|
fiction / drama / romance / classics / dysfunctional
a fucked-up love story for fellow defects As a tragedy finally brings them into each other’s lives, Ben and Maggie must question their ability to put the past behind them and embrace the promise of a better future. And as the people in their lives face their own hardships and misfortunes, questions of life and fate and existence will bring the reader face to face with the stark truths of suffering, vulnerability, and the often unforgiving nature of reality. The second installment of The Offbeat Rhythms is darker, heavier, and laced with deeper shades of philosophy than its precursor. Enter the world of New York in 1980 to find raw characters grappling with the difficulties of real life in this literary breakthrough. |
Excerpt from Volume Two of The Offbeat Rhythms.
“Thank Christ that’s fucking over,” Denny grunted miserably, hitting Gwenny’s gas a little too hard.
“I’m sorry for what you heard back there, Denny. That wasn’t right, what your father said. It wasn’t true, either.”
Denny said nothing.
Ben turned and looked out the passenger window. He wished there was something to say, something that would right the slew of bad mojos that were no doubt churning around inside of Denny Drake.
“What did he want?” Denny finally said.
“Huh?”
“When my old man asked you back to his study.”
“Oh. He only wanted to show me a skull he bought. It was the skull of a plague victim.”
“He probably wishes you were his son.”
“Denny. Come on. Don’t say stuff like that.”
“Well, it’s true, isn’t it?”
“No, I don’t think so, personally.”
“I get so tired of his bullshit sometimes. Did you hear him at dinner? ‘A resourceful man succeeds and conquers any obstacle in his way.’” Denny mockingly quoted his father, revealing just how strong his resentment was.
“Denny, he was talking about Reagan.”
“Yeah, but as he said it he looked straight at me. I know that look.”
“Well, maybe he—”
“Look, just forget about it, Ben.”
Once they were on the highway, Denny cracked his window open and lit a cigarette. “You know,” he began, turning the radio off, “sometimes I wonder why I’m friends with you.”
Ben stared at Denny for a long time before speaking.
“What does that mean?” he finally probed.
“What do you think it means?”
“Well, it sounds like complete bullshit to me.”
“You’re just like him. My old man.”
“What?”
“You are. He’s more proud of you than he is of me.”
“Denny—”
“He gets a hard on every time you come over.”
“That’s not my fault!”
“I suppose it’s mine?”
“Denny, what the fuck are you talking about?”
“I’ll tell you what I am talking about! It’s just — I — Christ, just forget it.”
They drove on in silence.
At length, Ben said, “Denny, what’s wrong? What is it?”
Denny said nothing, but Ben noticed Gwenny rapidly accelerating.
“Denny?”
Faster. Faster.
“Den?”
Ben eyed the gauge. Denny was taking Gwenny up to seventy miles an hour, then seventy-five. Then eighty. Then eighty-five…
“Denny, slow down, man. Come on.”
FASTER!
Denny remained soundless, pressing his foot harder on the gas pedal as Gwenny shot past other cars, deftly maneuvering between lanes.
Ninety.
“Dennis!”
Ninety-five.
“What are you doing, Denny? What? What do you want me to say? Your father’s a dickhead, Dennis! Okay? What are you trying to accomplish?”
“What can I accomplish? I’m just a two-bit grease monkey. A challenged kid with an erector set. A bad mechanic. Who do I matter to?”
“You matter to me, Denny. To me. Okay? I don’t care what you do or whether or not you went to college. That’s not why I’m your friend. And your father—”
“This is NOT about my FUCKING father! And it’s not about you, either.”
“Then what? What, Den? Marianne?”
One hundred.
“Christ, Denny! Slow down!”
Silence.
“Denny! What? Is it Marianne?”
“Fuck no.”
“Then what?”
“None of you know. None of you could possibly know.”
“Know what?”
“My old man. My mom. Jack. Kathy. You. None of you know.” He laughed insanely. “You and my old man sit around and talk about your fucking books and dates and your quotes of this shit and that, who said this and who wrote that, what writer fucked what horse and when. You smoke your goddamn pipes and act like the lords of the manor and none of you knows a single thing about what it’s really like. Not one of you knows.”
“Know what for God’s sake?”
“THE FUCKING THINGS I SAW! THE THINGS I HAD TO DO! THE THINGS I HAD TO SEE!”
“In the war?”
“Yes in the GODDAMN MOTHERFUCKING WAR! You all think you’re so much better than me with your degrees and your words and your goddamn brandy. Fuck all of you! FUCK ALL OF YOU! Not one of you could do what I did. None of you could even imagine! FUCK! You think you’re such an impressive guy, huh? You wouldn’t have lasted a day in the jungle, sweetheart.”
“You’re right, Denny. You’re right… we don’t know. I — Christ, Denny, slow down!”
Denny did not acquiesce.
Ben frantically searched his mind for anything to say, anything to defuse Denny’s madness. All he could do was to reach into his heart and pull out… the truth.
Yes, the truth.
A pause.
When he finally spoke, Ben did so as quietly and steadily as he could. “I don’t think I’m better than you, Denny.”
One hundred and five.
Ben charged on. “I — I wish I was like you. I wish I was — free, like you are, to be and do whatever I want whenever I want. You have everything, Denny. You’re good looking. You know what you are doing. Women know when they’re with you that you’re going to make everything happen in the right way. I — I don’t have that — that ability.” He thought of Maggie, storming out of the diner, and Maya, taking a powder in the middle of the night. “Women flee from me,” he said, now looking out the side window, speaking more to himself than to Denny. “They want to get as far away from me as possible, once they really get to know me.” He turned back to Denny. “But you... women run to you, Den. They flee from me, but they run to you. I never understood why before, but I think it’s because they know that with you, what they see is what they get. There are no unknowns with you. You’re just you, the attractive guy who’ll make them feel good about themselves for a little while. You could have anyone you want. You can do anything you want because you’re confident. I’m not. The truth is, I envy you.”
Denny had been listening without replying, without even so much as an indication he had even heard Ben’s words. Ben went on anyway, “And as for the war, you’re right. I can’t imagine. And I admit it: I don’t want to imagine. But don’t you see, Denny? Don’t you see that that makes you better than me? You went through all that terrible shit and came out in one piece. You’re totally right, I wouldn’t have lasted a day.”
Ben finally noticed Gwenny slowing down. Nothing was said as Denny eventually brought the car to a full stop along the side of the highway.
And then…
…nothing could have prepared Ben for this…
Denny erupted into the saddest explosion of gut wrenching sobs Ben had ever seen. Like some sort of fucking Big Bang, wails and tears and moans and heaves and whimpers and noises like nothing human were pouring and oozing out of Dennis Drake as his shaggy head lay hard against the steering wheel.
The terrible scene lasted for millennia, or maybe only a few moments, Ben wasn’t sure. He thought about Mark DeJenner. He thought about Maya Bell. He thought about Bernie Drake. About Patricia Niebold, and dead Dr. Alcott. He thought about the redbird bashing its brains to a pulp in that white room, and then exploding above the prairie. He thought about Maggie. He thought about his real mother, and his real father, whoever he was... And then Ben noticed that he was crying too. Not sobbing like Denny, but weeping nevertheless. He scratched his beard, thought briefly about quoting Shakespeare to Denny, decided against it, and then gradually reached his hand over to Denny’s shoulder.
What should he say?
The truth, he knew, was that there was nothing to say.
And so they both sat in silence on the side of the highway, just a mile outside of Manhattan.
In time, Denny calmed himself, sighed heavily, and said, “I lied to you. About Marianne.”
“Okay. How?”
“I told you that I cheated on her. But I didn’t. The truth is, I would never have cheated on her. Ever. I loved her. I still do.”
Ben allowed for the first time that perhaps Denny had really loved her. Somehow.
“So, what did happen?”
“She told me she never wanted to see me again.”
“Did she say why?”
Denny was silent for a very long time.
Which is it? Ben wondered. Is this about Vietnam or about Marianne? Or his father? Or maybe something else entirely? Or all of these things combined?
Ben wasn’t sure. He didn’t think Denny was even sure.
“Denny?”
Denny wordlessly turned and momentarily looked at Ben before returning his gaze to the steering wheel.
“Did she say why she broke up with you?”
“Yeah.”
“What did she say?”
Denny sighed. “She said I was… dumb. That I was stupid.”
“You’re not stupid, Denny. You’re not.”
A pause.
“I am,” Denny finally said. “But that’s okay, isn’t it? Aren’t you always saying people should just be what they are?”
“I do say that, yes.”
Another pause.
“I’m sorry, Ben.”
“For what?”
“For losing my cool.”
“You’ve never been cool,” Ben quipped.
“And I didn’t mean what I said,” Denny added, starting the car and easing it back into traffic.
“Which part?”
“About not knowing why I am friends with you.”
“Do you want to know why I am friends with you?”
“Knock yourself out.”
“Remember when you threatened to burn my book?”
“That was only a month ago, Ben.”
“I’m friends with you because you’d do something like that for me. Because you would kick me in the ass like that and force me to confront stuff I wouldn’t or couldn’t confront on my own. Do you see? I need you in my life, Den. I know that sounds like some little piece of girly sentimental bullshit, but it’s true. You’re essential to me. You are. That’s why I’m your friend. And it’s convenient to have a friend with a car, you know? Free rides.”
“Well, I’m your friend,” Denny replied, “because when I get to feeling sorry for myself I can always look at how pathetic you are and then I feel better. I say to myself, ‘Well, Denny boy, at least you’re not as wretched and pitiful as your old buddy Ben.’”
“Well, it’s good to know my life’s not a total waste.”
Ben was glad the atmosphere had calmed considerably, but he could tell Denny didn’t feel too much better. Not really. And something told Ben that his friend was going to get a lot worse before he got better…
He recalled Dr. Niebold’s words from yesterday: we’re only chipping at the tip of the iceberg, aren’t we?
Denny was clearly on a dark road, and Ben realized there was nothing he could do at the present moment to save Denny from having to travel it. Whatever this was all truly about, it would have to run its course. He only hoped Denny would come out alive.
Besides, he, Ben, had his own dark road to follow.
And then there was Maggie.
She too, it seemed, was walking a dark road.
Yes, we’re only chipping at the tip of the iceberg, aren’t we?
Oh my, yes.
And it’s a huge fucking mother, too.
Would he ever see Maggie again? Would he ever again get to gaze into those perfect blue eyes? Ben didn’t know, and the more he thought about it, the more he suspected that her swift exit from the Blue Corner pointed toward an emphatic no.
He wished and wanted more than anything at this moment to be going home to a waiting Maggie. What he wouldn’t give to be with her right this minute. What he wouldn’t give to be at her side forever.
He thought of another quote from Shakespeare:
“Absence from those we love is self from self—a deadly banishment.”
Denny’s right, Ben thought. I’m all pretentious quotes and nothing more.
He sighed and turned to look out the passenger window, then whispered, “‘The problems of three little people don’t amount to a hill of beans in this crazy world.’”
A pause.
He wondered if Denny had heard him.
Denny had. “Casablanca, 1942.”
“Ten points.”
“I’m sorry for what you heard back there, Denny. That wasn’t right, what your father said. It wasn’t true, either.”
Denny said nothing.
Ben turned and looked out the passenger window. He wished there was something to say, something that would right the slew of bad mojos that were no doubt churning around inside of Denny Drake.
“What did he want?” Denny finally said.
“Huh?”
“When my old man asked you back to his study.”
“Oh. He only wanted to show me a skull he bought. It was the skull of a plague victim.”
“He probably wishes you were his son.”
“Denny. Come on. Don’t say stuff like that.”
“Well, it’s true, isn’t it?”
“No, I don’t think so, personally.”
“I get so tired of his bullshit sometimes. Did you hear him at dinner? ‘A resourceful man succeeds and conquers any obstacle in his way.’” Denny mockingly quoted his father, revealing just how strong his resentment was.
“Denny, he was talking about Reagan.”
“Yeah, but as he said it he looked straight at me. I know that look.”
“Well, maybe he—”
“Look, just forget about it, Ben.”
Once they were on the highway, Denny cracked his window open and lit a cigarette. “You know,” he began, turning the radio off, “sometimes I wonder why I’m friends with you.”
Ben stared at Denny for a long time before speaking.
“What does that mean?” he finally probed.
“What do you think it means?”
“Well, it sounds like complete bullshit to me.”
“You’re just like him. My old man.”
“What?”
“You are. He’s more proud of you than he is of me.”
“Denny—”
“He gets a hard on every time you come over.”
“That’s not my fault!”
“I suppose it’s mine?”
“Denny, what the fuck are you talking about?”
“I’ll tell you what I am talking about! It’s just — I — Christ, just forget it.”
They drove on in silence.
At length, Ben said, “Denny, what’s wrong? What is it?”
Denny said nothing, but Ben noticed Gwenny rapidly accelerating.
“Denny?”
Faster. Faster.
“Den?”
Ben eyed the gauge. Denny was taking Gwenny up to seventy miles an hour, then seventy-five. Then eighty. Then eighty-five…
“Denny, slow down, man. Come on.”
FASTER!
Denny remained soundless, pressing his foot harder on the gas pedal as Gwenny shot past other cars, deftly maneuvering between lanes.
Ninety.
“Dennis!”
Ninety-five.
“What are you doing, Denny? What? What do you want me to say? Your father’s a dickhead, Dennis! Okay? What are you trying to accomplish?”
“What can I accomplish? I’m just a two-bit grease monkey. A challenged kid with an erector set. A bad mechanic. Who do I matter to?”
“You matter to me, Denny. To me. Okay? I don’t care what you do or whether or not you went to college. That’s not why I’m your friend. And your father—”
“This is NOT about my FUCKING father! And it’s not about you, either.”
“Then what? What, Den? Marianne?”
One hundred.
“Christ, Denny! Slow down!”
Silence.
“Denny! What? Is it Marianne?”
“Fuck no.”
“Then what?”
“None of you know. None of you could possibly know.”
“Know what?”
“My old man. My mom. Jack. Kathy. You. None of you know.” He laughed insanely. “You and my old man sit around and talk about your fucking books and dates and your quotes of this shit and that, who said this and who wrote that, what writer fucked what horse and when. You smoke your goddamn pipes and act like the lords of the manor and none of you knows a single thing about what it’s really like. Not one of you knows.”
“Know what for God’s sake?”
“THE FUCKING THINGS I SAW! THE THINGS I HAD TO DO! THE THINGS I HAD TO SEE!”
“In the war?”
“Yes in the GODDAMN MOTHERFUCKING WAR! You all think you’re so much better than me with your degrees and your words and your goddamn brandy. Fuck all of you! FUCK ALL OF YOU! Not one of you could do what I did. None of you could even imagine! FUCK! You think you’re such an impressive guy, huh? You wouldn’t have lasted a day in the jungle, sweetheart.”
“You’re right, Denny. You’re right… we don’t know. I — Christ, Denny, slow down!”
Denny did not acquiesce.
Ben frantically searched his mind for anything to say, anything to defuse Denny’s madness. All he could do was to reach into his heart and pull out… the truth.
Yes, the truth.
A pause.
When he finally spoke, Ben did so as quietly and steadily as he could. “I don’t think I’m better than you, Denny.”
One hundred and five.
Ben charged on. “I — I wish I was like you. I wish I was — free, like you are, to be and do whatever I want whenever I want. You have everything, Denny. You’re good looking. You know what you are doing. Women know when they’re with you that you’re going to make everything happen in the right way. I — I don’t have that — that ability.” He thought of Maggie, storming out of the diner, and Maya, taking a powder in the middle of the night. “Women flee from me,” he said, now looking out the side window, speaking more to himself than to Denny. “They want to get as far away from me as possible, once they really get to know me.” He turned back to Denny. “But you... women run to you, Den. They flee from me, but they run to you. I never understood why before, but I think it’s because they know that with you, what they see is what they get. There are no unknowns with you. You’re just you, the attractive guy who’ll make them feel good about themselves for a little while. You could have anyone you want. You can do anything you want because you’re confident. I’m not. The truth is, I envy you.”
Denny had been listening without replying, without even so much as an indication he had even heard Ben’s words. Ben went on anyway, “And as for the war, you’re right. I can’t imagine. And I admit it: I don’t want to imagine. But don’t you see, Denny? Don’t you see that that makes you better than me? You went through all that terrible shit and came out in one piece. You’re totally right, I wouldn’t have lasted a day.”
Ben finally noticed Gwenny slowing down. Nothing was said as Denny eventually brought the car to a full stop along the side of the highway.
And then…
…nothing could have prepared Ben for this…
Denny erupted into the saddest explosion of gut wrenching sobs Ben had ever seen. Like some sort of fucking Big Bang, wails and tears and moans and heaves and whimpers and noises like nothing human were pouring and oozing out of Dennis Drake as his shaggy head lay hard against the steering wheel.
The terrible scene lasted for millennia, or maybe only a few moments, Ben wasn’t sure. He thought about Mark DeJenner. He thought about Maya Bell. He thought about Bernie Drake. About Patricia Niebold, and dead Dr. Alcott. He thought about the redbird bashing its brains to a pulp in that white room, and then exploding above the prairie. He thought about Maggie. He thought about his real mother, and his real father, whoever he was... And then Ben noticed that he was crying too. Not sobbing like Denny, but weeping nevertheless. He scratched his beard, thought briefly about quoting Shakespeare to Denny, decided against it, and then gradually reached his hand over to Denny’s shoulder.
What should he say?
The truth, he knew, was that there was nothing to say.
And so they both sat in silence on the side of the highway, just a mile outside of Manhattan.
In time, Denny calmed himself, sighed heavily, and said, “I lied to you. About Marianne.”
“Okay. How?”
“I told you that I cheated on her. But I didn’t. The truth is, I would never have cheated on her. Ever. I loved her. I still do.”
Ben allowed for the first time that perhaps Denny had really loved her. Somehow.
“So, what did happen?”
“She told me she never wanted to see me again.”
“Did she say why?”
Denny was silent for a very long time.
Which is it? Ben wondered. Is this about Vietnam or about Marianne? Or his father? Or maybe something else entirely? Or all of these things combined?
Ben wasn’t sure. He didn’t think Denny was even sure.
“Denny?”
Denny wordlessly turned and momentarily looked at Ben before returning his gaze to the steering wheel.
“Did she say why she broke up with you?”
“Yeah.”
“What did she say?”
Denny sighed. “She said I was… dumb. That I was stupid.”
“You’re not stupid, Denny. You’re not.”
A pause.
“I am,” Denny finally said. “But that’s okay, isn’t it? Aren’t you always saying people should just be what they are?”
“I do say that, yes.”
Another pause.
“I’m sorry, Ben.”
“For what?”
“For losing my cool.”
“You’ve never been cool,” Ben quipped.
“And I didn’t mean what I said,” Denny added, starting the car and easing it back into traffic.
“Which part?”
“About not knowing why I am friends with you.”
“Do you want to know why I am friends with you?”
“Knock yourself out.”
“Remember when you threatened to burn my book?”
“That was only a month ago, Ben.”
“I’m friends with you because you’d do something like that for me. Because you would kick me in the ass like that and force me to confront stuff I wouldn’t or couldn’t confront on my own. Do you see? I need you in my life, Den. I know that sounds like some little piece of girly sentimental bullshit, but it’s true. You’re essential to me. You are. That’s why I’m your friend. And it’s convenient to have a friend with a car, you know? Free rides.”
“Well, I’m your friend,” Denny replied, “because when I get to feeling sorry for myself I can always look at how pathetic you are and then I feel better. I say to myself, ‘Well, Denny boy, at least you’re not as wretched and pitiful as your old buddy Ben.’”
“Well, it’s good to know my life’s not a total waste.”
Ben was glad the atmosphere had calmed considerably, but he could tell Denny didn’t feel too much better. Not really. And something told Ben that his friend was going to get a lot worse before he got better…
He recalled Dr. Niebold’s words from yesterday: we’re only chipping at the tip of the iceberg, aren’t we?
Denny was clearly on a dark road, and Ben realized there was nothing he could do at the present moment to save Denny from having to travel it. Whatever this was all truly about, it would have to run its course. He only hoped Denny would come out alive.
Besides, he, Ben, had his own dark road to follow.
And then there was Maggie.
She too, it seemed, was walking a dark road.
Yes, we’re only chipping at the tip of the iceberg, aren’t we?
Oh my, yes.
And it’s a huge fucking mother, too.
Would he ever see Maggie again? Would he ever again get to gaze into those perfect blue eyes? Ben didn’t know, and the more he thought about it, the more he suspected that her swift exit from the Blue Corner pointed toward an emphatic no.
He wished and wanted more than anything at this moment to be going home to a waiting Maggie. What he wouldn’t give to be with her right this minute. What he wouldn’t give to be at her side forever.
He thought of another quote from Shakespeare:
“Absence from those we love is self from self—a deadly banishment.”
Denny’s right, Ben thought. I’m all pretentious quotes and nothing more.
He sighed and turned to look out the passenger window, then whispered, “‘The problems of three little people don’t amount to a hill of beans in this crazy world.’”
A pause.
He wondered if Denny had heard him.
Denny had. “Casablanca, 1942.”
“Ten points.”