Will the Real Jeff Creek

By Larry D. Clark

When Jeff Creek leaves his wife Angie for the summer, he doesnt mean forever, but his need to reignite his passion for writing and discover the true meaning of love leads him to Ocean Shores, Washington and a mysterious beach girl named Kaitlyn. His novel, Will the Real Jeff Creek, becomes a narrative of their journey to share the most powerful human experience on earth. On the way their traumatic pasts propel them toward numerous obstacles and an unexpected destination.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Jun 27, 2012
• ISBN: 9781467031288

Larry D. Clark

Larry D. Clark has taught high school English and Psychology of Self-development for forty-four years. This Grapes-of-Wrath descendent has undertaken an exhaustive twenty-year study of love that inspired the writing of his second novel, Will the Real Jeff Creek. He now lives in Richland, Washington with Pam, his wife of forty-seven years.

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© 2012 Larry D. Clark. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

First published by AuthorHouse 6/22/2012

ISBN: 978-1-4670-3130-1 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4670-3129-5 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4670-3128-8 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2011916303

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

This book is printed on acid-free paper.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

Preface

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Epilogue

Also by Larry D. Clark

Four Days of Silence

To my wife Pamela, who has believed in Will the Real Jeff Creek since the first draft. Since our first date in 1961, she has also believed in me, a fifty-year journey of love. The magic of White Shoulders captured my heart. Her innocent smile captured my soul.

Who knows whether love and hate be not the same thing at bottom?

Nathaniel Hawthorn

The Scarlet Letter

A special thank you to Steve Hanks for permission to use his painting, Living the Dream, on the cover of my book. This watercolor master created the perfect painting for my cover and graciously allowed me to wrap my story inside its emotional expression. Readers can discover the power of Steve Hanks’ work by visiting his online website.

Preface

With so many people wandering through life without ever finding love, there has to be a common denominator. Misunderstanding love is a social epidemic that negatively impacts the world.

Several truisms have emerged in my twenty-five-year study of the most crucial concept in the history of mankind. One of these is that the leading dictionaries in America offer erroneous definitions of love. In them readers are led to believe that love is tender affection, passionate feeling, romantic desire, sexual attraction, and strong pleasure gained from something." These definitions are diametrically opposite of the true meaning of love.

True love can only come from the source of love, the Creator. Most people refuse to acknowledge this. They prefer gratification. Most humans are too weak to totally love themselves, much less someone else. They must be plugged in to the source of love in order to overcome their human weaknesses. Most humans think they are strong enough to totally love without assistance. They depend on their emotions and feelings to guide them.

By themselves humans aren’t even capable of loving and being loved. That capability probably ended in a garden now buried beneath 150 feet of water at the northwest end of the Persian Gulf, bordered by modern Iraq and Iran. We’ve been searching for love ever since. Searching for love is an egotistical act, and we all know that true love can’t exist in an egotistical world. When we set out to search for perfect love, we are guaranteed not to find it. If we merely fall in love and the relationship lasts long enough, we are guaranteed to fall out of it. Yet, this is precisely what most people call love. When they fall out of love, they get a divorce and continue their futile search.

James Cameron, in his brilliant depiction of the Na’vi in his movie Avatar, creates a system in which the Pandorans can attach themselves to a neural network connected to the Tree of Souls. Similarly, while on this earth, humans must connect themselves to the source of love, or they will wander through their lives without ever experiencing true love.

In an ancient, 2000-year-old text, there are some words that guide humanity toward perfect love, so the inability to understand perfect love has existed at least since then. The words state, Love never fails…where there is knowledge, it will pass away… there are these three things that endure: Faith, Hope and Love, but the greatest of these is Love.

I have placed Jeff Creek, my protagonist in Will the Real Jeff Creek, into the world with the rest of us. I encourage you to join him on his journey to find love. Perhaps his journey will help you find the love you have searched for all your life.

I wish you well.

Larry D. Clark

CHAPTER ONE

After five years of marriage, the passion has dried up. The romance has just drifted away. My wife has tried to get me to go to marriage counseling. I don’t see the point. It seems like my mother was right; relationships deteriorate after consummation. All my life she bombarded me with distorted viewpoints about relationships, haranguing me that sex destroys any chance a couple has for everlasting love. I’ve suppressed my feelings for a long time, hoping that maybe it’s just a phase that all married men go through, but I don’t think it is. It has lasted too long for that.

I never developed a relationship with a girl all the way through high school. Each time I dated someone I could relate to, my mother called her a whore, a slut, a Jezebel, accusing her of enticing me into a sexual encounter and eternal sin. I finally gave up on dating altogether and decided to wait until I got away from my mother.

During my senior year at the University of Washington, I met a girl named Angie Govay and tried to nurture a platonic relationship with her. We made it to graduation, and then she began to pressure me to move beyond the platonic stage and into a traditional relationship, including sex. At the same time her mother began to pressure us to get married. She told Angie to marry me or get rid of me. By summer’s end we were married, and I wasn’t even sure if I truly loved her. For a long time I’ve just been a confused spectator watching my life pass by. Some men seek weekend interludes. Some go to bars. Some experiment with drugs. Most attempt to convince themselves that their weekends are fun. Until they get to Sunday night. That’s when they watch time push Sunday into Monday, and they are faced with another week of mere existence.

Sometimes I just stand on a corner and watch people coming and going. After I’ve stood there awhile, I realize they’re all running from time, trying to satisfy some prurient urge within their allotted seventy or eighty years on earth. They attempt to stay ahead of the impending heart attack, or stroke, or cancer that will eventually kill them.

Each of us has reasons for running, pushing, and rushing through life: self-sacrifice, self-discovery, inner peace, happiness, love, sensuous pleasure, or accumulation of wealth. All of these desires are followed by credit card debt, contracts, time payments, and deadlines. Sadly, our piles of debt usually overtake us and smother out our youthful exuberance for life. Somewhere, somehow, a long time ago, we were all tricked into believing that we can buy our happiness. Then, we spend the rest of our lives trying to pay the debt. The final payment, the one that will finally make happiness ours, never comes. The interest is just too high.

Ancient philosophies cry out that love is the answer. If love is the answer to internal peace and happiness, then I must experience it. My mother has nearly convinced me that platonic love is perfect love. That has been my experience. Those moments when my breath came in gasps and my heart raced with excitement came into my life on the back of my senses. I want to find someone willing to live eternally in that moment, fighting off the natural urge for sexual union.

There has to be a better way, and I’ve simply come to the point in my life where I have to find it. There have been too many Jeff Creeks long enough. The real Jeff Creek has to stand up and take control of his life or end up on Og Mandino’s pile of living dead.

The last school bell of the year rang some time ago. I glanced at the clock and realized I had been sitting behind my desk, my feet up, staring across the empty student desks for over an hour. The last day of school has always depressed me. It’s such a vivid reminder that another year has passed, and what have I accomplished? On this day, more than any other during the year, I’m forced to take stock of my accomplishments and failures. I can only hope that I’ve done everything in my power to prepare my students for their own eventual race through time.

I finished cleaning out my desk, and then I walked down the hall to turn in my grade book, my keys, and my signed checkout sheet, ending my fifth year of teaching English at Kennedy High School. The casualness of it all made me pause on the main entrance steps and just shake my head.

On the way to my car, I started thinking about Angie again. We’re in our fifth year of marriage. They’ve been reasonably good years, I guess. We’ve never gotten around to starting a family. I’m not sure why. We’ve just kept putting it off. Like many married couples who don’t have children, we both have our substitutes. She has her little Yorkie, and I have my red 1931 Auburn Speedster. I bought it from Jack Yale, a renowned classic car collector and aficionado in Kennewick, Washington. I fell in love with it the first time I saw it in Jack’s storage unit. Every time I approach it, I stand in awe. Most guys have a dream car. The nice thing about mine is that it’s completely restored to show room condition. The powerful Lycoming 8-98 engine yearns to be worked out like a thoroughbred racehorse. It’s a two-seater with dual spare tires strapped onto each front fender. Every time I start it up, my heart races. Don’t ask me what I paid for it.

Angie and I bought a home in a nice enough neighborhood to make the payments un-Godly high. She manages the Tremblay-Bouchey Bank in town. Between the two of us, we manage to pay the bills and buy the things we think will make us happy.

Us. That’s the little word that made me finally realize that something is wrong in our marriage. This past year it has been me that I’ve considered the most, not us. Surely, Angie has seen the change in me. I’ve tried my best to carry on the charade, but what can you hide after five years together. I’m tired of trying to hide the real me that has been pushed deeper and deeper into my psyche. I’ve tried for so long to keep my selfishness in check. I’ve traveled far and wide, vicariously, while tossing and turning the nights away. These journeys have brought me nocturnal happiness, but when I awake they’re wrapped in a melancholy mist. Somehow this distinct brand of loneliness charms me. For some reason I seem to thrive on being alone. It’s there, deep in the mist, that I feel released from the clutches of conformity. I’ve decided that what I really want is to be free to figure out what I want to do with the rest of my life. I’ve decided that the only way I can accomplish this is to go away for the summer.

When I reached the parking lot, I put the top down on my Auburn and then glanced at my watch. It was only 4:00 o’clock, and I knew Angie wouldn’t be home until about 5:30. I drove to the cemetery to pull the grass from around my father’s grave marker. The air was warm and filled with the smells of late spring.

The drive to the cemetery took only fifteen minutes, but it was one of those drives where you suddenly find yourself arriving at your destination without remembering passing any familiar landmarks along the way. No one was in the cemetery when I arrived. The narrow, winding, asphalt lane passed close to my father’s grave. I sat quietly in my Speedster for a few moments, staring at three young pine trees beside his marker. So many parts of me have been influenced by his early death. Suddenly, I became acutely aware of why I hesitated to get out of my car. My father definitely wouldn’t approve of what I planned to do. A devout religious man, he strongly believed in marriage and family. He died when I was fifteen years of age, and like many young boys in that situation, I suppose I made my father more myth than man. I envy the peace he found in his own life after my mother kicked him out of her house. He was always pleased with the simple things of life.

As always when I visit my father’s grave, moments from the past flash through my brain. I could see my father crawling across a muddy cornfield, holding two large tumbleweeds for cover, trying to get close enough for a shot at some feeding ducks. He got the shot too. In fact, he got off three shots and downed six birds. Some of them were only winged. He waved for my older brother and me to help him round up the crippled ducks. We all laughed until tears ran down our cold faces. We slipped and fell in the mud, but we walked back to the car with six ducks. My father’s grin is burned into my memory. He was so proud of his birddog boys. I have told the story of that hunt to my friends many times throughout the years.

After wandering through the corridors of the past for several minutes, I found myself at my father’s grave pulling grass from around the marker. I traced the inscription on the warm, marble stone. After twelve years, my heart still aches for him. Loneliness always draws me to this site, but loneliness also drives me away. Mingled with this feeling of loneliness, I find temporary peace. I don’t know if this is normal or not. I guess if you travel far enough back into your past, you will come to your beginning. What could be more peaceful than that?

I usually talk to my father when I’m alone in the cemetery, but I couldn’t bring myself to mention what I planned to do. I suddenly had second thoughts about going away for the summer, but just as quickly I realized I had come this far so many times before and turned back. Right now I feel that if I turn back this time it will be the end of me. I don’t want to join the millions of people who merely wander through time. I don’t want to wander. I want to travel through my life. There is a big difference. Wanderers don’t have a destination; travelers know where they’re going.

I stayed at the cemetery longer than I had planned. When I glanced at my watch, it was 5:15. I returned to my dream car and drove slowly home, content to feel the warm sun against my face while listening to a Shelby Lynne CD on my portable ipod sound system. I loved driving my Auburn Speedster. Nothing I have ever owned returned my investment more than this beautiful red car. It’s my best friend. Angie was angry about the price I paid for it, but she changed her mind when I drove it into the driveway.

Angie’s car was in the driveway when I got home. I shut off the throaty engine, the sudden silence ushering in a wave of emotions. One of them was fondness for Angie. It probably sounds ridiculous, but I really hate to leave her. She’s been so good to me through the years we’ve been together. I don’t want to hurt her and couldn’t stand to have her hate me.

Angie’s voice broke the silence. She stood in the doorway, her hands on her narrow hips.

Jeff! Are you all right?

Yes…yes, I’m all right.

Angie walked toward me, shading the sun from her eyes.

You’ve been sitting out here for fifteen minutes. What’s wrong?

Nothing…I was just thinking about everything. You know how I am on the last day of school.

Oh Jeff, you take it too seriously. In three months you’ll have a new flock and wonder what to do with them.

Angie laughed and opened up the suicide car door. I got out and kissed her on the forehead and then reached for my briefcase.

Hey, you are in a daze! You haven’t kissed me on the forehead for years. In fact, I remember the first time you did it you said…ah, let me see…you said that was a kiss of deep affection and much respect.

I turned Angie’s face toward mine and looked straight into her soft brown eyes.

It still means that, Angie.

I took her by the arm, and we walked together to the front steps. I paused before opening the door. I’ll tell you what else it means. It means that Mr. Creek is inviting Mrs. Creek out for dinner.

Oh my, that sounds nice. I haven’t started anything yet. Shall I call Cam and Sandy and invite them along for a little end-of-the-school-year celebration?

No, I don’t think so, honey. I’d rather you and I just go to a nice, quiet place by ourselves.

Angie gave me a concerned look as we entered the house, and she hung up my jacket.

Why don’t you lie down and take a nap? she asked. What time do you want to go out?

I could tell by the tone of her voice that she was trying to be casual and unconcerned about my apparently obvious mood.

Oh, how about eight? That’s what time they go out in the movies, I answered.

We both laughed, and things seemed a little better. I took Angie in my arms and held her tightly for a long moment, and then I kissed her. I’m afraid to admit it, but I haven’t kissed Angie enough these past few months. She likes to be kissed. Once in a while she gets tough and lets me know that I’m getting romantically lazy.

Once in the bedroom I took off my pants, and Angie hung them up while I took off my shirt. I lay down on the bed and watched her. I suddenly felt like a man who was about to go blind and was trying to feast his eyes on the things he enjoys the most. Angie could tell that I was watching her. I could tell by the way she moved about in the closet. She left the bedroom without looking back at me or saying a word, leaving me with my own thoughts. The biggest one of all was how to say what I had to say to her. I rehearsed several approaches, and then my mind wandered into a quiet valley of sleep.

We picked out a quiet, little Italian restaurant across town. It was full, but no one was talking much, especially Angie and me. We were having after-dinner drinks when Angie finally reached across the table and patted my hand.

Do you want to talk about it? she asked.

I just looked across the table at her and nodded yes. We continued to sit quietly for a few moments. I ordered two more glasses of wine. There just didn’t seem to be any possible way to ease into the conversation I needed to have, so I just came right out with it.

I’ve decided to go away for the summer, Angie.

Angie picked up her glass of wine and stared at me over the rim, her face free of emotion, except for her eyes. She continued to stare at me, her eyes beginning to well with tears. I guess I was wrong about her expecting me to say something like that.

What do you mean, Jeff? Go away for the summer? she whispered.

It’s complicated, Angie, I answered.

It’s easy, Jeff. Just tell me what you mean by going away for the summer. Do you mean you’re leaving me? Is that what you mean?

I’ve seldom seen Angie agitated and demanding. It caught me a little off guard. I couldn’t expect her to act any other way. The problem was, though, that I really didn’t know exactly what I planned.

No…no, I don’t mean that I’m leaving you honey. Not for good. I just need to go away for a while to work out some issues. I know you’ve been able to tell that something has been bothering me for quite some time, and I…

Bothering you! What is it, Jeff? Me? I mean, my God, you don’t just leave your wife for a summer because something is bothering you. Things bother me sometimes too, but that doesn’t mean that I leave you for three months to work it out! We talk, we fight, we make up…we don’t leave, Jeff!

That’s part of the problem, Angie. I can’t seem to talk about this. I haven’t even been able to formulate it for myself. Even if I could, I don’t think I could ever expect you to understand. The whole thing, not talking, not sharing everything with you, is tearing my insides out. I just want to go away for the summer, be alone, and see if I can find out who the hell I am…God, I can’t explain it!

Jeff…is there another woman?

I tried to take Angie’s hand, but she pulled it away from me.

God! No, Angie, there isn’t another woman.

Then what could there possibly be that we can’t talk over, Jeff? What can there be that we can’t work out in some way?

There just seems to be something missing in my life, Angie, spontaneity maybe. Something is missing in our life together. I love you…but our relationship is so mechanical and habitual. That’s a big part of it. Everything seems mechanical in my life right now. Each day is an instant replay of the day before. I don’t even know my capabilities anymore. I’m hungry for newness, spontaneity, freedom to follow my impulses and explore myself, to know myself.

Angie started getting her things together, signaling that our conversation was over. I felt good saying as much as I had to her. It was the first honest conversation I had ever had with her. I had never before shared with her my deepest, most private thoughts. Does any husband? Still, I wasn’t sure I had done the right thing. Maybe it’s normal for married people to just go through life with these things eating away at them. I’ve reached a point in my life where I hate having these types of thoughts in my head, covering them up with everything-is-all-right smiles. I have to free myself of this burden. I want to follow my senses, live with my desires, and test my drives. I want out of the cage that has choked spontaneity out of me. To do this, I must be free, but I had never considered it necessary to leave Angie…not forever. I just need a summer. With that much time maybe I can purge myself and find the real me.

I finished my drink in deafening silence.

Angie, her purse clutched in both hands, leaned toward me. You know what I think, Jeff Creek? I mean since we’re being so honest, since it really doesn’t matter what I say. I think you’ve got the early thirty-year-old blues. You want to go away for the summer and get it on while I stay home and keep your side of the bed warm. Well, I’ve got news for you. I won’t keep your side of the bed warm. You go ahead and take your damn summer, but don’t be in any hurry to come back, because I won’t be waiting for you!

She got to her feet and walked out the door, not even looking back.

I motioned for the check, but by the time I paid my bill, Angie was gone. I looked for her outside the restaurant, but she was nowhere in sight. I hurried to my Auburn and drove around the area for a while, but she had lost herself from me. I gave up after about thirty minutes and drove home. I decided the best thing for me to do was to pack a few things and leave for the coast that night. I didn’t want it to be like this, but how else could it be?

I loaded up my suitcases and placed them in the little fiberglass trailer I had made for long distance trips with Angie and locked the top. My laptop and a few other necessities I placed on the passenger seat beside me. One thing I definitely planned to do was finish a novel that I started about two years earlier, but I never seemed to find the time to complete it. Becoming a successful novelist was a priority that I had pushed way down the line of importance in my life. Angie could never understand my absolute passion for writing. She pouted nearly every time I shut myself in the den to work on the story. Finally, I just packed it away. She said she didn’t marry me to be left alone while I satisfied my urge to write.

It was about midnight when I had everything ready to go, and Angie still hadn’t come home. I wasn’t worried about her safety. She knew her way around town. I wanted to see her, though, to tell her goodbye. I do love her in some comfortable way. I decided to wait a while longer.

I fell asleep in my favorite chair waiting for Angie to come home. She didn’t. I don’t know where she went, probably to her friend Sandy’s.

The sky in the east was just beginning to turn a pale pink with little traces of orange streaked through the thin clouds on the horizon. I put on my jacket and wrote Angie a note and left it on the kitchen table. I explained things as well as I could without my eyes.

I stood on the front steps for a long moment, knowing that when I stepped off the porch, there was no turning back. I had only stepped outside the front door, and already that lonely feeling had me in its grasp, but it was mixed with feelings of excitement. I was beckoned somewhere I had never been before. It frightened me to think that I might be searching for something that doesn’t even exist. But I still believe that a person can change dreams into reality if it is physically possible, mentally possible, and within his control.

I backed out of the driveway and headed my little red Auburn into a world of manifest shadows.

I decided to make Ocean Shores, Washington my destination. I like the isolation of the long beach and the rolling beach-grass dunes. I like to sit on the man-made levee and watch the surf