Is my Narrator annoying?

So in attempting to get to know my characters better, I went through a stint of having them narrate the same scene to see what they acknowledge as most important when describing the same event. And I've kind of fallen for the main character's style of narration, so much so that I plan to rewrite the story from his point of view (It was originally third-person omniscient).

The problem is that he's really... long-winded. He likes to explain everything, and keeps going on parenthetical asides about things... but it really gives him a bit of character. I've got a sample of it here (Those of you from the Constructive Criticism Thread will be familiar with most of this here)

It's after one in the morning, and I can't sleep. Seeing as it's my sixteenth birthday, someone could claim that I'm awake because I'm excited about it. Except that anyone remotely familiar with me knows that I don't care much about my birthday. Nope. Insomnia is just one of those things that happen when you've got a mind that doesn't get tired easily, no matter how fatigued the body may be. Thus is the trial of Raymond Mason.

Since staring at the ceiling isn't boring me to sleep, I hop out of bed and decide to head for the kitchen. What they say about Black people and full stomachs is kind of true, after all.

I'm almost out the door to my room, when I realize that I'm scratching the little dimple in the back of my head. And that means that my subconscious is slapping me across the face and yelling at me to pay attention.

That sounds weird, but at this point in my life, I know better than to question the dimple itch.

Almost instantly, I'm kneeling at my nightstand, digging through the drawer. I don't even have to turn on the lamp, because I knew what I was looking for the second I'd turned back. Near the back of the drawer is a thick, velvety case, and inside the case, a necklace. It's been in my family for more than two hundred years, if you want to take my father's word for it (the necklace, I mean; the case only goes back to when he and Mom were dating). It's a simple thing, really: a teardrop-shaped amber bead, set on a slightly larger silver base that's the same shape, with a thin silver chain. It would mean a lot to me even if it wasn't all I had left of my parents. I'm not sure why I have to take it with me on an expedition for a midnight snack, but the itch hasn't lied to me yet.

One thing about living with the Rocks— My godparents— is that we have so much variety in our fridge. "Uncle" Abe is from Louisiana and "Aunt" Mei is Chinese-Korean. Between them (and the occasional hostile takeover of the kitchen in which I cook up some Jamaican food), it's entirely possible go two weeks without eating the same thing twice.

At the back of the fridge, there's some yeot— it's like taffy on a stick, but made out of sweet rice instead of whatever they put in taffy these days. They're usually made with walnuts, but Aunt Mei covered mine in shredded almonds.

Seriously, I love almonds. My dad and I could eat through a five-pound sack of them in under a week (It would have probably only lasted a day if my mom weren't there to smack us with the wooden spoon). It was one of the myriad things— beyond our uncanny resemblance— that made everyone wonder whether I was his son or his clone. Except that I can't eat them around Uncle Abe (or almost anyone else, for that matter), because he would go on about how much fun he and my dad had together as kids, and it would almost make me want to stop eating (and definitely make me want to punch him). At least Aunt Mei shuts up about my mom.

When I'm almost done with my snack, I hear footsteps in the hallway, and my hand shoots up to my head again. Which is odd, because three other people live in the apartment; there's no reason to be suspicious about that. I peek my head out anyway, and find... someone going to the bathroom. I can't tell who it is because the door is between us—

The door.

That was the problem; I only heard the bathroom door open (and trust me when I say that if any of the other doors had opened, I would have heard them). Either this guy could walk through walls (an ability which, to my knowledge, neither Uncle Abe, Aunt Mei, or Tyra had), or he came in through the fire escape. Both options were equally impossible. But the latter was scarier.

I rush into my room— outside which is the fire escape— to find a wide open window, with three metal rods neatly leaning against the wall. These were, until recently, part of my alarm system. The rods were held up between the (previously only slightly ajar) bottom window and the top of the windowsill, in such a way that you couldn't open the window without removing them, and you couldn't remove them without first sliding the window down. The problem was doing this while you were on the outside— anyone who wanted to get in undetected would have to push the window down, and then pull it up fast enough to catch all three bars before any of them could hit the hardwood floor, without letting them clank against each other, to boot. Ghetto, yet ingenious.

Not that it matters now, because a person who was able to get past it is currently occupying my bathroom. There's no phone in my room, so I head to the living room to call the cops. And as I'm passing through the hallway, the bathroom door starts to open (why would an intruder enter the bathroom just to come out again seconds later? I have no idea. Maybe he heard me messing about in the kitchen?). I'd already started considering what could happen if the situation came to blows, but now it's at the forefront of my mind.

The bathroom is six feet by eight feet. With the space taken up by the sink, the toilet, the hamper, and the tub/shower, that gives this guy about a two-by-two foot square to maneuver in. I've got the hallway at my back. I've been boxing for ten years, and between my parents and the Rocks, I've got rudimentary knowledge of three different martial arts, and advanced training three more. Even if this guy is some kind of ninja (out there, I know, but this is New York. Weirder things have happened), I shouldn't be at much of a disadvantage. Plus, you can't discount the element of surprise.

So the bathroom door opens, and I immediately rush the guy and spin, slamming him into the wall. Then I flip the light switch and spend a split second wondering if I'm looking into a mirror. That's definitely my blocky nose. And my bushy eyebrows. My chin, my ears, even my "Holy crap!" face. But those cornrows aren't mine; I've got dreadlocks. The brown of the eyes is a bit too light. The ears are different— mine are a bit more pointed— and I don't have that many lines on my face.

I've got my father against the wall. Who I hadn't seen in six years. I back off, bumping against the sink behind me.

He smiled at me. "Happy sixteenth, son. Good to see you."

"I wish the feeling was mutual," I mutter, before I can really get my bearings on the situation.

The next thing I know, my fist is moving straight for his face.

Sometimes, I don't know my own strength. And sometimes, I really don't care. My left hook catches him off balance, and he teeters over and falls through the shower curtain and into the tub, somehow not ripping it down in the process. I'm pretty sure he was in some comical position, but I didn't feel like looking at him. I felt like I had to say something, though:

"Okay, now the feeling is mutual."

Damn, am I witty or what?

"Yeah, I should have expected that," he mutters as he gets himself righted.

I turn my back to him as he starts to climb out and do my best not to chuckle when I hear him slip and tumble. Soon enough, he's standing behind me and we're both searching for something to say.

"Nice... arm," he says. "Blake taught you well."

""You could have taught me better."

I'm surprised at how angry I don't sound. I feel like should be outraged that this man could so casually bring up the dead son of his best friends. But he shuts up, so I start wondering which question I want to ask first: why my father was here, how he got here, or whether or not he'd found some sort of secret ninja academy during the six years he'd been missing (again, New York; I'm not ruling that one out just yet). When I finally opened my mouth, the most important question came out:

"Why'd you leave?"

Again, I'm surprised. I can't stop myself from quaking and have to bite my tongue to avoid crying. He put his hand on my shoulder.

"Ray, I had my reasons-"

I turn to him then, rolling up my right sleeve.

"I'm listening. I've got my good arm ready this time, just in case."

I flex my fingers to show him I mean business.

"I don't have the time to chat, Ray. I'm kind of in a hurry."

It something snaps in me, deep in some corner of my mind. It's like I'm seeing him, really seeing him, for the first time.

"Get. Out."

I'm just too angry to formulate a better response, or maybe just too shocked by his hubris. Probably both. I've had it with the emotional whiplash.

"Ray, I have something to tell-"

"Get out in the next thirty seconds, or I throw you out. The window."

"Raymond. Errol. Mason."

His voice takes on a dangerous tone, and before he says my last name, I've already snapped to attention, looking dead into his eyes.

Yeah, that's just a glimpse of the kind of power a Jamaican parent wields.

He reaches for my mom's necklace; I want to say something about how he has no right to touch it, but I'm still a little afraid to move. He doesn't take it off, though. He just holds the pendant in front of my face and utters two words:

"One day."

There's a sound like thunder crashing, and the next thing I know, I'm laying in bed, staring at the ceiling. I bolt upright, panting heavily, heart racing. A glance to the window confirms that my "alarm system" still functional. The clock says it's only been three minutes since the last time I checked it. In the kitchen, the piece of yeot is still in the back of the fridge, waiting for me. So basically, all signs point to "I was having a weird-ass dream." I'm almost back in bed when I realize the extra weight around my neck.

I'm wearing my mom's necklace.

I don't have the time to consider this development, however, because someone tackles me into my bed.

edited 12th Jul '12 5:44:17 AM by SalFishFin

I liked this. He's got a clear voice and the narrative was interesting, even when it wasn't really about anything.
So no, not annoying in the slightest.

Yes. The things like going into a paragraph's worth of depth about how much he likes almonds and constantly interjecting 'By the way' and 'Seriously' are both unnecessary and grating. I think you've fallen into the trap of trying to write the way that a smart-assed sixteen-year-old kid would talk, which just doesn't work. You need to edit it down a lot and think about what is actually going to contribute to your story. I would also suggest that you read some good novels written in first-person to get a sense of how you can communicate a character's unique voice without becoming overly conversational or idiosyncratic-just-for-the-sake-of-it. For works that are generally good at this, Jane Eyre, The Kite Runner, or anything by Kazuo Ishiguro; if you're looking for something with a comedic/ironic tone similar to what you're going for, I suggest Marian Keyes' Anybody Out There, or Jim Butcher's The Dresden Files (the books around the middle of the series are much the best, in my opinion).