A man discovers that he isn't the man he thought he was. The world can be a simple place until the real world catches up and changes reality. The story leads to some interesting conclusions of a Shut Up nature.
The Denouement of Drew
by James J. Marry
“Obtusely viewed???” The young Oriental gawked. “Now, what the hell could that mean?” He was obviously very wrapped up in his work- or at least in himself.
“I can understand that opinion, Chucky. You know that the world is going to fight anything new- especially when it comes from a college student.” The blond Hispanic girl with the blue Granny shades commented.
“Stuff that, Regina. Without any change, we’re all going to die with our arts in our hearts.” Chucky responded.
The third actor in the play, as I watched it continue, was a touch older than the other two- like the Junior sitting in with the Freshman of the university. He grinned quietly beneath the jet black hair dye and pale white skin. His thinness related that he might be struggling as an artist, anemic, a druggie or all of the above choices.
“What do you think, Max?” Chucky plied.
Max knew his role in the debate. Expert, I would think. That, or hardened criminal- but still the expert in the crowd. His grin showed that he savored the part and I waited quietly for him to become the star that I felt sure he would be.
“I think that we are all just wasting our time here in college, and that society will always give us some way to stay busy until they are ready for us to break out into the light.” Max sat back and pursed his lips as though he had shed enough warmth and light on this uncaring planet for one day.
As Chucky and Regina nodded and show intense agreement, I chose to ignore the play at table three. There were only three tables inside Picnic’s by the University of Pennsylvania at Philadelphia. I was sitting at table two- apparently bored out of my socks waiting for my scheduled appointment to arrive. At least the Lentil-Spinach-Lemon Soup had been worthy of some lip smacking so far. My chosen entertainment had bittered that robust flavor with disappointment I’m afraid. That and the waiting- I should say.
Oddly enough, I had expected to wait at the bistro longer than my prey had suggested that I would need to. I mean, the only reason that you would send someone to a restaurant to meet you would be if you actually enjoyed the food there. Else wise, if the meeting held any importance to you then why chance a sour taste in your appointee’s mouth before you get there. Especially in the case of a writer- who might just think that you had something to say.
Of course, here was exactly the point that did have me a little confused. I mean, yes I am a writer. I know that because it says so on my business cards, plus I do get the occasional call from an editor or two and my agent to remind me of this fact- usually demanding some unfulfilled promise, I’m afraid. But the puzzler here is- I write fiction. Why would a teacher from the University of Pennsylvania want to speak with me about my writing? Hell, I don’t even live in Pennsylvania- I’m from Tampa, Florida. But here I am sports fans- Andrew Denton- Drew to friends.
And why? Well, that question has enough potential to answer itself- since it is said, “truth is stranger than fiction”. My own fiction has been renowned for strangeness, and this seemed like a good opportunity to use some frequent flier miles too. But the real seller on me buying an airfare out of the sun and fun of the Gulf of Mexico was this. Dr. Rubin Mater is one of the world’s foremost experts in clinical cellular biology. You know- one of the guys who would have to either prove or disprove radical new steps in medical thinking before the process could ever really happen. Funding could be upgraded from $500,000 to five million with an hour of this man’s time at a word processor for ideas ranging from the manufacture of blood antigens to the natural reproduction of Dolly the lamb. And about a half a million more ideas in between too.
And this dude had called me and asked if I was planning on being in Philadelphia in the near future. To be honest, when he asked me I didn’t have a clue who he was- but when I found out, I took the time to contact my travel agent and restructured my itineraries. I was signing my novel in New York City this week anyhow, so the detour wasn’t killing me anyway. And… the soup had been pretty outstanding.
I watched as Chucky, Regina and Max bundled up their belongings and wandered out into the drizzle. It was light, but still a little bit cold. The winter had been mild, yet April still hadn’t let go of March. I found myself thinking of their conversation again with a wry smile.
Chucky had just received an interim grade for a novella he had written. Though Regina seemed to be angling for a shot at night gymnastics in her crystal ball with Max, she was clearly very close spiritually with Sir Charles. Max, I determined by his soulless remarks, was just another flatworm sucking the life out of the two of them intellectually until they both grew up enough to scrape him off. If that goal were to be attainable by Regina doing her desired push-ups on the misguided beatnik, then maybe that was the real price of the group’s enlightenment. Personally, I hoped not though anything that would expedite the matter would be a boon to the likes of Chucky- even if it were at Regina’s expense. Chucky might not be much, but at least I could identify with him on the level of his story- maybe.
Chucky, it seemed, had written a ten thousand word piece based upon a man who had died accidentally. He took the story forward with a little “Heaven Can Wait” aplomb when he pointed out that the angel who had snatched the man’s soul up from his body had done so by mistake. The old standard of this tale is that by some spiritual medium the man is brought back to earth in a rich man’s body until they can find him a suitable substitute- where in he promptly falls in love and makes a mess of the matter. Chris Rock just did a remake of the remade film.
In Chucky’s version- the ungrounded spirit has a completely different opinion of matters. He realizes he died by mistake- but he doesn’t want the second chance. So Chucky has to evolve the character study around the aimless angel and his boss rather than around the hapless mortal. I imagine that Chucky received the less than glowing approval of his mentor due to a fabulously weak ending or a lack of conviction in his characterization since the plot line definitely would need some exploring before looking like an ending actually belonged to this tale. At least that’s the way I imagine it.
I do find myself identifying with Chucky though because the young man jumped some literary fences that I personally became very familiar with in my early career. I didn’t have the peaceful option of narrating my mold breaker in college. I forced it out of the breach and into the public eye with a mighty howl directly into the face of the publishing world and mightily restrained my writing career for a good ten years. This was when at age twenty seven- I created “Thistle”.
Thistle was supposed to be my break through work and I beat down many doors to get it out there to finally rest it with Jambolee Publishing of Atlanta, Georgia. It was and still is the biggest selling product that they have ever handled. Woo-Hoo!!! More than thirty-eight thousand copies sold. But the work wasn’t done with that meager work. Thistle became a film, and I even got to write the preliminary script for it. Harder to believe at age thirty than it is for me to fathom now, I have to admit. By thirty-two, the screen was warming up and the second story to the Thistle pentagram was ready for publishing. Since the movie bombed, you might have expected me to avoid writing the last three novels in the series, but I would only disappoint you. I wrote all five of my stories, though Jambolee only published the first two. Oh well. The money held on pretty good until I found some more stuff to sink my teeth in- maybe about four near five years. There’s a little bit of a cult following to the film on video, but you know I don’t have any of that hitting my pocket.
Thistle’s time relationship to the piece written by the young Oriental named Chucky was the thing that struck me as reminiscent. Thistle was the result of an obsession that overcame me when one of the best friends in my life died by an odd accident. It tells the gritty story of a restaurant owner in Tampa who is suspected of killing his partner. The time line addendum to that was the fact that this guy’s relatively local and rural (in a sense) story would prove to change the entire history of humanity. I showed that end of the tale by creating a female police officer from three hundred years in the future who was using the guy’s diary to solve a high government case. Like I say, I was obsessed by the story and I needed to get the whole tale written. I thought the story was good enough to build me a name, but it only really offered me my own form of denouement.
That word might ring a familiar bell for scholars. I personally have become very good at recognizing denouement in other writer’s works. It means, to me at least, a place in a work where the reader gets an opportunity to relax and review what’s happened so far in preparation for an ending. Since my works rarely ever end on a fictional level- I use my denouements for preparing a temporary ending, so to speak, or as a preparation to change, possibly to a sequel.
I had once thought that Thistle’s recurring denouements might become a serial publication, but alas that was never meant to be. Bad enough, I had to write the five novels to the original story as I planned it. Obsession is an insatiable mistress.
Remarkably, the writings had allowed me to achieve the catharsis that my own best friend’s death had required. You see I had been that restaurant owner and Derrick Nealy had been my partner. We had been best friends for near ten years and I depended on him in every important area of my life. I introduced Derrick to a new friend of mine, Bob Cleary on the very night that Derrick had died. The two of them had gone from the restaurant- Chic Town- to meet some ladies I knew at a club up in Tarpon Springs. This meant that they were going to need to cross Tampa Bay somehow and their choice of the Courtney Campbell Causeway proved to be their undoing.
For some unknown reason, the car went off the side of the low bridge and into the bay. Current had apparently pulled Derrick from the car, but Bob was easy to find- seatbelts would have made it easier to locate Derrick too. His right shoe and his shirt were discovered at the mouth oh the bay three days later. The authorities assumed that his body became shark food since summer tended to bring the sea scavengers in to Florida’s coasts in droves.
My attendance at both funerals was at least traumatic.
After some severe depression and way too much Scotch for way too many weeks, I found myself sitting and staring at an old Word Perfect program that I was hobbying on from time to time. That was when the base of Thistle began. Then after reading the Dashiell Hammett stylized first version, I became possessed that a simple death could have so much effect in my own development as a human being. I created the future cop story on just that motivation, taking the concept far into the future and making the ripple on the lake much more powerful. My catharsis truly reinvigorated my life since the drinking had fairly closed down my profitability in owning a restaurant without Derrick as a partner.
At that moment in my cumbersome thought, I felt a heavy hand lay upon my shoulder.
“Mister Denton?”
I rose immediately to shake Dr. Mater’s hand.
“How are you sir?” I said. “ I was surprised by your request. Please… have a seat. Can I get you something?”
He seemed a little older than when I had met him before- maybe a little unsure of himself.
“No, no. Thank you. I think that you may want to get to the heart of our discussion more than you know, Mr. Denton.” Rubin Mater sat as he explained.
“Well, I am at a complete loss as to what you wish to discuss with me, Doctor- but please feel free to call me Drew.”
“Drew, then.” The elder professor looked down at the table. “I must apologize for my being so cryptic in asking for this interview with you. I fear that it might be the result of an old man’s overly active imagination.”
The doctor had casually indicated that he had some pressing issue he wished to relate to me, so I chose silence to motivate his tongue to continue.
“Last semester, I had a man in one of classes who was consigned to us by a corporation who I rely on for endowments- Rush Corporation, if that matters. This practice occurs from time to time and I rarely have much to say about it since colleges run on money like any other business would- so I really knew nothing about the man.”
“The course was my annual Frontiers class which discusses the new and upcoming potential fields for cellular biologists. Normally, it is a Doctorate based program and the attendees are working for the government or some drug companies looking for new weapons or ways to make wrinkles vanish. RushCo is very big in space research, so I assumed this was why the man was there. It made some sense at the time anyway.”
“You did say RushCo- didn’t you?” I asked since I remembered that Bob had been a RushCo executive with their Tampa electronics division.
“Yes, I did. And several other RushCo employees accompanied this man as well. But, near the last third of the course, the man suddenly stopped showing up. His books and this novel were left behind at his work station.” Rubin Mater held up a copy of Thistles.
I took the book from him and examined it. I felt like I was watching a tornado slowly build but my legs wouldn’t move to run me away from the obvious danger. Something here was not going to work out. As I opened the book to see if there was a name or an address (I realized that Dr. Mater had probably done the same already), I saw that portions of the novel had been bright green highlighted. In the cover was the initials “D.N.”
“Dr. Mater, I assume that you had some name for this individual?” I asked with expectancy brimming traumatic anxiety.
“The name I know is quite familiar to you, sir. This student was called Derek Nealy, Mr. Denton.”
“But that is not possible!”
The doctor looked down his horn-rimmed glasses at me in a disbelieving way.
“Oh really?” He added as though it were necessary to question me.
“Why, yes. Derrick Nealy died more than a year ago in Tampa Bay.” I blurted.
“I see.” Rubin answered more as a psychologist than as a physicist or medical doctor. “To be direct, I hadn’t remotely considered that the man in my class could be dead.”
I stared vacantly at Dr. Mater. His mild grin was vaguely appealing since it indicated that the story needed more telling before I could appreciate the weight of the tale. Only Rubin was aware of that yet though, so I waited for more response from him dumbly.
“I have to tell you that your familiarity with this person raises more questions than you probably are aware of, Drew.”
“Why’s that?” I asked.
“Well, describe the man named Derek Nealy for me.”
I’m sure that I looked at him quizzically since he remarked, “Humor me.”
I described my good friend down to the letter and told the sad story of his demise. Dr. Mater held his gaze upon my eyes and watched my nervous hands carefully. My report ended with “So what do you think?”
“Well, my initial thoughts would evenly commit you as either a liar or as a madman.” He answered quite glibly.
“Why would you say such a thing?” I asked.
“I said ‘my initial thoughts’ because my current opinion leads me to believe something quite different. I’m guessing that you are quite a loner?” He asked.
“I was an only child and my parents passed when I was young- an accidental fire at home. Derek Nealy was the only friend I ever really had.”
“Uh huh.” Dr. Mater continued. “And what kind of music did your father play on the car radio?”
“What?”
“I would think that you spent some time in your life riding from place to place with your father?”
“Well, of course I did.” I exposed.
“Then either he listened to the radio or he didn’t, I should think.” Rubin said matter of factly.
“I don’t remember, but I don’t see how that could matter.”
Dr. Mater paused for a moment. “Well, bare with me a moment then.”
I knew I couldn’t force myself away from the riddle and said, “Okay.”
“I assume that you had no siblings, but your mother- was she an only child?”
I thought for a moment. “Well I was an only child, but I don’t remember my mother ever mentioning any. Dad had a sister in Wyoming though.”
“Uh huh.” Dr. Mater was beginning to irritate me, but he kept on. “What age were you when your parents died?”
“I was sixteen then.”
“So I guess you are somewhere near age thirty-six. What were your school colors in the primary grades?” He asked.
“Listen, Doc. I’m getting a little bit upset now-“
“You don’t remember. Do you?” He asked with that same sureness in his eyes.
I had to admit, “No, I don’t.”
Dr. Rubin Mater looked down at the table and began to drum his fingertips on the table. “Drew, I have a confession to make,” he said.
Bring it on Doctor. I had to know.
“You gave me a very clear impression when you described your friend Derek Nealy a little while ago. He must be very important to you.”
“He was the only real friend I ever had, Doc. I can’t believe that he might still be alive.” I pleaded.
“Well the man you described to me is not my Derek Nealy, Drew.”
I looked at him puzzled.
“The man was a mirror image of you, Drew Denton.”
“What?”
“Who took care of you after your parents died?” He asked casually.
“I was a ward of the state” I answered.
“Why didn’t your father’s sister in Wyoming take care of you?”
“Uh-“
“And what street was your primary school on?” Dr. Mater asked.
“Uh- I…”
“If you and I went on a long trip, do you think I would turn on the radio? And if I didn’t, might you not ask me to yourself? Did your father ever take you on a long trip, Drew?” Rubin was asking me as softly as he could, but I knew he was becoming more excited with each answer that I could not formulate.
Damn it, we both knew that I should know these things.
Rubin Mater just sat there and stared at me.
“So why don’t I know these things, Doctor?” I asked as calmly as I could stand.
Doctor Mater waited and seemed to weigh the effect his strong belief might have on my weakening psyche.
“Mr. Denton, I think that you have been programmed by some form of hypnotism to believe the history of your life has actually happened.” He said quietly.
I felt tears building in my eyes. Questions came at me at a mile a minute and they were clearly visible in my mind’s eye.
“Hold off your questions, Drew. They may lead you to in exactly the wrong direction.” Rubin leaned in closer. “Derek Nealy is a young professor of Replicative Biology at the Rush Corporation Biological College at Orlando, Florida. Your twenty years of programming probably comes from there and is as far as they can probably go.”
“Everything that you remember before last year when Derek supposedly died is a fabrication in your memory, I’m afraid.”
“What are you saying?”
“I am saying that you, Drew Denton, are one of the first human clones ever created by science and the original that you were carbon copied from is Derek Nealy, a bio-physicist from Orlando, Florida.” He stared through a veneer that I was sure was my own body before I had sat through this meeting with him.
I pushed myself back from the table and after a minute or so of staring across space at each other, I got up and left the restaurant. I threw some money on the table and left- I’m sure it was quite enough since no one chased after me.
Over the next few days, I sat through room service at my hotel fairly numb. Somehow, “Thistles” really existed and I really was a writer with an agent and a publisher. Don’t ask me how- I guess it was a creation of my first self, Derek. But I am grateful because it gave me an escape. My agent handles all of my business and I write. What else could I do?
It pays for my seclusion out here in the country. Dr. Mater could probably find me, but I got the impression that he wouldn’t try when he let me leave the restaurant and didn’t try to find me. I think Derek Nealy knows my life and choices but I have never given any indication of any of my knowing it until now. He might be alarmed by my writing this story- true - but you know what? The names have been changed to protect the guilty- and mostly, that means me.
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