I wonder what New Yorker readers think of that Sam Shepherd short story, Tiny Man, in the current issue. They do publish a lot of "low life" fiction, which seems to be written with a genteel audience in mind. like it's about "those people." Literary, you know. Shepherd explodes all of that stuff.
This story took me right back into the atmosphere of the poor white California town I lived in in the 50s. It is so cleverly done: a mixture of dream fantasy and hyperreality and distressing sex. Well guess what. Although I was personally spared, the atmosphere of it was totally familiar to me.