L Extreme

By JL Civi

AN EXTREME NOVEL INSPIRED BY THE ACCLAIMED DOUBLE ALBUM

 

Before he was the best songwriter you've never heard of, Benji Hughes was an ordinary lovelorn guy living in a small apartment on an okay side of town with a roommate named C and a girlfriend named L. Prior to that, he's contractually prohibited from disclosing any details…but does anyway via an epic fairytale straight from the heart. 

 

When two otherworldly entities aware of Benji's past arrive looking for assistance and/or revenge, Benji, C and their neighbor down the hall Frank team up song by song in a mostly faithful re-interpretation of the greatest double debut album you've probably never heard (but really should...)

 

L Extreme is an eclectic novel mirroring its namesake record in genre crossing extremeness. Equal parts buddy comedy, love story, epic fairy tale, album-oriented fan fiction and more. It gets a little extreme. L EXTREME: An original story by Timely Persuasion author JL Civi, based on the music of Benji Hughes, inspired by the double album A Love Extreme & the space opera LILILIL.

 

A novel based on an album is a book with a killer soundtrack...

 

Side A: Happy Halloween
Side B: The Ballad of Heartman & Songstress
Side C: Love is Weird, Love is Wild, Love is Far Out
Side D: Another Extreme

 

Featuring an afterword by Benji Hughes

• Language: English
• Publisher: Towform
• Release date: Apr 17, 2021
• ISBN: 9781733042116

Book preview

I want to be in your book—the front page of your life...

Oh definitely. There is a theme there. I don't want to say anything about it. Maybe it's love. There is something that the whole thing's all about.

-Benji Hughes, Artist Direct Interview

October 2008

Side A

HAPPY HALLOWEEN

I AM YOU, YOU ARE ME, WE ARE ONE

TWO MEN. BOTH wear white suits. Sometimes a white suit makes you look like a doofus, but these guys manage to make it work. Especially the one with the mustache. The other guy looks like he’s trying not to laugh. Not in a bad way. More in that way that says he knows something I don’t, but isn’t going to tell me until I figure it out for myself.

I glance downwards and realize I’m also wearing a white suit. That must be the joke. I don’t think I pull it off as well as the other two, but the babyfaced man already knows this. Hence his smile. Maybe the one with the mustache is smiling too, but his hairy lip hides it.

Does my goatee hide my smile? Probably. More the mustache than the beard. Mustaches mask smiles, beards bury frowns. I wonder why more people don’t try beards without mustaches. The Amish do. They’ve always been a stylish bunch.

Why are we all wearing white suits? And why is this whole room white? (And before you ask, it really is the whole room. Even the curtains.) I wonder if my beard has also turned white, but I can’t see it when I look down. Probably not, since mister mustache has a dark ‘stache just like his hair. So does the other guy. I realize I can see my hair and pull a strand into view. Still red. Good. My beard too. It’s kinda long. Calling it a goatee before wasn’t completely accurate.

I also realize all this thinking is unnecessary since there are two other white-suited dudes in the room with me. They might know why the room and our clothes are all white, why our hair isn’t, and why we can wear white suits without looking like doofuses from Miami Vice.

Dudes, I say, trying not to sound like Bill and/or Ted but knowing my words are coming out that way. I have a most excel… I catch myself almost quoting that movie, but course correct in time. "I have a most extreme question to ask you. Are we dead?"

The smiley one answers first. Or responds first, since his answer is a non-answer.

Love.

Love? I reply.

Love! he repeats.

I ask for something extreme, and he gives me love. I kinda like the sound of that. An extreme love. No—a love extreme.

You’ve got heart, man, he says. That freaks me out a little since it’s something he shouldn't know about me. So I pretend I didn't hear it and address the first thing he said.

A love extreme! I repeat aloud, trying it on for size. I really dig the vibe it has.

We don’t know that one, says the mustachioed man. But we know this one. He pulls out a guitar and starts jamming on an old Coltrane tune I can’t remember the name of. Or he didn’t really pull it out as much as the guitar magically appeared in his hands. It was weird. (And no, the song isn’t A Love Supreme. I know that one. Everyone knows that one. Except they don’t know that’s not a song title. It’s an album title. There’s a song with that lyric in it, but I won’t acknowledge what it is. Or will I? These guys may not know either. But it doesn’t matter, since this isn’t that song.)

Another sound sneaks up behind me. Another song. It’s groovy and I like it, but I’ve never heard it before. This one is played on an organ by a hip looking cat with some crazy chops—both with the music and the facial hair. He has the inverse of a goatee. The goatee area is the only clean-shaven part. His song sounds like a whole orchestra plays on it, but it’s just him.

I spin around and now there is an orchestra, led by the two white-suited guys. I didn’t notice if the un-goateed guy was wearing a white suit, so I discretely continue my orbit like I’m feeling the groove. Before I make it around far enough to see him again I realize I’m wearing a cape. A white cape. Not a superhero cape. More like a Liberace cape. But Liberace isn’t here. Because Liberace is dead. Which helps to prove that me and these other white-suited cats aren’t dead either. If you’re gonna have a room full of dead guys in white suits, you need the complete set or there’s no point. Not having Liberace here is a good sign.

I finish my rotation and turn my attention to the musician with the chops. I can’t find him. Even though he’s gone, his song still fills the air. In his place is an Indian gentleman and a set of white stairs leading up to a square platform. Not a Native American Indian. The other kind of Indian. From India. The stairs have this apparatus under them he can push up and down to show off how strong he is. People are in line to climb the stairs to the platform so he can lift them. They are all wearing white suits. You’d think wearing the same ensemble would make everyone look alike, but each individual is easily distinguished. The fact that they are all famous helps.

First in line to be lifted is the Dalai Lama. I’m not sure how I know he’s the Dalai Lama since he’s more famous in name than in looks, but I do. He’s also skinny, so lifting him is effortless for the Indian.

Next he lifts Stevie Wonder. Followed by Gene Simmons. Then Boris Karloff. Here’s Angela Lansbury. Jim Henson. Huey Lewis. All in white suits. All really happy to be here.

Now he’s lifting a dog. The dog doesn’t have a white suit, just a white collar. And a white cape like mine, only smaller. I don’t think the dog is famous.

He puts the dog down and lifts Whoopi Goldberg, Jackson Browne, and Cole Porter—simultaneously!

Reverting back to singles, the lifter lifts John Lennon. As he does this the music changes from the orchestral piece to He Ain’t Heavy. I dig it since I like that song and I like the irony of how it fits with what’s going on. But I know it makes no sense since it isn’t a Beatles song. Plus John Lennon is dead, so that’s ruining my theory that me and the other white-suited folks aren’t dead. Now I do feel like a doofus. A doofus in a white suit.

John starts singing. He doesn’t sing He Ain’t Heavy since that’s not his song. Instead he’s singing the lyrics to I Am The Walrus over the He Ain’t Heavy instrumentation. At least he’s trying to, but he’s messing up the words.

I am you as you are me as we are one. I am you, you are me, we are one.

The Indian weightlifter guru man points at me. I pretend he’s pointing at somebody else, but everyone else in the room is pointing at me too. He beckons me with one hand, inviting me to the stairs. The music switches back to that groovy song. I still dig it, but not as much right now. I’d rather hear He Ain’t Heavy if I’m about to be bench pressed by an old Indian dude. Stopping that song is an insult. I’m no Dalai Lama, but I’m not heavy. There’s just a lot of me to love. An extreme amount of love.

Am I allowed to request a song? If it fits the theme they might let me. Assuming the band and the orchestra know it and it’s not too distracting to the weightlifter. Up Where We Belong by Joe Cocker would be appropriate. Does Joe Cocker have a white suit? There’s that kinda famous photo of him in a white fluffy jacket, but that’s different. Kenny Rogers was a guy who could totally rock a white suit. Or Michael Jackson. John Travolta too. But I didn’t notice any of them here.

The crowd is growing impatient with my wariness. I don’t want to let them down, so I drop the idea of requesting a song and make my way to the staircase. The sea of white separates to let me through. I feel like Moses. Okay, no I don’t. Moses would part a sea of red suits. I march slowly up the staircase. I’m nervous, but I can do this.

On the second to last step I stop and scan the room. Mustache guy catches my eye. He looks familiar. Not just as the first guy I saw when I got to this nondescript white room, but in a way that he might be famous too and I didn’t realize it at the time. How embarrassing would that be? I’m in a room full of superstars and the first thing I ask is if we’re dead? Talk about a bummer.

Speaking of bummers, I’m starting to suspect this stairway is leading me to a bummer of an ending. I reach the top step and wait to be lifted up, but I start sinking. Sinking fast. The guru falls to his knees. Celebrities start screaming, their white-suited howls blending into white noise. All three songs play at once. I land flat on my back and the room goes silent.

Even though I fell from a decent height, I don’t feel any pain. I open my eyes and the room is now empty. It’s still white, but everyone is gone. Like they were never here. Somewhere far away I can still hear the groovy orchestral number. It’s muffled, but it’s there.

Near the corner of the room a door opens. A slender shadow slides into view, darkening the white. A thin man? He ain’t heavy, but my eyelids sure are.

I start to hyperventilate.

And then I fall asleep.

TIGHT TEE SHIRT

BENJI WOKE UP hyperventilating. Though he wasn’t sure if he actually woke up or not, since he was still in a white room.

Dude, you okay? How many fingers am I holding up?

C stood in the doorway. He’s Benji’s roommate. His new roommate. They moved in together about three weeks ago. That explained the white room, freshly coated with the cheap paint all new tenants are entitled to as a contractual right in the lease. It’s a small apartment on an okay side of town. Two bedrooms, kitchen, living room, and a master bathroom with two sinks. The place suits them well. C and Benji have been friends for awhile, but roommates for barely a month.

Two fingers, Benji said. I’m fine. His breath still came in spurts, but stabilized towards normal.

Did you have that dream again? The one where you’re on fire?

It wasn’t exactly a dream, but Benji couldn’t tell C that. Yes. I mean no. I had a dream. But not that one.

C pointed at the TV on the floor. An old movie played, soundtracked by a groovy song.

"You watched Lovers and Other Strangers last night? Don’t tell me you had the Love Devotion Surrender dream again."

Now Benji remembered. Carlos Santana!

Yes, that’s his album, C said. His fifth. Of course C knew. He kept count. But he had nothing to do with that movie.

No. I mean yes. Carlos Santana was the guy with the mustache!

C snickered to himself. You forget that every time you have this dream. And you have it a lot.

What do I always forget? Benji asked.

You forget that Carlos Santana has a mustache.

I know Carlos Santana has a mustache. He’s always had that thing. Like I’ve always had this beard. Benji tugged the pointy end of his bushy whiskers into his field of vision, confirming they were still colored and intact.

I usually forget the name of the guy he did that album with, C continued. Which is weird, since I can remember that he has a very common name. The second most common male first name and the four-hundred and fortieth most common surname. I just can’t remember what those names are.

That’s because you’re a numbers guy, C.

Numbers guy certainly described C. Because, well, you can figure that out for yourself.

I had a dream last night too, C said. A dream about a girl.

Now Benji scratched his head, glancing at his disheveled hair to make sure it wasn’t white. I’d like to say that surprises me. But it doesn’t.

Hey! Not that kind of dream.

C sounded offended. Benji gave him the benefit of the doubt.

Sorry, that was unfair. Tell me about your dream girl.

"She wasn’t my dream girl. I mean, she was in my dream, but not the girl of my dreams."

Benji sighed. It’s a figure of speech.

But you used it in a literal sense.

Are you going to tell me about your dream or not?

Okay. There was a girl.

That’s all you’ve got? You need to be more descriptive.

C closed his eyes and thought. There was one girl.

Benji laughed. A number isn’t really a description. Especially when that number is one.

What kind of description do you want?

You know, basics. What was she wearing? Benji cringed slightly, realizing he may not want to hear this answer.

Oh, okay, C said, grasping how this worked. She wore a tight tee shirt.

C opened his eyes. Benji covered his ears. C raised his hand in a traffic cop pose.

Not like that. It wasn’t a wet tee shirt. Just tight. I’m being descriptive like you asked.

Descriptive, yeah. Benji had nothing else to add, so he provided a prompt. What was this one real sweet girl in the tight tee shirt doing?

C briefly closed his eyes again, but opened them before speaking. She worked on a farm. Maybe a ranch. A place with horses. I can’t remember exactly.

Benji tried to suppress a smile but couldn’t. You had a sexy dream about a jockey girl in a tight tee shirt?

No! Not a sexy dream. Just a dream about one girl in a tight tee shirt. And she wasn’t a jockey. She was too tall for that. She was training the horses. And you’re not even letting me get to the best part.

I’m afraid of the best part, Benji admitted.

"As I was saying, she wasn’t the girl of my dreams. She was the girl of your dreams. It was L."

Now Benji jumped out of bed. He threw off the covers and chased C into the tiny living room. When C slowed to avoid the couch, Benji lunged and managed to trip him. They scuffled on the rug until Benji lifted one of C’s legs, pinning him to the ground.

Why are you having lurid dreams about L?

Whoa! Not lurid dreams, just dreams. Why are you having lurid dreams about Carlos Santana?

That was more lucid than lurid. Don’t change the subject. Why was L training horses in your dream?

I thought she wanted to train horses! C tried to make a giddy-up motion, but had trouble doing so from a prone position.

Not anymore. Now she wants to be a doctor.

She used to be a paralegal.

Yes, Benji said. She’s a little indecisive about a career.

Just like you, C replied.

Benji had loosened his grip on C’s leg, but now he squeezed harder. I’m a musician and I’m also a painter. What’s wrong with that?

Don’t make it sound so artistic. You write advertising jingles and paint houses.

Both professions share practical and creative aspects, Benji said.

You’ve done neither. C squirmed, but couldn’t free himself. He managed to face Benji. No new songs. And you haven’t even painted your bedroom yet.

Benji twisted C’s leg. Quit changing the subject. Why are you having dreams about my girl?

I don’t remember the rest of the dream. And technically she’s your ex girl, no?

X isn’t exactly the right letter to describe L.

What’s the deal with you two anyways?

She’s one of those girls who can cast a spell with her voice. Benji paused, trying to reconstruct L’s vocal range in his head. He gave up. Everybody falls in love a few times. I fell in love with her real easy.

Before you get into this story, C asked, could you let go of my leg and let me stand up?

Benji didn’t let go. Why are you suddenly so interested in the story of how L and I met?

I want to know how accurate my dream was. I’ve never met her, but you talk about her so much I have some ideas.

I’m not telling you the story so you can have more accurate dreams.

It’s not like that. I’m trying to help.

How are your dreams helping?

My subconscious is trying to help process your feelings, while yours is thinking about Carlos Santana instead of drawing or singing or whatever else you should be doing. Utilizing both sides of your brain is admirable, but you need to act more and think less to win her back. I can help with that. I’m good at relationships.

Benji weighed the pros and cons of telling C the story. It was risky, but could be a risk worth taking. Even if he couldn’t tell the whole story, telling some of it would be helpful. He was curious how much he could remember—especially from the beginning. And the very beginning had no restrictions.

He released C’s leg and let him stand up.

I had a date, Benji started. We were supposed to meet at five…

YOU STOOD ME UP

COURTEOUSLY EARLY, CHIVALROUSLY prompt, or fashionably late? A trick question. There was never a right answer, but still Benji struggled with it.

Initially he leaned towards prompt or late, but traffic screwed that up. Lack of traffic, actually. Sometimes the decision was out of your hands unless you gambled between fashionably late and inappropriately tardy. Even then it depended on other drivers.

The dashboard clock read 4:44 when he arrived, which felt stalkerishly early despite the numerological symmetry. If anyone saw him parked in the car stakeout-style they’d get the wrong idea. And if his date saw him it might as well be over before it started. He agonized over his options for nine minutes that felt like an eternity before deciding that seven minutes early was plenty appropriate.

If the decision to wait in the car or enter the Dairy Queen was tough, deciding which side of the booth to sit on proved less challenging. Courtesy dictates the first one in always faces the door, allowing them to keep a watchful eye out for the other person. The Mafia understands. It’s the seat that allows you to get made while avoiding getting made.

The first person who made Benji was the waitress. We can’t fault her for this; it was her job, after all. Preoccupied, he didn’t notice when she appeared beside him.

Can I get you something to drink while you’re waiting?

Benji checked his watch. 5:01. His date was officially late. Was it rude to order without her? It’s not like they were having dinner. This was more of a casual thing. Snacks, drinks. For a dinner date he would have suggested Red Lobster. But not a first date. You need to prove yourself before you earn Red Lobster.

Since when is Dairy Queen full service? Benji asked.

We’re testing a new concept. The waitress had a new pen readily pressed against a new notepad, apparently fresh out of new concept training.

Benji’s late date made him take the bait. A beverage made sense. He’d hold off on ordering food until she arrived. I’ll have a Butterfinger Blizzard, please. A Blizzard was the perfect compromise. Sort of a beverage and sort of a meal at the same time.

Would you like anything with that? Fries?

Maybe later. I’m waiting for somebody.

"And I’m waiting on somebody, the waitress replied. You."

Benji laughed. That’s a good one.

Are you a member of the Blizzard fan club? You get a coupon for buy one get one free, a complimentary Blizzard on your birthday plus some additional cool perks.

Free Blizzard on your birthday? That’s sweet.

Yes sir. It’s a nice gesture.

And a BOGO?

A what? asked the waitress.

A BOGO, Benji repeated. Like the clown on TV? I didn’t realize he liked Blizzards.

I think you mean Bozo. But he’s not part of the fan club.

Yeah, I hadn’t seen him on any of your commercials. He must have a fan club of his own.

He might, but I don’t think we’re affiliated with him.

Really? I know you’re not affiliated with Ronald for obvious reasons, but Bozo is a free agent. I guess Bozo is probably more of a GQ guy than a DQ guy. That is one sharp dressed clown.

The waitress tensed, a little freaked out. Or annoyed. Possibly both. She grabbed a plastic promotional sign near the napkin holder and slid it in front of Benji.

You can learn about the club here. I’ll start that Blizzard for you, okay?

The waitress managed to start, finish and deliver the cold candy drink/meal to Benji before his date arrived. She also greeted, served, bussed and wiped down a number of booths for other customers, completely turning over the small dining room at least once. When a child insisted on ordering french fries yet refused to eat them, she casually placed the abandoned appetizer on the lonely side of Benji’s booth with a silent wink.

The Blizzard became a bit of a melty mess before Benji barely made a dent in it. He stirred it absentmindedly with a soggy fry while gazing hopefully towards the doorway each time it opened. Bored, he reread his outgoing text messages.

4:53pm: Just got here

5:07pm: Last booth on right

5:23pm: RU still coming? :)

5:46pm: Dairy Queen, right?

6:01pm: U want to share fries?

6:33pm: Everything ok?

6:34pm: Forget about our date, just let me know UR ok.

Where is she? he said out loud.

I’m right here, replied a voice next to him. The waitress was back. Not who he was hoping for, but at least it was company.

Oh, it’s you.

Still no sign of your friend? If it’s any consolation, I haven’t seen any clowns either.

Benji wasn’t in the mood for witty banter. He was genuinely concerned. It’s not like she stood me up. But I don’t understand why she won’t reply.

Are you worried?

Yes. What if she got into a wreck?

I’m sure she’s fine. A car accident is the first thing everyone assumes in these cases. It’s a little cliche.

It’s actually a lot cliche, Benji conceded. But that doesn’t mean it can’t happen. What if my text caused the wreck? Everyone knows you shouldn’t text and drive, but everyone still does.

He popped a fry into his mouth and checked his phone for a message in case he missed the alert.

The waitress stood by in silence. She reached a hand out towards Benji’s shoulder, but pulled back prior to touching him. Let me know if you need anything else, okay?

Benji picked up his phone to send another text, but fear of causing the wreck he worried already happened made him stop. He had a more novel idea. Instead of using his phone as a robotic communication device, what if he used it to make a phone call?

He decided to call Mark. But before he had a chance, his phone rang.

Mark! You probably won’t believe me, but I was just about to call you. Phone was in my hand and everything.

Suuuure? Mark said the word slowly, using the form of a question to acclimate himself into this non-traditional phone call opening. Why wouldn’t I believe you?

It’s just one of those things people say that sounds like a bad lie.

If you were going to tell a bad lie, you probably wouldn’t tell me it was a bad lie, right?

Only if I wanted to throw you off the trail. If I identify something as sounding like a lie first, you’re less likely to make that accusation on your own.

Got it. Mark paused, trying to find his way back onto the conversational trailhead. So are you lying or not?

I don’t think it matters. You called me, right? What’s up?

You were going to call me, so you must have something to say too.

You first man, you made the call.

Mark was silent for a few seconds. I can’t remember.

Well, I’m kinda busy right now. I’ll talk to you later.

Wait! If you’re busy, why were you calling me?

I had a few minutes to kill. But now that those minutes are dead, I’m not so free anymore.

Aren’t you supposed to be on a date with that girl?

Yes. I am on a date. At the Dairy Queen uptown.

Oh, I remember why I wanted to call you. Because I just saw her downtown.

Downtown? What was she doing there? Benji hoped he wasn’t at the wrong Dairy Queen. Chain restaurants made lousy meeting places. Especially in Charlotte where people used uptown and downtown interchangeably.

She was on the roof of the parking deck, Mark said.

Roof? Was she gonna jump?

Jump? Is a date with you that bad?

I don’t think so. But she wouldn’t know since she never showed up. Something must be wrong.

Yeah, something was wrong. But she wasn’t gonna jump. I’d say it’s more like dump.

Mark, that’s gross. Benji pushed his liquified Blizzard to the edge of the table, trying hard not to visualize Mark’s gossip.

Not that kind of dump. I was just trying to rhyme. She was puking. Off the side of a parking deck.

Downtown?

Downtown.

Forget this. Thanks for the info.

Glad to help. Sorry you got stood up.

Benji waved at the waitress. She started to come over, but he made a little scribbling motion with his hand. She nodded and rerouted back towards the register to get his check, but stopped upon catching Benji signaling differently in her peripheral.

He held his left hand out flat. His right hand had