professors, he was the smartest guy she knew, and she was so grateful to him. An embarrassingly needy fantasy. Martin's job often involved trafficking in the small embarrassments of others-in the last week alone, the corporate lawyer in 4D had called screaming with fear about a water bug in the hallway, the financial analyst in 9A had called about her tampon-clogged toilet, the hedge-fund-portfolio manager in 6C had admitted he'd drunkenly tossed his keys on the subway track-but he still never felt fully prepared for how humiliating his own thoughts could be, especially when they revealed his desire for the approval of his daughter. Anyway, why seek her approval at all? Ruby was a mess-deep in debt, newly jobless, nervous about her interview today, and angry at finding herself back living with her parents in the basement apartment after years of steps toward some higher elevation. Martin should expect no hug from her, no declaration of gratitude. Of course, it would be nice if the meditation helped her a little. Maybe she would look up afterward and smile at him. Only a few minutes in, Ruby coughed. Martin opened his eyes. "So," Ruby said, "I'm not feeling happier yet." "Meditation's actually not about feeling happier." He used the same gentle voice he had used on the couple in 7B when he told them they would have to pull up the blue Brazilian marble tile in their bathroom because of a leak. "Meditation's about looking inward. It's about increasing self-awareness." "Oh, Dad," Ruby said, "if you were self-aware, you'd recognize this whole enlightened-guru thing is just your secular Judaism deteriorating into some half-baked New Age muck." "That New Age muck helps lower my blood pressure." The gentle blue-tile-pulling voice was gone. "I need nice low blood pressure, Ruby, so I don't lose it when yuppie tenants scream at me about rats nibbling away at their cheese straws." "God, the rats." She stood up from the floor. "Can we not talk about the rats again." "Lower your voice. Your mom's still asleep." "Mom's always saying she never had the patience for meditation and you don't push it on her." "She's not the one anxious and awake before the sun's even up." Ruby plopped onto the couch. "Maybe I can try being mindful from over here? The floor is cold." Of course the floor was cold. It was early March, the chill outside somehow made rawer by the nearness of spring, the hope for better weather. Still, Martin was pretty sure you were supposed to meditate on or close to the floor, no matter how cold it was. You could sit on a meditation bench, like Martin did, or a pillow, but you had to remain low to the ground. You definitely weren't supposed to go around seeking inner peace on couches, and especially not on that couch, which was an ugly couch, upholstered in a butterscotch-orange velour fabric with a print of an old mill and a couple of paunchy cows. Debra had forced him to drag it in from the courtyard's alleyway years ago ("It's not hideous, Martin, it's retro!"). The sad cow eyes repeated on the fabric behind his daughter somehow made him even more irritated with Ruby. "You know what happens if I do lose my cool in front of the tenants?" he asked her. "I lose this job." "You've been the super here forever." She looked down at him. "They wouldn't fire you now. You're basically an Upper West Side institution." An Upper West Side institution. Like the Museum of Natural History, where Ruby's job interview was today. Maybe she would mention Martin to the museum people. Maybe she would joke, "You should put my dad in a diorama." He felt the meditation bench digging into his thighs and said, "Actually, Ruby, the management company would fire me in a heartbeat if I shouted at a tenant. They want a younger guy. If I lose my cool, I lose this job. And if I lose this job, we lose our insurance and we lose this apartment." And if they lost this apartment, Martin and Debra would be homeless, at least for a little while. So much of their savings had gone to Ruby's college education. Leading to what? Now she sat there on the couch, wearing baggy jeans and a large T-shirt for a charity race Martin was sure she hadn't run, its front polka-dotted with the slogans of corporate sponsors. The shirt must have belonged to John, her ex-boyfriend, who had recently kicked her out of the apartment they'd shared in Brooklyn. Why was his unemployed daughter here in the basement wearing an oversize T-shirt covered with the names of massive banks? "Wow, Dad. What a glare." Ruby sat straighter on the couch. "I'm not sure the meditation's working for you." "Maybe don't be so snotty about my meditation practice while your mom and I let you stay here." "Please." Ruby lifted her hands, as though the pink stretch of her palms should be enough to earn his compassion. "I feel pathetic already. Don't guilt me." But his guilting must have possessed some power, because she hopped off the couch and sat down on the floor again, joining him once more in the muck of his spiritual practice. She bent her head and would not look at him. He closed his eyes, focused on his inhalation. At least Ruby was showing more signs of shame than she had last week. "I'm not your human daughter anymore," she had said to Martin and Debra as she moved back in, dragging old grocery bags full of clothes through the door. "It turns out you birthed a living, breathing think piece. The failure to launch millennial blah-dee-blah." She had looked expectantly at her parents, but neither one of them had laughed. Her words had sounded rehearsed to Martin. Bravado paired with self-deprecation-was this all her education had taught her? Ruby had graduated from college just after the 2008 recession hit and she was still mired in debt. Martin and Debra had contributed what they could spare. Stupidly, the specter of debt had been the least of Martin's worries when Ruby first moved away to attend her very expensive university on a partial scholarship. At the time, he had most feared that she would start to behave like the tenants in the building. When she called home to say that her dorm looked like a castle or to gush about some art history course ("Truly, Professor Sharondale's reconceptualized my understanding of dioramas as a creative force . . ."), part of him could only hear the call she might make after she hung up, a call to a maintenance man like him-some guy without a college degree-complaining about the appearance of mold in the dorm bathroom or about a dead light bulb. "Cut the self-pity crap and just be proud of your daughter," sweet old Lily in 5A, his "building mom," used to tell him, with such sincerity that tiny veinlets surfaced on her wrinkled forehead. "It's not Ruby's fault the fever dream of free-market capitalism has corrupted the realm of higher education." Lily had always tried to cheer Martin up by blaming his parental angst on the free market. Several months ago Martin had gone to 5A when 4A complained about a leak, and found Lily slumped over on the toilet. She was dead from a hemorrhagic stroke. There was a leak in Lily's brain, it turned out, a blood vessel that had burst. She'd left the faucet on and when Martin saw her there, the running water had seemed to roar. Later that same day Kenneth in the penthouse had left five messages on Martin's answering machine about a giant bird ("An eagle or owl or whatever," Kenneth said, though Martin suspected a red-tailed hawk) dropping a decapitated and mangled pigeon carcass on his deck once again and could Martin clean the mess up? It had felt almost sacrilegious to Martin, hearing Kenneth's voice so soon after seeing Lily's body. Lily had hated Kenneth. Before he moved into the penthouse, Kenneth had lived in 6A, the apartment above Lily's, with his wife and daughter. "I feel the creepiest laissez-faire vibes oozing through my ceiling," Lily had told Martin once back then, in the early nineties. "When Kenneth passes me in the lobby, he looks right through me. I'm an old woman, I'm rent-controlled, I'm invisible to him." "Maybe he and his family will move out," Martin said. "Kenneth's always complaining that 6A's too small." "He's waiting for me to die is what he's doing. He wants to buy my apartment and create a two-story duplex with 5A and 6A. I'm sure of it. He's got the Manifest Destiny glaze in his eyes. How can you let Ruby have playdates with his bratty daughter?" "Ruby likes Caroline." "Ruby likes Caroline's dolls." Kenneth must have gotten tired of waiting for Lily to die. Once some of his portfolio investments had paid off, he received permission from the co-op board to build a penthouse on the roof. After he and his family had moved into the penthouse in the late nineties, Kenneth didn't sell their former apartment but rented it out to some sort of finance person. Time passed. Kenneth got stouter, Kenneth got divorced, Kenneth lost his hair. But he did not lose the Manifest Destiny glaze in his eyes. After Lily died, he did exactly what she had so often predicted. He politely kicked his renter out of 6A and then he bought 5A. Now he was in the process of constructing a two-story duplex, which he planned to keep for a while as an investment property. "My nest egg," he'd told Martin with a wink the other day in the elevator, and Martin had thought about the pair of pigeons nesting outside on the courtyard's ledge. Every morning, Martin fed those birds, hoping that one day he'd see their babies hatch. They were the closest thing he had to an investment property. The opposite of mindful contemplation, probably, was contemplating another man's real estate. Martin's back had gone stiff, his knees creaked, and yet the older he got, the more nimbly his brain made wild leaps through time and space. He was supposed to be here, present, meditating next to his daughter, not thinking about Lily's death or Kenneth's apartments or the pigeons in the courtyard. He breathed in. He breathed out. But then the heat pipe in the living room thumped and he remembered how the woman in 4B had recently complained about the thumping sound coming from 5B, which was caused by the private tango lessons the woman in 5B was taking with the woman in 2C, who had recently divorced the man who had once lived in 7D and who had lost his job in advertising just around the time Ruby graduated and was now in the process of selling his apartment to an heiress whose financial consultant lived in 6C and had complained recently about a leak caused by the attendant to the sick lady in 7C who poured grease down the kitchen sink, didn't know any better, and who rode the subway from the Bronx every morning with the nanny in 3A whose young charges tried to poison with cayenne-infused chocolate the pair of yipping Yorkies in 3D, an act of pure malice that didn't much bother anybody but especially not the attorney in 7A who had seen the dogs pissing directly onto the red-and-white impatiens she had asked to be planted in the tree pit outside the building, which were popular flowers with some in the building, yes, but others, like the real estate guy from Lyon in 6B and the financial consultant from Moscow in 8C, felt impatiens were tacky and populist and had tried to advocate for something more elegant, begonias, perhaps, and also wanted the green awning to be replaced with a burgundy one, but 9D had argued against both begonias and the burgundy color, mostly because he believed 8C was responsible for bringing in the new team of Russian elevator mechanics, who had, in the past, worked on missiles in what 7C was pretty sure these mechanics still called the motherland, and who 7C was also pretty sure were spies of some sort, a suspicion she had confided exclusively (she thought) to 3A, but 3A blabbered about it to the board members and her blabbering had backfired, so that now 7C was considered a paranoid woman, a possible isolationist bigot, and a loose cannon, which was probably true, since after the attacks on September 11, 7C had spent weeks in Westchester calling Martin about an oncoming toxic cloud headed for Manhattan and asking if he could double-check that the windows were all the way closed in the apartment, which was actually the same request made by 7B, who recently had maybe got bedbugs (they blamed the house cleaner) leading 4B (once the news got out) to panic and do laundry for six hours straight, which really pissed off 1D, because they had kids and the kids had soccer practice and 4B, whose child merely finger painted and did no competitive sports at all, was using all the machines, which 4B said was a necessary thing because didn't 1D hear about the bedbugs in 7B and 1D said the bedbugs were just a rumor, the bedbug dog from Queens had come in and sensed nothing, but still the paranoia reached such a pitch that many of 7B's belongings eventually wound up in the basement and Martin and Rafael, the porter, had had to drag armoires and mattresses and books and clothes out into the courtyard, and into the alley, and up the stairs for the garbage people to take away to waste transfer centers, to barges, to landfills, to landfills, to landfills. Martin's heart, that dumb, flawed blood hauler, made sounds like a garbage truck in his chest. He had fucked up mindfulness again. Martin must concentrate on his breath, must forget the many stories of complaint within this nine-story building. He must cool the hallways of his heart. No, not hallways. That was an apartment building sort of term. With the heart, you called them chambers. He knew all about the heart now. He'd googled "heart biological parts" after Lily's death had increased the constricted feeling around his chest. His own dad had died young of a heart attack. Over the last year or two, even before Lily's death, he'd begun to watch what he ate, gotten deeper into meditation, started bird-watching, all in the interest of lowering his resting heart rate. Of course, thinking too much about his resting heart rate seemed to heighten it again. He heard it now, his heartbeat quickening. He wanted to open his eyes, to stand up, to abandon his meditation bench. Read more