Diamonds of Affection and Other Stories

By John David Wells

DIAMONDS OF AFFECTION is a collection of short stories filled with a wild and eccentric cast of characters who are all, in some way, struggling to survive in the chaotic and disturbing world created by John David Wells. The reader will find a rock drummer, Todd Benjamin, who is schizophrenic, and thinks the images on MTV videos are originating from the Book of Revelation in the Bible; Donna Robinson, a former dancer on American Bandstand, who thinks shes a character in a song and when shes alone talks to Bob Dylan and Stevie Nicks; David Dickinson, a brilliant young man, who believes he is the real Catcher in the Rye; Byron, a wasted junkie, who would leave town if only he had some shoes to wear, and three college students who take a drug-filled, hallucinating road trip to Florida, turning their Range Rover into an Ecstasy orgy with shocking results. These are just a few of the lost beautiful losers who inhabit the pages of Dr. Wells fascinating collection of stories. In the end, readers will find surprising emotional attachments to these flawed, but likable, characters who struggle to maintain their sanity and dignity in the face of an absurd and often unforgiving world.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Nov 11, 2010
• ISBN: 9781450266093

John David Wells

John David Wells has written numerous articles on American popular music, two books on American Studies, and three previous novels, The Barfly Boys, Magic and Loss, and The Plague Virus. He lives in Virginia with his fox terrier “Mickey.”

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Contents

SAD-EYED LADY

DIAMONDS OF AFFECTION

THREE COLLEGE GIRLS

SOLITARY EYES OF FIRE

THE REAL CATCHER IN THE RYE

THE FRAT PARTY

BILLY

NO SHOES FOR INDIANA

THE MEXICAN HONEYBEES

CLEANING OUT THE RATS

ROAD TRIP

SAD-EYED LADY

Donna and her younger brother Jimmie were sitting on the sofa in Donna’s run-down, low rent apartment in Fairview, New Jersey. The tiny town of Fairview was a struggling working class community located under the giant steel girding and potholed lanes of the Benjamin Franklin bridge connecting South Jersey with Philadelphia. All day and night, the dust, smoke, grease, trash, and toxic fumes from the cars and trucks rumbling above the town would send industrial debris and grimy, sooty particles of air pollution cascading down on the residents with the regularity of coal dust blanketing an Appalachian coal mining town. The survivors who lived there and still managed to maintain a sense of humor referred to Fairview as Little Detroit, but without the glitter.

On this day, in mid-August, the temperature outside was a boiling ninety-five degrees and it was also unmercifully hot in Donna’s apartment. She had no air conditioner and the windows remained inexplicably closed.

Hey, Donna, cried Jimmie, yanking off his soaking T-shirt. How about opening a window, or something? You can’t even breathe in here.

Without acknowledging Jimmie’s comment, Donna got up from the sofa, went over to a window, opened it, nonchalantly grabbed an empty flower pot on the ledge and tossed it out the window to the vacant lot down below.

Jesus, I didn’t say throw the flower pot out, yelled Jimmie.

I was getting tired of looking at it, said Donna, then came back to the sofa and sat down. There was no TV, no radio, and no record player for entertainment. Donna felt radios in particular were controlled by one of Satan’s body guards. The two siblings sat in silence for a few minutes. All of a sudden, Donna started chuckling to herself. Jimmie thought it might have something to do with tossing out the flower pot. He went over to the window and spotted the broken pot smashed against a rock in the abandoned field next to the apartment. It wasn’t easy locating the discarded object. He finally located it on top of a pile of other trash littering the weed-infested area that was supposed to be the courtyard shared by several of the tenants. Nobody ever used the neglected lawn for anything, except the local teenagers for smoking marijuana and getting laid. The center of these social activities for young people was a beat-up, urine and semen-stained mattress partially hidden among the tall grasses. Jimmie surveyed the area, seeing dozens of smashed beer cans, busted liquor bottles, soda bottles, crumpled fast-food containers, worn out, dry-rotted car tires, a mangled baby carriage, used condom wrappers, plastic detergent containers, half of a kid’s bicycle, and a rusted-out car motor devoid of any movable parts. Gazing at the debris below him and the faded brick and wooden apartments rising above the filth, Jimmie tried to figure out how or why people would live like this. At least his sister had an excuse; she was crazy. As he looked farther up the street, he noticed a little girl with blonde hair, playing with a doll alone in the dirt. Then he heard Donna laughing to herself once again.

What’s so funny? asked Jimmie, still staring out the window, trying to breathe some of the stale air, wondering where that little girl’s parents were.

He just said something funny.

Who?

Bob, silly.

Oh, yeah. What did he say?

Nothing. Just funny stuff.

Jimmie forgot that Donna had been having an on-going conversation with Bob Dylan for several days. He was getting used to her telling him about the random voices she heard and suddenly, out of nowhere, talking to herself, as if someone else was in the room. Bob Dylan happened to be the voice of the month. One time she talked to Stevie Nicks all summer, accusing her of stealing her stage name, which oddly enough wasn’t far from the truth. When Donna was a dancer and striper on the Block in Baltimore, she used the stage name Bella Donna, and wrote bohemian poetry using the same nom de plume. Later the next year Stevie Nicks came out with an album by the same name. No one could convince Donna that Stevie did not steal the name from her, so Donna took it upon herself to argue the point with Stevie on a personal basis. The feud finally ended when Donna found out Stevie moved to Arizona. Donna swore to never talk to anyone so uncool as to live in a borgeous desert for old people where nothing ever happened but heart attacks, Botox, and golf. Jimmie wondered if his sister was really hearing these voices, or at least something, since obviously Bob Dylan and Stevie Nicks were never in a room talking to her. But her conversations sounded so real; that is, her reactions to what she thought they were saying were very real sounding. He once heard her say, as she was smoking a cigarette, Yes, Bob, my cigarette is blowing in the wind. I knew you would find that amusing.

I have his address, Donna said.

Bob Dylan’s?

Yes.

What is it?

I’m not going to give it to you, silly. It’s our secret. He doesn’t want to be disturbed.

Right.

The two (or three, counting Dylan) persons sat alone on the couch, Jimmie content to do nothing. They never seemed to do any normal forms of entertaining like listening to music or watching TV. But the truth was, for Jimmie, Donna was more entertaining than any stupid TV show, and she occasionally broke into song and danced spontaneously. Donna was one of those schizophrenics who were fun-crazy, as opposed to the violent straightjacket cases, or the catatonic, brain-burned electroshock variety. She was a nut job with an engaging personality, and fun to be around.

Do you smell something burning? asked Donna.

No, are you cooking something? responded Jimmie, immediately realizing how stupid the question was since Donna had not cooked anything in the last fifteen years. Jimmie sniffed the arid room, and did, indeed, smell something burning, and within seconds noticed thin plumes of smoke rising from beneath the floor boards.

Holy shit! screamed Jimmie, The place is on fire!

Jimmie grabbed Donna and they bolted for the apartment door. They rushed down the stairway leading to her daughter’s apartment on the first floor. Flames were shooting out from underneath her daughter’s door, and he could hear Loni screaming inside, Help me! Oh, God! Help Me! Jimmie took a flying leap at the door and banged it open with his shoulder, sending spasms of pain down his arm. Donna followed Jimmie as they rushed in to save Loni and her two twin boys. Loni was running out of the bedroom with Jerry wrapped in her arms and shouting Get Patrick! He’s in the bedroom! Jimmie ran and jumped through a wall of flames, tripped, and fell into the bedroom, rolling on the floor, trying to beat the flames off his clothes. He heard Patrick in the back of the room choking and crying in his crib. He ran and picked him up, running like a crazed half-back through the secondary in a zigzag pattern, battling flaming boards beneath his feet, shards of red-hot ceiling debris falling in his face. Donna was helping Loni and Jerry down the stairs and out the apartment. Jimmie, with Patrick in hand, followed quickly and within seconds of escaping the burning building, he heard a terrible crashing noise. Jimmie knew that it must be the whole second floor collapsing down on top of Loni’s apartment. They ran out into the street as frenzied neighbors rushed to help them. Someone screamed, Is there anybody else in there? Loni yelled, No, thank God."

Someone called 911. Shaking and trembling, they all huddled together, feeling lucky to be alive, and stunned at the blazing swiftness of the flames, which was now reducing the apartment to a heap of charred rubble. By the time the firemen rushed to the scene, there was not much to save, but they were very efficient and prevented the fire from spreading to the adjacent apartment.

Christ, what happened? asked Jimmie, covering the twins in a borrowed blanket.

Burt built a fire in the middle of the living room, said Loni, as casual as if announcing he just mowed the lawn or put steaks on a grill.

What the fuck? asked Jimmie. What are you talking about? Where‘s Burt?

It was not a simple question because Burt was Loni’s second husband who was also a heroin addict and former bank robber, but until now, no one figured he would try to burn his wife, kids, sister and brother-in-law out of the house on purpose.

Burt ran away, said Loni. I saw him tear up the furniture, but I thought he was bluffing. I guess not.

So, where is this fuckin’ crazy firebug, killer of little babies? asked Jimmie.

He said he was going to the store. That’s what prompted the argument. I asked him to get me baby formula and he got pissed. He said something like, ‘Sure, I’ll get you formula, but, first I need to burn down this fuckin’ house.’ I thought he was joking, but I should have known he wasn’t when he ripped the legs off his favorite easy chair.

Jimmie knew it was useless to talk to Loni since she was also among the mentally challenged. Like her mother, she also had bouts of insanity, occasionally believing she was a special, ordained witch sent here by Dracula’s mother to create a new East Coast Coven, based on the teachings of the Divine Prince of Romania. Jimmie once asked Loni who the Divine Prince of Romania was, and she said he was, Like Jesus, only smarter. Loni was intelligent, but only read two kinds of books: books about dead people or insects.

A policeman finally came over to get a statement from everyone. Jimmie didn’t quite know how they did it, but the police managed to get a reasonable description of the unfolding events. He later learned they were familiar with crazy Burt, and didn’t have much trouble putting the pieces together. It was just a matter of capturing their man.

We’ll get him, one of the cops said to Loni. It’s attempted murder, besides arson. He’s gonna see some serious time in jail, don’t you worry.

"In fact, Donna and Loni were not in the least worried and went over to their mother’s house to stay and immediately upon arriving asked what she was going to make them for dinner. Donna and Loni were perhaps the laziest mother and daughter combination in the Western Hemisphere. They saw this as an opportunity to live off their mother’s housekeeping, babysitting, and cooking—which is exactly what they did for three months until the housing authority found them a new apartment in the same complex.

They all moved back in the neighborhood like nothing had happened. Donna once again moved into the top apartment, but the voices continued unabated until her mother finally had her committed to a mental hospital. The final straw was when her mother came over to visit one day and Donna asked, Who are you? Loni and the twins lived on the first floor for three months until Loni concluded that she had had enough of kids and had done the ‘kid thing.’ She gave the twins away to an adoption agency, and began to prepare herself for a career as an apprentice embalmer for a local funeral parlor.

A few months later, Burt was finally caught trying to sneak into Mexico wrapped in a potato sack in the back of a pick-up truck. He got twenty years in jail for attempted murder and arson.

Jimmie was visiting Donna at the Meriweather Psychiatric Hospital during his Thanksgiving break from college. He was sitting in the day room, across from a young female patient in her late teens with long brown hair, and deep-set dark green eyes. She was thin and frail, wore no make-up and was dressed in a plain cotton blue dress. She stared at him intently.

"Who are you?’ she asked.

I’m Jimmie. Donna Robinson’s brother.

Who are you?

Jill.

Nice to meet you, said Jimmie.

Donna’s lucky, Jill said. If I had a brother, I wish he would be just like you.

Without giving Jimmie a chance to answer, Jill got up from her chair, and drifted toward a large bay window overlooking the expansive grounds of the hospital. She continued to observe the activities outside the window, and never looked back at Jimmie. Momentarily, Mrs. Santini, the head nurse, emerged from a long corridor, with Donna trailing behind her.

Here she is! cried Mrs. Santini.

Oh, hi Mrs. Santini. How are you?

I’m fine, said Mrs. Santini, quickly turning to leave. Now, you and Donna have a nice visit.

Thanks, said Jimmie.

Jimmie looked at Donna, but she was frowning, and glaring at Mrs. Santini as she was walking down the hall.

That bitch doesn’t even know my name. Cunt.

Whoa, Donna! Slow down! She’s a nice lady!

The fuck she is. I told her I wasn’t Donna any more.

Oh, yeah? Who are you?

Christ, Jimmie, are you getting stupid, too? I’m the sad-eyed lady.

The who? asked Jimmie.

The sad-eyed lady, silly. See, I’ve got hollow cheeks.

Sorry, Donna, you lost me. Who is the sad-eyed lady?

Donna placed her hands on her hips in an exaggerated display exasperation. "From Bob. The sad-eyed lady of the lowlands."

Oh, the song! exclaimed Jimmie.

Jimmie knew the Dylan song, but it was certainly not one of his more popular tunes. He thought it came off the Blonde on Blonde album, but he wasn’t sure.

I’ve got basement clothes and a hollow face, just like in the song. That’s me—the sad-eyed lady. See my cheeks?

Jimmie noticed that Donna had lost a lot of weight. Her face was thin and her body bordering on emaciated. She was down to about ninety-eight pounds and Jimmie feared she may have contracted anorexia nervosa.

Donna, I really don’t think you are a character in a song. You’re taking this Dylan thing a bit too far.

Nonsense. He wrote it with me in mind. It’s obvious—and don’t call me Donna.

Are you taking your medication? Jimmie asked.

Yes. It’s working fine—and for God’s sake, stop patronizing me. You sound like one of these retarded doctors…now, little bro, look at my eyes.

What about them?

Eyes like smoke, right? asserted Donna.

Eyes like…green, you mean?

Feel my arm.

Why?

Go on. Feel it.

Okay. Jimmie reached over and touched Donna’s arm.

Feels like silk, right?

Not really. Feels like you could use a meal or two. Don’t they feed you around here?

Well, said Donna, looking beyond Jimmie to Jill, still staring intently out the window. The sad-eyed prophet says that no man comes. That girl Jill tried to off herself with razor blades. Did you see her wrists?

No. Is that from the song? It sounds familiar.

What?

That line about a…sad-eyed prophet coming.

Ah, Jimmie, you and your ghost-like soul. I just love you. I guess you heard I am taking Bible classes.

Yes, mother told me. How are they going?

Great. I mean, why not? I wrote the first four books of the Bible…man, that was a hassle…Me and Bob. And… ah…the Kings of …Tyrus.

Who’s your doctor right now? asked Jimmie.

I don’t know.

Abruptly, Jimmie left Donna and went over to the receptionist in the lobby. She was a large, unkempt woman with a big nose and straggly, mousy brown hair. Jimmie thought she looked more like a patient than an employee.

Can I speak to Donna Robinson’s doctor? he asked.

The receptionist glanced up from reading a copy of People magazine, tired and expressionless.

I believe that would be Dr. Ransom.

Can you page him, please?

I’ll see what I can do.

The receptionist slowly got up from her chair, unable to conceal her attitude that she was far too intelligent for this job. She picked up a phone, and punched a few buttons.

Is Dr. Ransom still here? Jimmie heard her ask. Alright. Please tell him someone wants to speak to him in the lobby.

Within a few minutes, a tall, wiry man in his mid-thirties with an angular face, horned-rim glasses, and short-cropped black hair came through the door marked Staff Only. He was dressed in a long white lab coat, carrying a clip board. Jesus, thought Jimmie, he looks like he’s auditioning for a boring research assistant in a B-movie.

Dr. Ransom? Jimmie asked.

Yes. What can I do for you?

You’re Donna Robinson’s doctor, right?

One of them, he said. Who are you?

I’m Jimmie Johnson…her brother.

Nice to meet you.

Can you tell me what’s wrong with her? Jimmie asked.

Yes, your sister is manic-depressive. She has very broad, erratic mood swings, probably due to drug abuse in the past—but we’re not sure. We are still evaluating her.

Manic-depressive? asked Jimmie in a mocking tone, putting one hand on his hip and the other massaging his chin. The response was not missed by Dr. Ransom.

Is something wrong? asked the doctor.

Well, are you aware that she thinks she wrote parts of the Bible?

Yes, she’s told me that.

Then, it seems to me, she’s not merely having mood swings, is she? I mean, doesn’t that make her psychotic—schizophrenic—out of touch with reality—which, as far as I know, is a lot more serious than going up and down in mood cycles.

Yes, well technically you are right—

"Well, technically, what kind of medication are you giving her?"

Right now. Lithium and Klonopin.

I think you better come up with something stronger. She also thinks she’s a character in a Bob Dylan song.

I didn’t know that one.

Maybe it’s time you learned.

Jimmie turned and walked away from Dr. Ransom, returning to Donna who was standing next to Jill by the bay window. They were both looking at a skinny man with a wispy goatee, dancing by himself inside the gazebo adjacent to the main building. He was moving gracefully, wearing a top hat and tapping a wooden cane during a dance routine.

It’s Fred, noted Jill.

"Is he one of the patients?’ asked Jimmie.

Oh, he’s a lifer, said Jill. He’s been doing that stupid dance for ten years. You would think that he would realize Ginger’s not coming.

Ginger? asked Jimmie.

"He thinks he’s Fred Astaire, and he dances everyday, expecting Ginger Rogers to pull up in her limousine and take him away to Hollywood—and they think I’m nuts."

It’s kinda cool, though, huh? said Donna. Maybe I’ll go over and dance with him someday. He might like the sad-eyed lady over that blonde bimbo Ginger Rogers.

Jimmie had not fully recovered from his conversation with Dr. Ransom. He had decided that he would contact his mother and get her out of this hospital since they were either understaffed or incompetent—or both. He had no faith that they would ever cure his sister of her mental problems. In fact, he knew they did not believe a cure was possible, but they relied on the medications to curb the voices and hallucinations, so she could at least stay manageable as a patient. The idea was to control the patient’s excessive behavior, keep them from freaking out, and make life easier for themselves. The drugs were just replacing the straightjackets, lobotomies, and electroshock therapy in the so-called dark ages of mental hospitals. Only now, you had a billion dollar pharmaceutical industry ready and willing to make enormous profits on creating a whole new nation of medicated zombies.

Watching his sister and Jill, Jimmie came to the conclusion that time