Crack'd

By Brent Fidler

What extremes would you endure to stem the ravages of Father Time? Seven friends pushing forty have crack’d under the spell of mortality’s bitter sting. Vanity’s superficial web drives each to farcical and sometimes supernatural means to curtail gravity’s cruel onslaught. Aging millennials, armed with more herbal remedies, anti-aging creams and plastic surgery alternatives than any generation in history search desperately to cure their sagging breasts, limp libidos, balding crowns and beer bellies with hilarious and sometimes tragic results. Will their obsession with the fountain of youth overflow into the waters of a deeper surrogate within or will the shallow tides of society’s addiction to outer beauty drown them in their vanities?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Richard Payment
• Release date: Feb 2, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005786120

Book preview

1. THE LOST BOY

The rusted rooster weathervane crowning the dilapidated A-frame country barn spun in an off-centered counter clockwise ecliptic. Its cast iron hinges had loosened over the decades exposed to the harsh California sun and bitter rains to the point of rendering completely useless the metal bird’s wind predictability.

The ancient cock crowed with a high-pitched screech as the Santa Ana gusts twirled its faded plume, an annoying banshee blending with the blaring rock ‘n roll music piercing the brisk morning air inside the barn.

The 1940’s barn was a long abandoned relic of a bygone era. The structure’s solid bones were a testimony to the care and quality of long forgotten craftsmanship. A frame carved out of sturdy redwood timber from the local forest stood defiant against the ravages of Mother Nature. Most of the window panes were either missing or laced with spider cracks. Its aluminum roof was warped and stained by age and crow dung. Still that old barn reeked of dignity and pride. No cosmetic upgrades for this former cowshed wallowing in his natural charm.

The barn’s interior was a vast cavern originally designed to house and feed over a hundred Holstein cows during WWII. The source of the heavy metal onslaught was a four-piece band of long-haired, middle-aged rockers who could have easily been mistaken for water buffaloes, possible distant cousins to the Heifers.

Leader of the herd was Jake Jagged, the band’s frontman and lead singer. It was his Uncle Jeremy who owned and currently operated a lucrative almond crop on the land who gave his nephew free rent of the place in exchange for Jake taking care of the sale of his cannabis bumper crop in the fall.

Jake and his band The Lost Boys had been playing together for seven years – mostly clubs around LA and occasionally the opening act for upcoming head bangers. Their label, rather their former label Modern Records dropped the band when Jake during one of his more prolific coke binges went water skiing buff-naked wearing the American flag as a cape during a July 4th concert in front of the beach full of cheering sunbathers in Malibu.

Jake was forty going on twenty. Tall and lanky, unshaven with long blond locks – a southern California beach boy to the core. When he wasn’t playing with the band, surfing, or snorting he was a loyal and loving husband to his wife Josie, the breadwinner in the family. Josie was a divorce lawyer with a top Los Angeles law firm representing Hollywood’s elite. Unhappy spouses were a billion dollar a year business in La La land.

Their union had enjoyed six years of mostly marital bliss. Josie was born and raised in Marina del Rey where daddy ran a successful yacht sales business. Her now deceased neighbor on the boardwalk was Dudley Moore who ended up being her first client after Josie was called to the bar. Apparently Dudley never needed to be called to the bar. He had three in his house. The Lost Boys played at his house party for the premiere of his movie 10 with Bo Derek.

Surrounded by macho, hard-core law sharks during her time at UCLA, Josie was charmed by Jake’s boyish good lucks and refreshing unaffected manner. He was the real deal. Straightforward and easy to read.

She loved his carefree gentle nature and child-like innocence almost as much as his legendary prowess in the bedroom. But lust and love had failed to produce an offspring. Therein lay the winter of Josie’s discontent.

Unbeknownst to Jake, his wife was heading down Uncle Jeremy’s farm road towards their rehearsal hall in her 1966 baby blue Corvette Convertible at seventy miles and hour and she was salty.

Jake’s bandmates included a Frank Zappa lookalike named Ron Memory on drums, Geoff Strong on lead guitar, and Mackenzie Greyson on bass.

Mackenzie or Mac as his bandmates called him was bald as a baseball bat and wore an expensive curly wig that his girlfriend Felecia had bought at a memorabilia blowout sale from the movie Braveheart. He was the reason the band was able to stay together or at the very least play together as Mackenzie was the only one who didn’t drink and invariably drove their 1968 Volkswagen van to and from every gig.

Ron had brown eyes, the left one being made out of glass and slightly off color as his real one changed tints depending on the weather. He lost his eye passed out drunk in front of his drum kit two years ago during a late night jam session with the legendary Ginger Baker. Ron installed a handmade drumstick holder on the side of his bongos and impaled himself when he nodded off.

There were few lead guitarists as fast as Geoff. Dracula fingernails could slide or pick guitar strings like a whirling dervish on acid. He once soloed Rimsky Korsakov’s Flight of the Bumblebee in its entirety in nine minutes. Geoff had known Jake since high school and was predominantly responsible for Jake’s emotional immaturity. When they got together it was always practical jokes and a toxic teenage wasteland of beer and wacky.

The band’s equipment was set up at the far end of the entrance near the only electrical outlet that still worked. A slew of pizza boxes, discarded beer cans, and water bottles formed a halo around the makeshift stage.

A golden retriever named Snowy was curled up in a ball next to Ron’s drum kit, his long ears draped over their openings as though mercifully blocking the musical onslaught. Jake was shirtless at the mic wailing out the lyrics of their latest song which he plagiarized partly from Edgar Allan Poe.

From childhood’s hour I have not been as others were. I have not seen as others saw. I could not awaken my heart to joy at the same tone. And all that I loved – I loved alone. Alone at home. Alone with my phone. Alone with my bone. At home. Alone. All alooone, wailed the lead singer.

The moment Jake reached the highest octave Snowy wagged his tail and howled a lonely canine lament either in empathy or disgust, or both. The band stopped playing.

Ron gave Snowy a rub between the eyebrows, his favorite spot. It’s okay fellow. Dad’s not dying. He just sounds like it, said the drummer giving the canine a biscuit.

That part about the bone. Maybe we should lose that? asked Mackenzie. No one’s going to play that on the airwaves. How about... alone with my scone?

Scone? smirked Jake. Dude. There’s millions of lonely guys out there pulling Freddie every day. They can relate to bone. Scone? What the hell’s a scone anyways?

Before Mac had a chance to respond an empty plastic water bottle tossed from the back of the barn barely missed beaning Jake in the head. Josie picked up a beer bottle and pitched it at her husband who ducked before it shattered against the wall.

You bastard! You’re the one going to be playing with his own bone from now on. You promised me a baby! Two years and what do we have? A parakeet and a cat and they all have babieeees!! wailed the distraught lawyer.

The band members stood motionless. Snowy howled when Josie hit her soprano finale. Then she stormed outside sobbing against a solitary redwood tree. The dog followed her.

We’ll just ah.. hmm.. Maybe good time for a break, stuttered Geoff, on behalf of the others who shuffled and nodded.

Yeah. Probably a good time to take some empties back, offered Mackenzie. The van should be big enough.

Jesus, was all Jake could offer as he headed outside.

Snowy was busy smothering Josie’s face with kisses, getting a free salty tear smoothie as he slurped away. The nearby field of almond trees swayed slightly to the southerly Santa Ana winds. The sound of ripened nuts clicking together muffled the cries of the local birds and grasshoppers.

Jake put on his best dog face... the doeful look Snowy used to escape punishment when he chewed his master’s shoes. But Josie wasn’t angry anymore. She was despondent and stared through him, vacantly watching an ant carrying an almond acorn thrice its size across a landscape of pebbles, joint butts, and bottle caps. Jake sat down on the other side of the tree. Snowy begin to pant amplifying his uneasiness. Finally Jake eased his fingers along the ground and touched Josie’s.

Don’t! she warned pulling away and getting up. Jake stayed down, his head slightly bowed, another of Snowy’s tricks in a desperate ploy to avoid conflict. Jake hated confrontation. Even the slightest ill feeling was often enough to trigger self-medicating.

Jake. Look at me... I’m thirty-nine years old. When we first met I agree. I said I never wanted children. We both didn’t want to bring children up in this shitty world.

And it’s even shittier than it used to be. I know what you’re... he added before being interrupted.

Shut up Jake and just... listen, she cautioned. Jake stood up and leaned against the tree. Whatever was coming it was best taken vertically.

Josie began to pace. That was not a good sign. Jake had attended a few of Josie’s court prosecutions over the years. Whenever she paced before talking a damning condemnation usually followed.

My body is screaming at me. I can’t control the urge to procreate much longer. I see a baby commercial online I get contractions. I can’t walk by an infant’s clothing store without buying something. I want you to have that reverse vasectomy now Jake. You’ve been promising for the last year and a half and I’ve let it slide.

‘Babe. I know I know," he mumbled, looking to Snowy for some support.

I know you know Jake, she said smugly.

It’s the money thing. They’re so expensive. Babies are. And I wanna be able to...

Jake! I make over three-hundred grand a year. This is not about money. It’s about you manning up, said Josie, moving closer to him. I love you Jake. I could’ve married some boring accountant or a doctor but I fell in love with you. I need this child. We need this child. To bring some deeper meaning into our lives and our marriage.

Whoa. What’s wrong with our marriage? I thought it was pretty deep, countered Jake.

Deep as in what? Smoking a joint after your gigs and watching re-runs of The Walking Dead. Jake. I need to hear this from you, said Josie, rubbing her fingers between his shirt collar. She looked him directly in the eye and waited, putting on her best lawyer poker face. Jake gazed down in time to watch the ant disappear into its hive along with its prize nut.

Kay, he mumbled, almost inaudibly.

Kay? she echoed, needing to hear it again.

Jake looked down again. Sure. If it means that much to my girl. I’m in. When we’re you thinking of?

His wife kissed him hard, almost biting his lip off before giving him a card from her vest pocket. Tomorrow. 9:00 am. Dr. Erica Hardy. She’s one of my clients. We’re doing a contra.

Tomorrow? he queried from the back of his throat, almost choking on the last syllable. Contra? Erica?

Don’t worry, she assured, pressing the remote to start her corvette. She’s the best dick doc in the biz. I’m handling her third divorce. Oh. She said you would be indisposed for about a week before your sperm count is up to the levels we need. And she gave me some special cream to help the healing process, she winked.

Well. That’s something, said Jake limply.

Love you baby. Have a good rehearsal, said Josie, kissing his forehead this time.

Mission accomplished, Josie jumped in her vehicle and sped off down the dirt road, leaving Jake and Snowy to watch as she disappeared into a cloud of dust.

Jake had an unconscious habit of scratching his crotch whenever he was nervous. Skittish as a gerbil, he scratched his loins as though they were being attacked by an army of fleas, inspiring Snowy to lick his own. The almond nuts clicked in rhythm. The ant pulled his acorn down the rabbit hole.

2. FADING FOLLICLES

Benson Dermot’s alarm went off at 8:00 am. Benson seldom got up before nine unless it was for an audition, going to work on set, or having a medical or dental appointment. Today it was door number three. He performed his usual kick out to an abrupt sitting position.

First thing was to put on a housecoat. Ben slept in the nude in summer. Raised as an only child by his neurotically clean mother, he was programmed to make the bed next, sheets always neatly folded into the corners, pillows fluffed and touching each other, not overlapping. Next the curtains were opened, revealing another sunny day in ole LA.

The limited view from his Santa Monica bachelor suite included an old palm tree that was losing its leaves and graffiti written on the side of the adjacent building that was gated off. If you are reading this shit, you have a meaningless life. One of these nights he promised himself to climb the fence and repaint it with Congrats on booking your first series lead.

Once the coffee pot was on and his morning trip to the washroom complete, Benson shuffled through his closet. His shirts and pants were professionally indexed and separated by color codes. He chose a paisley Hawaiian shirt with khaki shorts, pockets slightly creased. He gave them a quick once over with his ever ready steamer.

He went over to his aptly named vanity mirror and gave himself a sobering look in the unflattering glow of a 120 volt LED bulb. Benson was thirty-nine years old. He still looked in his late twenties but a thinning hair-line ruined the illusion considerably.

Mr. Dermot was an actor in Los Angeles, California. One of over three-hundred thousand. But he worked. Not often. Enough to pay the rent. His head was a perfectly-shaped oval, possibly the result of being a cesarean baby. Expressive blue eyes complimented his easy going nature which belied a deep nervousness. He chewed his nails with surgical precision and nightly teeth-grinding betrayed a volatile dream life. He stood 5’9 ½ but his resume said 5’10.

He treated his facial skin with the same meticulousness as his material possessions. Benson sprayed himself with lavender oil, gently washed with an apricot scrub and finished with a coconut face oil massage to retain skin moisture and stimulate the epidermis. He had begun to lose his hair when he was twenty. At first a slight parting of the waves ... the imperceptible monk’s shine. Now pushing forty it was more Moses parting the Red Sea. His bald spot had grown to the size of one of Tiger Wood’s divots on the fairway.

There was the creative uptick of now being able to play priests, university professors, accountants, and judges – the bizarre intellectual cache a shining head signals to casting directors. But his days as a romantic lead, both on and off the screen were fading as fast as his follicles. Benson had tried a variety of apothecaries to stem the relentless advent of male pattern baldness to no avail.

His adventures with Rogaine cost him two grand over six months, resulting in curly blond peach fuzz carelessly sprinkled of top of his cranium. Benson had dark black hair so the sandy pubes only drew more attention to his self-perceived inadequacy. They faded and died a few weeks after he stopped. Rogaine should have been called Nogain.

Next he tried some laser therapy which burned through another three grand and turned his scalp red although it did seem to slow down the hair loss for a few months. Benson even bought a mail-order portable glass pyramid which fitted over his crown, promising invisible energies of sacred geometry would re-align his locks with the universe. He forgot to take it off during a self-taping for an episode of the TV show Supernatural playing a possessed evangelist. He booked the part and was asked to wear the pointed glass hat on set which ended up making him the butt of such jokes as Here comes the Conehead. or Hey. It’s the pyramid preacher.

Today Benson Dermot was taking his head in his own hands. An hour and a half to his interview with hair restoration specialists Hairecy Inc. If Benson could not regrow his hair he would do the best next thing – Buy some. His hairstyle of choice today was the same as every day. Nothing.

Benson’s remaining hair which bordered the barren wastelands of his crown fell limply around the sides. The odd bit of spit flattened out any strands aimed at individuality. He put on his clothes, slipped on Nike sandals, poured a Starbuck’s coffee into his ceramic holder with the flip top, grabbed an apple from the fruit bowl, his bus tokens, the Hairecy clipping from the Hollywood Reporter, and departed for his 10:00 am date with his mane man.

A few weeks ago Ben was at a wrap party for the TV series Euphoria. He had a small recurring role as a meth cooker. On his way home, he was side-swiped on the onramp to the 101 by a bunch of rowdy Mexican teens who gave him the finger before speeding off.

A Mumm-fueled road race ensued. Ben got stopped for speeding and his languid re-telling of the story to the LAPD traffic cop earned him a failed breathalyzer test. His friend Daniel bailed him out but his 2001 Dodge Dart remained impounded. It would have to wait another three months before having its dual pipes cleaned. Ben was hopeful he would be luckier with some new locks.

As he walked along his neighbourhood section of Santa Monica Blvd. towards the bus stop Ben couldn’t help but notice an inordinate amount of pedestrians with particularly long hair. Perhaps it was just his attention being all things hairy that morning.

A robust redhead with long spaghetti-shaped locks flipped her tresses from side to side as he passed.

Did she just smirk at me?

The sun beat down on his shining dome. Benson regretted not wearing his old Stetson cowboy hat. A sharply dressed film executive took out a silver comb and tucked some loose hairs back into his ponytail. The Suit looked directly into Ben’s eyes with a definite hair of superiority.

A street beggar with hair down to his buttocks stared up from his crouching position on the sidewalk, squinting at Benson as though blinded by the reflection of his illuminated crown.

Does everyone on the street know I’m on the way to a wig consultation?

Seating directly across from him on the bus was a middle-aged dude who looked like a kinder version of Gary Busey. He was dressed in his Walmart denim slacks and polyester shirt and had the same