Excerpt on Main Street
~New Author Spotlight~
Pajamas on a Sun Stained Beach
(A story somewhat supposedly based upon a true tale…)
Manuscript synopsis
Paul Jones Palin is a deeply depressed, severely stressed, self-medicating dysphoric agoraphobic on the verge of suicide. He’s made and lost fortunes, married and divorced three times and is terminally ill. Alone in a post 9-11 New York City P.J. struggles through the not-so-great recession with neither health insurance nor hope. Just when things couldn’t get any worse…
But it’s not just his disease that’s killing him – it’s the irony!
“Pajamas On A Sun Stained Beach” is a work of fiction that chronicles the dying thoughts of a drowning man and not only explores biological death but also the death of our dreams. Within 112 pages the manuscript covers 50+ years of the character’s life (1954-2010) and uses the death of the American dream as a basic subtext. This book is intended to not only work in published form but is also adaptable to film as well as a blueprint for video/computer gaming.
Chapter V/Excerpt #1 of 3: Love Kills (Because I Trusted You Like My Shadow…)
Sidebar: idk but I’ve been told that robots can now be programmed to experience emotions. It is almost a fact that the digital equivalent of ‘hugs and kisses…’ (or ‘Xoxoxo…’), in robotic binary language is ‘110101101011010…’
This data was provided by an acquaintance’s android lover. Please be advised, if this is not true, it would not have been the first time she has lied to, or cheated on, this said acquaintance. The moral of this sci-fi twisted tale? Never trust a cyborg (a cybernetic organism) like you would your shadow. They can be almost as deceptive and devious as human beings. End of sidebar. real spellcaster
The first Mrs. P.J. Palin was from Montreal, Canada. She was 8 years older, a lot more educated and a good deal kinder than Mr. P.J. Palin. It was February 18th, 1972, a Friday night and he had just arrived in the proud province of Quebec the day before. Paul was 17 years old. Being many years before anyone had ever heard of personal computers or the Internet, much less than, social networking sites, mobile devices, WiFi, or digital gaming, he was pursuing his first love. No, not the first Mrs. Palin, but his love of rock & roll.
The wannabe rocker had decided he was too kool (sic) for high school more than a year before and had set his sights on stardom in the music business, or more accurately, mega-stardom. Fitting solidly into the singer/songwriter niche that was so popular in the early 1970’s he wrote songs, sang, played the guitar and harmonica and could actually turn out a good tune every now and then. The rebellious rocker was also tall, skinny, brooding with high cheek bones and had fine, long brown hair nearly down to his waist.
What he lacked in talent he made up for in ambition. Ambition on its own is sometimes enough to reach success, but in P.J.’s case, unfortunately, it wasn’t. Still, it was 1972 and he was young, not bad looking and had a dream. This combination seemed to make him fairly attractive to women, especially the older ones. It should be mentioned at this point that the boy, for all of his 17 years, was extremely, and eternally horny. At least that’s how he would have described it if you, or anyone else, had ever bothered to ask.
Sex, sex, sex! It was always on his mind and it seemed he always had a hard-on hiding in his tight faded jeans. There had been quite a few hook-ups prior to meeting Elizabeth, who was to one day become the future Mrs. Palin number one. Peege had lost his cherry at the tender age of fourteen to his older brother’s fiancé (sorry, asshole!) on a hot July night in 1968. Till the day he died, he was grateful to have been introduced to sex by his big bro’s f*cked-up fiancé. It gave him an everlasting appreciation and respect for older women. Some would see them as cradle robbers or cougars. The be-freckled boy from Baltimore saw them as the perfect combination of gorgeous guardian angels and sexy sisters of mercy.
Rock-it boy had traveled to Montreal at the request of an old girlfriend who worked at a local radio station. Maggie had promised to introduce him to some Canadian record executive who was just, “Gonna luv your music and I know is gonna sign you…” It didn’t matter a bit that the details were sketchy, because when you’re running mainly on ambition you’d be foolish to turn down any opportunity when it came a’ knocking, no matter how off beat the knock may be.
Maggs was a good friend. She not only had picked him up at the airport but let him stay at her house so the rock band boy wouldn’t have to waste money he didn’t have on a motel room. They also had an amazingly casual, unencumbered, ‘wham, bam, thank you – damn!’ intimate relationship. Ladies and gentleman, allow us to introduce you to a 1970’s pair of friends with privileges and back stage VIP passes to boot. Make of it what you will. Gotta love the f*ckin’, freewheelin’ freakin’ ‘70s!
She used to be married to a bass player in one of Peege’s bands. One night, shortly after her marriage had broken up, she caught him stealing looks down her blouse at her ample décolletage. Maggie then made him an offer he couldn’t refuse.
The woman explained to him, that because she was much older than he was, and although she was inviting him into her bed that evening, “It doesn’t mean that we’re having a serious relationship. Alright? We’re not gonna be like boyfriend/girlfriend. Okay? It’s only going to be about the sex. Got it? Great, f*cking sex, baby! Can you handle that, P.J.?”
After asking this question to the horny teen she took off her blouse and showed Peege her naked breasts. It took about one-half second for him to decide that those were terms he could certainly could handle. It was all so simple back then.
When they finally arrived at Maggie’s Montreal apartment, which he remembered as feeling so cheery and warm on that dreary Canadian winter’s day, they stowed his luggage and guitar under her bed. While she rolled a joint for them to “relax with” he produced the alcohol he had scored at the airport’s tax-free shop and proceeded to pour them both a stiff drink.
Being one of those kids who always looked older than he was, he had strutted into the airport tax-free store before boarding his plane earlier. Peege charmed the older woman behind the counter with, what one could only imagine was, the sparkle in his bright blue eyes, and she sold him all the liquor any man was allowed to buy tax-free under international law. They exchanged smiles, a few brushes of the hand, and she never once asked for any proof of age. Like a driver’s license, a passport or a New York State non-driver’s photo ID.
So Maggs and Jonesy proceeded to smoke, drink and catch up on old times. As afternoon turned to evening and evening melted into night hunger eventually became an issue. So they ordered a piss-poor pizza from a pizzeria named “Neil’s” somewhere on St. Catherine Street, not too far from the local University. Here’s some advice for anyone who wants to take it: if you’re ever in Canada, just skip the pizza.
P.J. spent hours subtlety trying to get the scoop on which label honcho was the one that he was suppose to meet within the next few days. Skillfully, Maggie sidestepped the subject each time it was brought up. What the traveling minstrel did notice was how the conversation always seemed to return to her present relationship with her new boyfriend, and how worried she was about it.
Apparently the new love of her life had hooked-up with her shortly after breaking up with his last girlfriend. Maggie was head over heels in love with the dude but his recent unexplained absences, as well as his lack of talent in lying, made her a wee bit suspicious. What Peege later regretted that she had neglected to mention, was she was now experiencing a burning sensation every time she peed. More on that bit of a piss-off later…
As night turned to morning it became clear as day that Maggs had already caught the new boyfriend in enough lies and had put two plus two together. Without a doubt, he and the former flame were still sneaking into the sack to knock off a few behind her back. Being just like a woman, this woman being wronged, fully embraced the notion that women were angels, and if you broke their wings they would still fly – but just on brooms. He knew not which witch is which but you didn’t need a crystal ball to see this witch had a plan.
Reality often comes down with a crash. Like a hit of amyl nitrate Palin realized that while he may, or may not, meet Maggie’s record company buddy that was not the true purpose of him being there. He was there to run interference for a few days by distracting her rival. She had no shame in coming right out and asking him to be a boy-whore lure in order to divert the enemy. Never forget, all’s fair in love and war when you’re the one getting f*cked over in the battle for the heart.
Granted, they were very drunk, stoned and tired by this time; but the guitar-guy had absolutely no clear recollection of having consented to anything that snowy February night. Still, he somehow ended up vaguely agreeing to aid, abet and collaborate in her crazy, counter-cuckolded conspiracy. It was a deal. The four of them would all go out clubbing tomorrow night: Maggie, Bob (her new boyfriend), P.J. and Elizabeth (who was Bob’s alleged ex-girlfriend).
When they finally did go to bed that night/morning they slept until early afternoon of the next day. After showering together, Maggs cooked them up some poached eggs, Canadian bacon and whole wheat toast for breakfast that they washed down with vodka screwdrivers and espresso. Next they smoked a joint or two to kill time until meeting up with Bob and Elizabeth.
For the life of him he couldn’t remember the name of the first club they went into to meet the other couple; but he recalled it was dark and smelled of patchouli or incense. Psychedelic acid rock blared from the shitty sound system as they sat waiting at the moderately crowded bar for their friends.
When the other couple finally arrived Maggie made introductions. Bob seemed to be a nice enough laid back kind of guy. Elizabeth was pretty in a country girl fresh kind of way, although a bit uncomfortable and giggled nervously. Rock star figured it was probably because she was sitting across from the new girlfriend of the guy she was secretly screwing. None the less, she was lasciviously launching a rocket in his pocket and magically charming his trouser snake to do its dance in an upright position…
Pretty much, Maggie’s plan was that he hook-up with Elizabeth for the next few days. He’d be her distracting sex toy, and just keep her away from Bob long enough, so Maggs could work her charms and have him all to herself again all “happily ever after” and “happy ending” like, he supposed. The other three were at least eight to ten P.J.’s senior, so that poor boy wouldn’t learn until he was much older that “happily ever afters” and “happy endings” were seldom, if ever permanent.
All night long they drank Velvet Hammers (vodka, crème de cacao, and cream blended with plenty of frapped ice) as they made pit stops at different local clubs and bars. In between which they stood out of the icy streets of Old Montreal to smoke joints, talk and giggle. At some intoxicated time in the evening, Bob and Maggie disappeared, leaving Elizabeth and P.J. on their own.
The two of them made relatively easy conversation that night, and inevitably, began to flirt with each other. Being a starving artist, tall Paul was well aware that his finances were being quickly drained by the gentlemanly act of paying for the flow of their drinks. So he did what he found always worked best and just came out with the unexpected truth and said, “I wish I had brought more money along with me tonight so I could just hang out with you all night. I mean, you’re so pretty and I’m having such a great time with you and really want to get to know you better.”
To which the petite and pretty Elizabeth replied with a kittenish purr, “Well, we could just go back to my place, and you know, talk…”
She lived on Rue du Souvenir in a walk-up that they almost tripped and died on while wastedly trying to climb the stairs. Instead of dying they laughed a lot, and loud enough, so that someone even shouted from behind one of the apartment house doors “Shut the f*ck up, please!” Canadians are so damn polite.
They fumbled drunkenly with the keys to her door then stumbled into her hardly furnished apartment. She started to ask him if he wanted a drink but never finished the sentence. Just like magnets, their lips locked together and all the laws of physics, chemistry and biology came, and came, and came all together at once. When they finally fell into her bed, and into one another’s arms, well, they did too – come that is…
He had been wrong. Peege thought he knew all there was needed to know about sex and women. He was so, so wrong. After bedding more than two dozen babes since losing his virginity (viva la sexual revolution and thank Google for The Pill) he thought he knew what to expect. Palin had never been so wrong in all his short life.
She was the first woman he had been with that not only f*cked and s*cked him but made him feel comfortable. She made him comfortable with her body, his body and the universe around them. Elizabeth made him feel comfortable in her strange country in her strange bed on a strange night. She mothered him like the little boy he was. As he lay breathless and sweating in her arms, after their nth orgasm of the night, he realized, he’d found home. At last!
By Stevie B © 2011
To be continued on February 21, 2011
