Return of the Drama Prince

By Richard Segal

Return of the Drama Prince is the sequel to 2011s Nectar of the Lavender, fifteen years down the road. Rather than young, single, and gainfully employed, our main character is married with three children and now freelances, but in a most unexpected industrial pursuit. He has outgrown depression but has been unable to tackle in his mind sources of his inner social and professional conflict. Hes outwardly relaxed and life should be fine, but he cant escape the Doldrums, and he fears he may run out of time before they envelop him.

This condition he masks through exaggerated courtesy and friendliness, the opposite of his no-holds-barred approach to mediocrity and misanthropism when younger. Rather than society thugs obliging a fire-with-fire plan of attack, the new battle is against the passive aggressive, those with glupie tendencies and enemies of civility and efficiency. If you choose to fight city hall, the fight may never end.

His decadence-era relationships are over, replaced by friendships with straighter-laced family men and white-collar workers of his bedroom community, including the bleeding heart conservative Lanford, public relations advisor to stars and bars, with occasional PR problems of his own. The in-laws visit, but this is opportunity rather than threat or worry. In confronting his demons, he revisits painful memories, and for ease of vanquishing, or so he thinks, he rolls them all into two. There is no lack of sensations uncovered during this journey, during which he comes into contact with a true American quilt.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Feb 7, 2013
• ISBN: 9781481782982

Richard Segal

Richard Segal, an American citizen, resides in London, England, and works as an economic and financial consultant. He has written widely about matters relating to global public policy over the years. His most recent novel was The Man Who Knew the Answer.

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© 2013 by Richard Segal. 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.

Published by AuthorHouse 02/05/2013

ISBN: 978-1-4817-8297-5 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4817-8298-2 (e)

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

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

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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

Part One

The World Was a Blur to Me

Reduce, Reuse, Recycle

Jocular

People Tell Me Things

McNallys

32 in a 30

This Is His Story

5 15 80 in the Early 2000s

An Out of Body Experience

Time for Enemy Action, Mr. Bond?

The Daily Vege

Fleagle, Bingo, Drooper and Snork

Introducing Stavros

The Short Happy Life of Bill Drake

Part Two

Svengali on Another String

Ropa-Dopey

The Twins

Truth be Told, Part 1

Truth Be Told, Part 2

Vigszinhaz

Truth be Told, Part 3

Badmin

Let’s Get Him

A Lesson to You Ruthie

The Vigil

The Overload Theory, Part 1

What Did You Do in the War, Daddy?

Take a Letter Maria

Bringing up Baby, Part 1

Bringing up Baby, Part 2

Thought I’d Wing It

Done But with Error on Page

Man from Centralville

Jump Into the Fire

Doyle’s I, Part 3

From Life Will Come New Life

Previously by Richard Segal

The Russian Economy

Crash, Burn, Hurricane

Trilogy Year

Hitting the Tenspot

Nectar of the Lavender

Cookbook for a New Europe

The Great Art Deco Chase

Three Days in July

A toast to family

Part One

Is it Miller Time yet?—anon

The World Was a Blur to Me

An accidental economist? I didn’t know what I wanted to be growing up, but I understood the concept of supply and demand and behavioral psychology, had some common sense and was good with numbers, so here I am, an accidental economist. Most actions can be explained with the concept of supply and demand, although ‘all too often,’ cliché number one, discussants will rationalize rogue deeds by falling back on it’s human nature. So it’s not his fault? I disagree, passive aggressive is a rational and intentional choice. The secret of applying supply and demand is to understand the imperfections on both sides, what might be missing from the equation and how these might affect outcomes.

Here is where I should probably bring in my other characters, most notably Little Ruthie. She’s eleven now, my goodness. Claire and I have two more, but it’s not the same. When she was born, it changed my life. No, it temporarily saved my life. But I trod that ground before, in the closing stages of The Great Art Deco Chase.

I used to write poems and songs for her, the music is the story in your eyes when I was feeling classic, or Hamster Zone when I was feeling playful. ‘I ride my up scooter up into the playground zone, you can follow me or text on your phone, Mudcat the hamster, so misunderstood, when performing a pet trick, which one would you pick?’

I no longer work for a living; that is, I don’t commute to an office but instead operate freelance for a living. It occupies far more of my time than working ever did, and with a PDA in my pocket, I can write anytime I have an idea and sufficient battery life remaining. And I’m not too tired. On such occasions, I invariably have to rewrite, and start again.

I have more vegetation in my garden than ever, but no more lavender. I ripped all of it out, not because it was aged, not because it was overgrown, but rather because of what it represented. In its unstoppable late-summer growth, it was my calming influence during an era of depression and as beautiful as this crutch was, I’d rather not see it when my life is supposed to be blossoming again.

Despite Claire’s delightful re-emergence into my life and our gift of three children to the world, I barely survived several earlier personal tragedies, one self-inflicted of course. Claire would never have known this because I could cloak well with my witticisms and kind words, but now that the depression has slowly faded and I can write again, I will begin to open up about the past, and long may this become cathartic. Nevertheless, whereas in the past I’ve been tyrannical about overuse of certain words and typos, and beat myself up when even a minor post-apostrophe error has been committed, today I’m going to let them flow. From anecdotes about confidence tricksters and inexcusable late-night exploits, memories of Jeff and Danny as well may flow.

Reduce, Reuse, Recycle

It’s the beginning of autumn as the calendar cries and time to begin pruning my colorful vegetation. Many of the green and blue items I rotate with a degree of regularity, but the berry plants I will leave to future generations. The backlog of pruned branches can be put to good use by mulching and the arm scratches from this workout are a worthy badge of honor, but I wonder about the collection of throwaway plastic items and utensils in all of our houses. Do we really need this crap? Wouldn’t we be happier and more content with less physical clutter in our lives, as long as we don’t label it chic minimalism?

My youngest son started school a few weeks ago and in acknowledgement of this milestone, the cover of this book displays his first official artwork. He will someday become aware of this token of recognition and either recoil with embarrassment or blush with pride. It will, however, camouflage my comparative devotion to little Tillie, when the time comes.

I want to talk about the people I love and the great ideas I admire, but I’m also here to be subversive. I don’t seek a grand plot, or even the lyrics and drumbeats of thunderous Brazilian bands. I can subvert with subtlety.

However, I must open up about my pet peeves and skewer them decisively. Such as the deer in headlights who attempts to squeeze into an overflowing elevator as the robo-voice warns Do not enter . . . and gives up when half an arm is inside. However, much like a baseball batter with a bad case of OCD, the elevator must fully reopen and restart the process from scratch, and it may lose its slot in the declining order. The deer isn’t getting into the elevator, but he’s intent on slowing everyone else’s progress with insolent and indolent motives in mind.

Jocular

I for one, didn’t understand why there was so much mediocrity and wilful incompetence, why some individuals would go out of their way to avoid lifting a finger for others. Here is one example. Someone who a number of years ago tried to stitch me up became furious when I wouldn’t hand over all of my contacts after he found himself unemployable, and resorted to cyber passive aggressiveness. So I tagged him with a coarse nickname, and pocket vetoed his requests to get back in touch. I had no pride, he had no shame, I had no interest, he had no game plan.

And one more. Toward the end of a recent business trip, I bought a traditional pastry for my middle child before departing for the airport. I like to do this because he must endure middle child syndrome and occasionally I forget to shower him with enough attention. However, much as I was careful to gently pack the treat in the top of my hand luggage, the urban thug sitting behind me felt the overhead rack was designed for his shotput practice and the small present was crushed. And I was crushed.

I couldn’t display the pastry in front of him for the family to witness in its crumbled state. I had only bought one, but good boy that Luke is, would have shared it with his older sister and offered some to his younger sister, was she old enough for solid food at the time. Claire and I, meanwhile, would share a decadent tale the old way, one that I ‘smuggled’ out.

The anecdotes from my speech, of which more below, would have to wait for the homecoming from another trip. The thug was not without his comeuppance, however. I asked him if he knew what a fucking cockney wanker this act of effigy made him and turned away, refusing his insincere apologies with rude palm thrusts in the direction of his face. He will never change his behavior and become a normal person, but the return verbal abuse from my person was an absolute necessity.

Although most people at the seminar spoke English, the organizer supplied a simultaneous translator for the sake of convenience, or perhaps because of my reputation of speaking too rapidly. I began by explaining that I’d been to their fine city many times, but that this was the rare occasion during which I was here on business. Most of the time it was family travel or for pleasure. A gentle audience laugh ensued. Here is where the anecdote of the unexpected occurred.

I sidestepped by thanking the translator for making me funny in the language of the audience as well. Another universal laugh, louder this time, and the audience was on my side during the remainder of the event. Perhaps forever as well. I go out of my way to thank the translators—they always travel in pairs—before I leave, because I’d like them to know I appreciate their efforts and don’t consider them machines shunted into a different room. I know how much they must concentrate to work fast. And from a personal perspective, I am grateful that I can hold the opposite personal opinion of someone who has performed a business favor for me, as the airplane ass. And I want both of them to know and remember my exact feelings.

People Tell Me Things

I dedicated my last book to myself, well it was my turn. If life was fair, I would have dedicated it to my immediate family. This one, though, really is for me, because it’s the first time I’ve written one purely for myself. No great theories, no grand schemes, no apologies if the inside jokes are banal rather than benign, and definitely not if they go over anyone’s head.

Perhaps because I’m discreet, perhaps because I like to listen, people tell me things. In fact, just a few weeks ago I heard a story that would have everyone on the floor, even if nobody knew the other characters and I were to relay it only half as well. However, discretion is a virtue.

Nonetheless, from these discussions I’m able to generate, ideas and conjectures, and I grudgingly accept that those on my enemies list can provide fodder for thought. Well, no one is all bad and the opposite of ‘how not to’ is ‘how to.’ If they read the map upside down, all I have to do is borrow it when they’re finished, read it the right way and I’ll find my way.

I know it sounds mean, but people with ADD really should run the nation’s cash registers. Have you ever suffered the frustration of purchasing an item from someone with the opposite affliction? I no longer subscribe to the view that ATMs are friendlier than bank tellers, though.

However, for our country to thrive in the future, we must have risk taking workaholics, who are too focused on their ideas to permit fear to enter their mindframe and will not let naysayers get in the way of their experiments. Some of the ideas may be lame, but it is this process of creative evolution by which our prosperity reaches new heights. It is to our collective gain if one good idea in a dozen passes a hurdle, and if one idea in a hundred is excellent. If that one person in twelve hundred manages to succeed, we must allow him to keep his spoils, to encourage other great ideas and innovations. However, we must not put that person on a pedestal or suggest he is all knowing; in fact, he might be master of one trade—let the halo effect be a powerful reminder. Moreover, we must remind the world consistently of the Edisonian principle that success is one per cent inspiration and ninety-nine per cent perspiration. We must permit those with lame ideas and one per cent perspiration a chance at winning the lottery, but their probability must be one in two million!

McNallys

It was a random Sunday afternoon in mid-winter that I dragged Ruthie to McNallys and explained to her the occasion of my broken heart, and how I got over it. She was about six and Luke about six months. Claire had her hands full that day and therefore we agreed it was best that we cleared out for a few hours. Ruthie was so curious then, she would have been in the way.

It was a year I didn’t particularly mind who won the Super Bowl, nor were there any teams or ‘superstars’ I loved to hate, Yawn John Madden not included, and March Madness had yet to start. The age of electronic gadgets was still quite nigh and the 8-10 year olds—‘big kids’ as Ruthie called them—were content with crayons, dolls and comic books. They were too young to own their own phones.

And thus, our big debate was what I should let Ruthie snack on in the car, goldfish crackers or saltines. I was a born again something, I imagine dietician in my post imbibing years, but also believed in moderation. If I controlled her intake of poison—salt, processed sugar and additives—most of the time, she could eat snacks some of the time. Who am I to talk? I grew up on Wonder Bread and Funny Bones.

However, I was prudent about calories, expending them, that is. This was my Compost Theory. If we burned a lot of calories, the excess—volume and form—would take care of itself. Would 21 minutes on a Top Excite really offset 865 calories and dissolve several grams of table salt and potassium sorbonate?