Broke, burned out and paranoid, the nameless narrator of "Submarines" moves from California to the Delaware beaches to live with his chain-smoking, cocktail-sipping octogenarian grandmother. There he drifts along until he finds work as a bellman and begins betting daily on Major League Baseball. Stoned and bored, he makes friends with an osprey, begins to hallucinate submarines and an ominous 19th century British naval officer and his fleet. His job as a bellman opens doors to a revolving cast of quirky hotel guests from treasure hunters to traveling salesmen. He begins a relationship with a seasonal coworker named Olivia and pins all his future happiness on her despite knowing, like his life, it most likely won't work out. Giving in to his desire for money and good times, he slowly fucks everything up, but in a chill, fun way that adds a dash of joy to his downward spiral. "Submarines" is a book about trying to find the laugh hidden in the silent slaughter of the daily grind and trying to find meaning when money seems to mean everything. A book about addiction, making something of your life when your life looks hopeless and about trying to take care of others when you can't take care of yourself. Reading "Submarines" is like skateboarding down a hill and realizing you don't know how to stop and there's a good chance you're going to smash your head against a big rock and your blood and brains are going to spill out in front of a young mother and her baby so you might as well enjoy the ride.