Identity Theft: Alzheimer's in America, Sex in Thailand, Tangles of the Mind

By Dean Barrett

The novel of 84,000 words entitled Identity Theft is a type of literary fiction perhaps somewhat in the style of B.S. Johnson.
Michael Herr wrote Dispatches on the Vietnam War in an attempt to capture the discordant sounds, madcap sights and peculiar rhythms of that conflict. Identity Theft deals with the horrors of Alzheimer’s and in particular the stress on the caregivers, segueing from the lyrical to the offensive, from erotica to scenes of humor, from the logical to the bizarre, all the while weaving in and out of the minds of characters any of whom might be the author of the novel or simply one of the characters inside the hallucinations of the author. In other words, the novel attempts to capture the twists and turns and mangled logic inside a world being formed and distorted by Alzheimer’s tangles and plaques.
The novel begins in Connecticut where a teacher is writing a novel about Thailand. When his skull is inadvertently crushed during a sex act he is rushed to the hospital and the novel he was writing becomes (at times) this novel, with scenes set in Connecticut, Thailand and Florida.

At its core, Identity Theft is the story of an overwhelmed caregiver attempting respite from dealing with his mother’s Alzheimer’s by creating and entering a bizarre world populated with Thai go go dancers, kinky sex, insurance fraud, kidnapping and murder, until at last what may be his real world begins to separate from what may be his fictional world. The novel is also an attempt to explore the relationship of writer to character. The opening of the novel is also in the form of a synopsis for reviewers too busy to read entire novels.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dean Barrett
• Release date: Sep 1, 2011
• ISBN: 9781466152816

Dean Barrett

Dean Barrett first arrived in Asia as a Chinese linguist with the Army Security Agency during the Vietnam War. He returned to the United States and received his Masters Degree in Asian Studies from the University of Hawaii. He has lived in Asia for over 30 years, 17 of those years in Hong Kong. His writing on Asian themes has won several awards including the PATA Grand Prize for Excellence and the BBC Overseas Playwright Award for South Asia.. Barrett is the author of several novels set in Asia, including Memoirs of a Bangkok Warrior; Hangman’s Point – A novel of Hong Kong; Thieves Hamlet, the sequel to Hangman's Point, Kingdom of Make-Believe: A novel of Thailand; Permanent Damage - three novellas with Chinese themes; Don Quixote in China: The Search for Peach Blossom Spring; and A Love Story: The China Memoirs of Thomas Rowley, an erotic manuscript set in 1862 China. His New York novel, Murder in China Red, is set in Manhattan starring a Chinese detective from Beijing. Other novels include detective novels set in Thailand: Skytrain to Murder and Permanent Damage. His latest is Pop Darrell's Last Case, a detective novel set in NYC but with a Chinese theme. He first became interested in China’s boat people in the 1970’s and wrote the text for a photo book on them entitled Aberdeen: Catching the Last Rays and also a children's book: The Boat Girl and the Magic Fish.. Several of his plays have been staged in New York City and elsewhere and his musical set in Hong Kong, Fragrant Harbour, was selected by the National Alliance for Musical Theater to be staged on 42nd Street. Before returning to live in Thailand Barrett was a member of: Mystery Writers of America; Dramatists Guild; Private Eye Writers of America, BMI - librettist/lyricist.

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Preface

Notes for Harassed Reviewers

Who have no Time to Read Entire Novels

This is the story of Dan Richards, a once happy teacher living in Mystic, Connecticut. In his spare time, Dan is writing a novel on Thailand but is lured by a clever mother (Julia Willeford) and her two, fabulously fetching teenage daughters (Deborah and Babs) into degradation and humiliation. And it is also the story of Stephen Avery, a mild-mannered insurance actuary living in Bangkok, or rather who lives inside the novel on Thailand being written by Dan Richards. It is also the story of the Bangkok bar manager, West Texas Andy, who also exists inside Dan’s novel; and – unable to resist an appearance – it is the story of and apparently by Dean Barrett who is writing a novel (this one) about this teacher supposedly living in Mystic, Connecticut, and so on, and so forth.

Other characters include a Catholic priest who may or may not have done something rather reprehensible (but certainly, given their wanton natures, completely justifiable) with Deborah and Babs; several wacky, lust-filled nurses and nutty, lascivious surgeons – the type whom you would definitely not want operating on you; Colonel William Ledyard, who fought the British during the Revolutionary War and is still at it; and, of course, last but not least, this being a novel set mainly in Thailand, there is Lek, the obligatory (but quite unusual) go go dancer. Lek, as we shall see, not only tantalizes Stephen Avery to the point of near-insanity, but is so alluring, so enticing, and so incredibly sexy, that even Dean Barrett takes her to bed which may be the first time in literary history that an author has slept with one of his characters. As a patient reader will discover, Lek not only uses her intelligence and sexual power to manipulate chapters and events, but eventually criticizes the quality of the novel she is forced to be in to such an extent that the author is obliged to use footnotes to defend himself.

Michael Herr wrote Dispatches on the Vietnam War in an attempt to capture the discordant sounds, madcap sights and peculiar rhythms of that conflict. Identity Theft deals with the horrors of Alzheimer’s and in particular the stress on the caregivers, segueing from the lyrical to the offensive, from erotica to scenes of humor, from the logical to the bizarre, all the while weaving in and out of the minds of characters any of whom might be the author of the novel or simply one of the characters inside the hallucinations of the author. In other words, the novel attempts to capture the twists and turns and mangled logic inside a world being formed and distorted by Alzheimer’s tangles and plaques.

The novel also seems to be about the nature of existence and delusion and states of consciousness, and suggests that non-sequential distorted versions of reality are all that we may be experiencing, indeed, all that we may be able to experience; but, particularly in light of this writer’s previous work readers should bear in mind that the novel may in fact be nothing more than a sex-crazed writer’s overpowering need to write erotica.

Finally, the reader must also take into consideration the chapters set in Florida dealing with a stressed-out family living with someone with Alzheimer’s. Perhaps the author intends to suggest that much of the novel exists only inside the atrophied brain of the Alzheimer’s patient; and that the plot twists and turns are no more than the plaques and tangles of a badly damaged and rapidly deteriorating mind.

Be that as it may, it should be understood by one and all that these characters are not bad people; nor did they ever set out to do bad things. Of course, by the end of the novel, there may be those who disagree.

Chapter One

At this point in my life, with the knowledge I have gained from often painful experience, it might seem surprising that I have finally abandoned my Catholicism and yet without reservation embrace an even more fervent belief in God than before. But the omnipotent being in whom I now place my faith is not that of either the Old or the New Testament but rather a playful, mischievous, roguish, impish, even devilish type of misanthrope, one who came more and more into focus as I began to realize that the abrupt surprises and sudden disasters and delicious ironies of what is mistakenly referred to as our lives could never be brought about merely by chance or determinism in a godless universe.

Because when one has read all the greatest philosophers and wisest thinkers and plowed one’s way through their often arcane and perversely illogical systems, a sane person will eventually realize that if we are to make any headway in comprehending our true condition, we must rely on our own experience and intuition. Not to mention common sense. And one will then come away with the inescapable belief that a being with enormous power, a wanton and whimsical sense of humor and possessing unlimited time to play painful jests and hurtful pranks simply enjoys fucking us over. Because to believe otherwise gives far too much credit to chance.

I had been brought up a devout Catholic and had been an altar boy, attended mass regularly, and seldom missed confession. My wife had been a Protestant but seldom attended church. Even after my divorce, and even as a divorcé living alone in Groton, Connecticut, I had continued to confess my sins to a Catholic priest because, if nothing else, the structured ritual offered comfort and familiarity. And St. Patrick’s priest was a priest of the old school who had little use for modern changes in the Church.

But that day when I left the road and drove past the perfectly-trimmed hedges and followed along the crescent-shaped driveway, and first caught sight of the imposing, two-story gothic revival house I had nothing on my mind other than the usual mundane thoughts: the novel I was writing, the backbiting of the school faculty, and the metal on metal sounds emanating from my ten-year-old Honda Accord which suggested that the brake lining was in dire need of replacement.

I had been teaching classes at a high school in Groton for nearly three years. I enjoyed it. It was a pleasant enough place to live if one didn’t mind the cold winters, and, as everyone loved to point out, the local Pfizer chemical plant churned out the love drug that had changed the world: Viagra.

The town still built atomic-powered submarines as it did during the Cold War but not nearly so many, and the economy of the region had never fully recovered from the hit it had taken when the Cold War ended. But thousands of men still spent their lives working down the Boat (Electric Boat, General Dynamics) and entertained no hopes of ever leaving Groton, Connecticut – Home of the Nautilus, Submarine Capital of the World.

I had been teaching in Boston but had gone through a divorce there which made me want to try a change of venue. I was interviewed for several teaching positions and, thanks to my years of experience, my complaint-free record, excellent references, and a PhD in Asian History, the Groton area high school representative hired me at a very attractive salary with liberal vacation benefits.

I had a small but comfortable apartment in a residential building not far from Fort Griswold, the historic fort where Americans and British had battled during the Revolutionary War while Benedict Arnold watched from a burning New London across the Thames River. The Coast Guard Academy was right across the river in New London and the Submarine Base was farther down at the other end of Groton. I particularly enjoyed sailing at one of the local yacht clubs as well as visiting Monte Cristo, the summer house of Eugene O’Neill as it was featured in his classic play, Long Day’s Journey into Night. And at night I could hear the same mournful fog horn along the foggy river that he had heard in his day.

I liked the town and especially the way in which people left me to myself and did not ask intrusive questions. My salary was more than adequate for my needs, and my superiors made no excessive demands on my time. As my ex-wife had quickly remarried I had no alimony payments to make, and the money I kept in stocks and bonds was appreciating steadily.

During the many years I had been teaching I’d had some good experiences and some not so good but now I thought I had found the perfect sinecure. If only I had known how all that would soon be changed forever by two clever and seductive teenage sisters. Or by my own weak nature. Or, as I have suggested, by whatever kind of god is cheered by its ability to bring about our downfall in as humiliating a manner as possible.

*******

It started the previous spring when the weather had finally turned warm and sunny and the girls in the school seemed to revel in wearing as little as possible; as if making up for how they’d had to conceal their feminine curves during the cold winter.

The two sisters were the most attractive but least attentive of the thirty or so students in my Asian Studies class, most of whom were female. At 17, Barbara, known to her friends as Babs, would start conversations around her and even send and receive SMS messages on her cell phone during class. She made no pretense of paying attention to anything I was saying and seemed to think she could do as she wished.

She had piercing green eyes, well formed lips and a thick mane of sandy hair which curled down below her delicate white chin just touching her shoulders. And she favored off-the-shoulder dresses, halter tops, spaghetti straps -- any style that showed off her young and very feminine body, and especially the remarkable cleavage a girl of her age had developed. And under her dresses and tops, she wore either no bra, strapless bras or else one with a deep V neckline.

At least she favored long, flowing skirts, although by covering her legs, she seemed clever enough to know she was actually calling still more attention to her well developed breasts. Despite all that, her face and arms were freckled and on the few occasions when I saw her dress demurely she could appear younger and far more innocent than she was.

Her sister, on the other hand, was a year older than Babs, a bit taller, more developed, more sophisticated, and much into wearing short pleated skirts which ended at her knees which, when she sat, easily rose up to reveal her shapely thighs as well. Her name was Deborah and she was only too aware of the effect her curvaceous legs and heart-shaped lips and cornflower blue eyes and lovely golden tresses had on the boys in the room.

I had always had a reputation for being strict and no-nonsense when it came to teaching and on several occasions I warned Babs to stop talking and often curtly gestured to Deborah to sit up straight in her chair. They would unhurriedly obey but only after giving me a smoldering stare and knowing smile; and their obedience sometimes lasted only until the end of a class, if that. Deborah especially seemed to delight in my gesturing for her to sit up because she understood that I had not failed to notice her very feminine legs as well as the distraction they were causing to the boys around her. And, as she no doubt suspected, the disruption they were causing to her teacher’s concentration as well.

I had little doubt what their game was. I had seen it at work at other schools. Girls their ages begin to experience a certain sense of power in their feminine charms and in the magical way those charms could set male hormones raging, and yet they retained a lingering doubt about exactly what is happening to them, why they have developed such power over the opposite sex and how best to use it.

A few girls in Boston, and one in Salem, had attempted to test their burgeoning seductive endowments on me but they were brought to task quickly and in no uncertain terms. Because as my wife soon learned after we were married, I enjoyed not simply the playful spanking sessions I had given her earlier in our relationship, but I actually enjoyed dominating women. And I had no intention in starting something with a willing student, something she would then be able to hold over me as blackmail.

During my courtship of my wife, we had indulged in a few scenarios with wrist-binding, improvised gags and spanking sessions. But I was always the one in charge. Watching the smooth, white cheeks of a beautiful woman’s ass turn pinkish-red and then crimson under the lash of a brush or quirt or ruler gave me an instant erection and, in the beginning, my wife thought of it as just normal marital games people play when their bedroom door is shut. And she certainly enjoyed dressing and acting as the wayward student in a Catholic girls’ school.

What she enjoyed most were the love spankings. These would begin as any other spanking: my wife draped helplessly over my lap, her pink panties down to her ankles, her flimsy cotton dress lifted up to reveal her lovely white buttocks bared for punishment. I would allow her to kiss and lick the hairbrush first and then would begin using it on her ass. But hardly had I begun when I would briefly pause to reach down and run my fingertips very lightly and very briefly along her exposed labia and clitoris. And then I would continue with the spanking. But shortly after, I would again pause to employ my fingers to stimulate her female genitalia, this time just a bit longer than before, and then continue with the spanking. And so it went: the periods of spanking gradually grew shorter while the periods of sexual stimulation grew longer. Until finally the sexual ferment took over entirely. And, of course, during this time she became hopelessly aroused and gave herself completely over to the urgent pursuit of sensual pleasure and with impassioned moans would wiggle about on my lap as a woman going mad from desire, begging for sexual release.

But as time went on, and I demanded she dress as a worthless slut who needed more elaborate bondage and even firmer discipline, she began to protest. She began to understand that each scenario had only one end: to show that I was in charge and that she was to be punished for some infraction; whatever infraction I deemed she was guilty of. Finally, when the games were by her definition out of control, she filed for divorce. As she was not a Catholic, the divorce was not difficult. Although she had always been a very discreet woman and filed divorce papers claiming only irreconcilable differences, I decided a change of venue might be wise before rumors began to spread.

But regardless of my sexual games and unusual preferences with women behind closed doors, I had never dared indulge any of my fantasies with students and had no intention of doing so: My teaching career meant far too much to me. And now that I was in my forties I wasn’t about to attempt to start over in another profession somewhere across the country.

And so I had warned the sisters on several occasions regarding their dress and their behavior and on one occasion had called their mother and warned her that her daughters would most likely fail this class, which in turn meant they might not be graduating with their own class in the fall.

Her response had been pure panic as she assured me her daughters’ education was extremely important to her. She quickly invited me to tutor them at her home twice a week at a very attractive fee. She promised me they would be on their best behavior there and begged me to give them this opportunity to learn in a distraction-free atmosphere. She said they were not like that at home and she blamed the problem on pressures from their peers and bad examples set by their friends.

There was not a great deal to do in Groton in the evening, and despite a few forays out into the real world as well as on the internet, I had not yet met anyone I was interested in having an extended affair with. After a few dates I would usually become bored with women who were generally lacking in what I would call spirit or vivacity, and few had any desire to experiment sexually.

And, I reminded myself, the fee the sisters’ mother had mentioned far exceeded the norm for tutoring. So I agreed to go to their house every Tuesday and Thursday for the next several months to see if that would help improve their grasp of Asian Studies.

The drive into Mystic was a pleasant one and along the way I passed many of the well maintained Revolutionary War houses and monuments. I had visited the Mystic Seaport on several occasions and enjoyed Mystic very much. I approached my destination by driving down a shady lane lined with oak and gingko trees not far from the Mystic River and in the early evening everything was peaceful and picturesque; a true postcard setting.

The house was a well maintained gothic revival style in a rather remote area of the town. I had heard their late father had done extremely well in investments but had died relatively young in some kind of accident. But it was clear that for the mother and her daughters money was not a problem. And I had no doubt that sense of financial security, along with their undeniable attractiveness, and, perhaps, lack of fatherly discipline, is what had made the two girls so spoiled.

Surrounded by beds of fragrant flowers and protected by overarching branches of the leaves of maple trees, the wooden house appeared warm and inviting. The gingerbread vergeboard along the edges of the steeply pitched roofs might have been conceived by the imaginative writer of a fairytale. But I could easily imagine how during cold, icy, winter months the high pitched gables capped with pinnacles, wall dormers, chimney pots, gable edges, towers and even the elaborate tracery would present a formidable and almost malevolent appearance. I couldn’t help wonder about the costs involved in heating and maintaining a house of that size.

I parked my Accord in the gravel driveway beside a dark green BMW and walked down a path lined with willow trees to the front door. I had hardly pushed the bell before the door was opened by a striking, middle-aged woman dressed in a conservative blue-and-grey house frock. I guessed her to be somewhere in her early forties and probably close to five feet eight inches tall. She had the same striking green eyes as her younger daughter as well as a voluptuous figure. Her light blonde hair was fairly short and pulled back into a pony tail. The woman projected the self-confidence of someone born into a Waspish old money New England family. And yet as soon as she smiled I could feel a genuine warmth and a feeling almost of reverence for a teacher.

Please come in, Mr. Richards. I’m Julia Willeford, and I’m delighted you have agreed to teach Babs and Deborah.

As she led me through the hallway and into a study, she lowered her voice to a conspiratorial level and confided that her children’s education had meant a great deal to their late father but how of late she couldn’t seem to control them. Perhaps it was their burgeoning youth or the spring season or the fact that she was away for periods of time, but she believed now that I was here everything would be all right.

We both had ice tea and after a bit of small talk, mainly about the value of houses in the area, the difficulty of a single mother bringing up children, and my teaching experience, she called the girls into the study.

Babs entered first, wearing a demure blouse and skirt, followed by Deborah laced up demurely in a pinafore dress. It was hard to tell from their expressions whether they had expected me or not. Her mother gestured for them to come stand by the table. They did as they were told. And then as she gave her lecture, her voice changed abruptly from one full of reason and sweetness to one filled with iron. I have asked Mr. Richards to tutor you girls twice a week in a final hope of giving you enough education to pass your exams. Otherwise, you won’t graduate with your class and to say the least I would be mortified. And you would be as well. Mr. Richards has my full authority to teach you as he sees best and you are to obey him as you would me, whether I am home or not. Is that clear?

They nodded. Yes, mama.

I hope so. Because if Mr. Richards clearly sees the need for physical discipline that is all right as well. In fact, I encourage him to use discipline on you both if that is the only way to ensure you learn what you need to know. Is that clear?

Both girls lowered their heads. Yes, mama.

Mrs. Avery went on discussing the value of an education but my mind was shocked enough to wander. She was giving me carte blanche control over her teenage daughters even to the point of disciplining them. And disciplining women was what I loved best. I had to force myself to think of other things to ensure I was suddenly not burdened with a raging erection.

Well, then, I have some legal papers to attend to upstairs so you girls take Mr. Richards into the study and begin your lessons. I do hope we shall all be pleased with the outcome.

Like parrots they again repeated Yes, mama, then turned and politely led me into the study. The room had been decorated with more than a touch of old world elegance. As I walked across the thick wall-to-wall carpeting, I looked about at a dozen or so shelves lined with both leather-bound and modern editions of the classics, nautical bric-a-brac and, on a sideboard surrounded by framed family photographs, an expensive looking antique clock inlaid with a fisherman casting his net. Wood-framed photographs of famous yacht races lined the walls as did older photographs of Yale-Harvard boat races.

Three copies of the books we would be using in Asian Studies and Asian History had been placed about a large oval, drop-leaf table with beautifully carved legs and decorative claw feet. Notebooks, pens, a pitcher of water and three glasses had also been perfectly placed. As the girls sat down, the only sound in the room was that of the ticking of the clock and the low whispering of the maple branches above the house. They placed their folded hands on the table and stared at me expectantly as if awaiting my orders. I did my best to conceal my wonder at their change of behavior. I had a feeling that beneath her pleasant exterior, their mother ruled with an iron hand and they were afraid to push her too far.

I picked up the top volume of Donald’s Short Primer to Modern Asian Cultural History and thumbed through it. I thought if I could get most of that information into them in the short period of time I would be spending with them it would be a miracle but I had to try.

All right, girls, we left off in class on the warlord period of China. Would either of you have any comments to make on that period?

Although they hesitated, they began speaking of how it was after the fall of the final dynasty and before the takeover of the communists. At first, they were reciting dry historical facts but I was nevertheless pleased they had retained far more than I had given them credit for. Perhaps they had been paying attention after all.

After about twenty minutes, Babs got up and poured water for all of us. As the table was quite large she walked around the table. It was then I noticed she had slipped out of her shoes. She approached me barefoot and leaned across to pour my water. I realized then that her skirt may have been demure but it was shorter than I had originally thought, or else she had made certain adjustments for my benefit. When she poured the water, her soft, sandy hair brushed against my face and I was suddenly enveloped in a wave of expensive perfume with a musk base.

I thanked her and prepared to continue. First I asked if there were any questions. Both girls had questions. It seemed they had learned from this text as well as other sources about how Chinese men used to bind the feet of their women. They wanted to know why.

I explained that tiny feet on a woman was regarded as a sign of elegance and refinement and it gave them a swaying way of walking which poets captured in their famous lines describing the willow waist and other charms associated with a bound foot woman.

Babs did not smirk or smile but stared directly at me: I read on the internet that some scholars enjoyed squeezing the feet of their concubines because it gave off a smell they liked.

Yes, the rotting of a female foot apparently acted as an aphrodisiac on some of the men.

Deborah lifted her well formed bare foot in her hand and stared at it. Her blue-and-white pinafore dress slid up her legs. What is an ‘aphrodisiac’, Mr. Richards?

"Something that