Introduction

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Excerpt

Chapter 9

Gene drew a pint of beer from the tap and placed it in front of Dieter.

So what’s the haps, D? Whatcha been up to, man?

Refinishing a rocking chair.

A what?

A rocking chair. For Frank Paterson.

No shit. Over at the antiques store?

That’s the one.

Gene wiped the counter with his bar rag, frowning. As a rule, the Blue Moon’s customers were easy enough to read because drinkers liked to tell bartenders their life stories, no matter how mundane those stories might be. But Dieter was a different breed, the kind of gambler who plays his cards so close to the vest you never get a peek at them. He was invariably pleasant—a genial drinker—but if you pushed too hard, he clammed up.

Paterson’s huh. So you workin’ there now or what?

Nah, not really. I just like to refinish antiques. Gives me something to do.

Frowning again—something to do?—Gene grabbed the remote control and switched on a TV mounted next to a dusty shelf of imported liqueurs no one seemed to order anymore. On the screen, two middle-aged men with perfectly coiffed hair were discussing quarterback options, the wishbone offense, and something called a four-three. Dieter had no idea what the two men were talking about, but he didn’t let on.

You like football, D?

’Course I do. Who doesn’t?

Atta boy.

So who’s playing tonight?

The Eagles. The Eagles and the Broncos. No, wait a minute. Gene looked up at the screen. Not the Broncos, the Rams. The Eagles and the Rams. Dieter smiled at the bizarre nomenclature. Eagles, Broncos, Rams. If Jen were here, she’d gently mock the bartender, careful not to give offense, by asking about the Orangutans, or the Jaguars. She’d say, What about the Jaguars, Gene? Is there a team called the Jaguars?

One afternoon Jen and Dieter were lying in twin hammocks strung between palm trees overlooking the beach in Quintana Roo when it came to him, like a revelation. He sat up grinning, shook Jen’s shoulder to rouse her, and said Jaguar Moon.

Jen rubbed her eyes with the heels of her hands. What’s that? Jaguar Moon.

She rolled the words over in her mind, trying them on. Then she sat up too. Well that’s it then, isn’t it.

Is it?

It’s perfect!

Later that night they split a tab of sunshine acid and Jennifer fell apart. Crouched in a corner of his room like a trapped, terrified animal, she reminded Dieter of the madwoman in that play he had seen the year before in Bloomington, the one about Jean Paul Marat and the inmates at the asylum in Charenton. He tried to distract her by reciting some poems by Frost, and when that didn’t work, by pouring her a cold cerveza, which didn’t work either; she took a tiny sip of the beer and winced, her throat still dry. Finally he talked her into a walk on the beach. After supper Jen liked to hike with Dieter down the white sands, listening to the murmur of the surf or pointing out, high above the water, the Southern Cross. But not tonight. Tonight she was terribly frightened, and Dieter was distraught. The acid was too potent, a legendary high that could go haywire at any moment, and apparently had. At the very least the tab should have been quartered, not halved. Why had he split it with her?

Glued to the images on the screen, Gene slapped a hand down on the bar in frustration. Then he addressed the man in the striped shirt, as if talking to someone on TV was perfectly normal. C’mon, ref, throw the fuckin’ flag! He was holding him! Didja see that shit, D? Didja?

Thorazine could bring you down from a bad trip but Dieter didn’t have any. And to complicate matters, the half tab he had swallowed kicked in too, with a vengeance. He stumbled down the beach shivering from sudden chills though it must have been eighty. A bloated moon hovered over the sea and for some reason Dieter thought it was about to explode. Meanwhile Jen squeezed his hand in trepidation, as if they were crossing a minefield. But it isn’t a minefield, he thought randomly, it’s a beach. Then again, if the moon explodes, gravity will fail and we’ll all go sailing off into the cosmos.

Gene’s face was red now and he was shouting at the screen. C’mon, chump, tackle the fuckin’ guy! Dieter glanced around the bar at the six or seven other drinkers whose rapt faces, like Gene’s, were bathed in the television’s blue light. Mimicking the bartender they, too, were talking to the TV.

If you didn’t have Thorazine you had to sweat it out. Back in Dieter’s room Jen curled into a fetal position, embracing the floor. Dieter wedged a pillow under her head and asked if he could get her anything else but she didn’t reply, too high to talk now. So he curled into a fetal position also, on the futon. Outside the wind picked up, rattling the windows, and a few minutes later it began to rain. Dieter shivered again, pinned to the futon by the torque of the drug. Gruesome images raced through his mind, the sacrificial altar at Chichen Itza, a dead dog on the side of a road, his grandfather’s tombstone. He felt his body disconnect and float toward the ceiling until there were two of him, the one on the futon apparently asleep and the one in the rafters gazing down at Jen curled on the floor humming a lullaby a mother might sing to a child who had just woken from an ominous dream.

Then a commercial came on; halftime. Gene offered him a wry, weary smile, like a man who had just finished a strenuous workout.

You ready for another one, D?

Right on, Gene.

Old Blue?

You bet.

Old Blue. That’s what they called it back home, not Pabst, not Blue Ribbon, but Old Blue. When he was a kid, his dad used to take him to Mallory’s Tavern for lunch, and that’s what the oldtimers would say. Gimme an Old Blue, willya Mac?

Trapped in the acid’s steely grip, Dieter was having difficulty breathing and he wondered if his lungs had collapsed. Eventually he lost track of time, but in comparison to not breathing this seemed like a minor development. Was it midnight, 2:00 a.m., a day later? He glanced down at the floor, relieved to discover that Jen was still there and that she had apparently crossed over some kind of psychic divide, her fear coalescing into sorrow. If it was nearly dawn—and the view out the window seemed to confirm this—then they had already peaked and they would begin the slow freefall now. The despair on Jen’s face was heartbreaking, but at least she was safe.

He scanned the room. Spotting a stack of albums on the floor next to the turntable, it occurred to him that music might be the best antidote for Jen’s emotional distress. So he grabbed hold of the arm of the futon and stood up to cross, on sea legs, the wobbly floor.

So whatdya think, D?

About what, Gene?

The game!

Dieter tried to formulate an appropriate response. He had never been much good at this kind of macho banter but his imagination was creative and rarely let him down.

I’ll tell you what I think, Gene. He raised his voice for emphasis. I think those fuckin’ refs need an eye exam, that’s what I think. Gene slammed his fist down on the bar, maniacally grinning. His deepest desire at that moment was the simple assurance that Dieter was, after all, just one of the boys. Goddamn right they do!

Dieter flipped through the albums until he found the one he was looking for. He slid the record out of its sleeve and placed it on the turntable and carefully set the needle down in the fifth groove. And there, all of a sudden, it was, the piano’s first lovely phrases—solemn yet airy, pastoral, light—grounded, moments later, by the bass.

Hearing the music, Jen unfolded her body and sat up. Her face was so puffy and sallow Dieter wanted to flail himself, like Hazel Motes, for feeding her the drug.

What is that, Dieter?

What’s what, hon?

That song.

It’s called “Jokes Are for Sad People.”

In a reverent voice she repeated the title. And then she began to cry.

Dieter held her for a long, long time, rocking away her tears. Then the song ended and the next one came on and in a quiet, muffled voice Jen asked him the name of the band and Dieter answered Fever Tree, they’re called Fever Tree.

The band’s name seemed to amuse her, which made Dieter’s heart leap. It was over. They would crash now, eat a little breakfast, and sleep. Outside, the rain had finally let up, and the moon, paled by dawn, appeared in its quadrant again and Dieter knew that it wasn’t going to explode after all, despite his earlier paranoia. It was going to rise and fall, night after night, over the sands of Quintana Roo and the cornfields of Indiana, and eventually over a tavern in Crooked River where men talked to television sets and Dieter sat alone at the end of the bar, mourning Jennifer. view abbreviated excerpt only...

Discussion Questions

• How does the knowledge that Dieter was the one writing the book change your perceptions of the book? Why do you think the author chose him as a narrator?

• Why do you think Dieter ended up in Crooked River?

• Which character did you find the most compelling? The least compelling? Why?

• Were you shocked by the end of the novel (before the epilogue)?

• Is the ending a happy ending? Or the happiest ending possible?

• Did you find it believable that Dieter wanted to score some drugs?

• Will Dieter write another masterpiece?

• What were some of the main themes of the book? How are they handled over the course of the book? What is the take home message?

• If Dieter aggrieved at the beginning and Hunter is aggrieved by the end, is there a shared connection between them and their grief? Do you think Dieter has or will commiserate with Hunter? Do you think they represent a cycle?

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