Sets of Three

By Terrence E. Dunn

Jack, a twenty-something surfer from Newport Beach, CA, is on the brink of finding himself if hed only look. Within three quick days, Jack and his two roommates, Allen and Will, stumble across events sex, suicide, poetry, and death that change their lives forever. And bring Jack to that brink. But will he cross it, or fall off?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Aug 18, 2000
• ISBN: 9781462813346

Terrence E. Dunn

Terrence E. Dunn lives in Santa Monica, CA. La Chute is the second novel in his Los Angeles Trilogy.

Book preview

SETS OF

THREE

Terrence E. Dunn

Copyright © 2000 by Terrence E. Dunn.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

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Contents

DAY THREE

DAY TWO

DAY ONE

DAY THREE

DAY TWO

DAY ONE

DAY THREE

DAY TWO

DAY ONE

DAY THREE

DAY TWO

DAY ONE

DAY THREE

DAY TWO

DAY ONE

DAY THREE

DAY TWO

DAY ONE

DAY THREE

DAY TWO

DAY ONE

DAY THREE

DAY TWO

DAY ONE

DAY THREE

DAY TWO

DAY ONE

DAY THREE

DAY TWO

DAY ONE

DAY THREE

DAY TWO

DAY ONE

DAY THREE

DAY TWO

DAY ONE

DAY THREE

DAY TWO

DAY ONE

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

DAY THREE

I heard moaning.

I opened my eyes. I looked up at the stucco ceiling. A few flakes were loose and dangling down; they looked like snow ready to drop. I reached behind my head and felt the wall. There was no movement.

Allen? I asked. Will? I tried to yell. My voice was cracking; it wasn’t awake yet.

I laid there waiting. The rain tapped against the windows. My own breath went in and out.

No answer came.

I heard the sound of thunder and the crack of lightning once again. I looked to my left, over by my curtained window, up above my dusty work-out bench, above my dusty barbells and weights, and saw my old brown wicker lamp. It was one of those cheap drug store bought lamps—which I had, incidentally, bought at a cheap drug store. It looked like an inverted wicker basket that was painted a dull brown. It was connected to a fake brass chain that had an electrical wire running through it. The chain was then connected to the roof via a hook screwed into the ceiling—years before I’d gotten flakes of stucco stuck in my hair when I’d screwed the hook in. Then the chain was looped over to the corner and connected to another hook in the ceiling. The chain then went down to the floor, where it was plugged into an outlet.

But the lamp was steady; there was no movement at all.

I looked over at the beige curtains. Over on the far right side, the entire length of the curtain, from top to bottom, about two feet wide, was wet.

I closed my eyes and listened to the rain. At first it was the tapping at the window. Then it was the rain outside on the walkway. Then it grew; it became one big shower, one big white noise. It surrounded me and enclosed me.

Then it broke apart. And became nothing. Just like I felt.

I laid there until bit by bit I heard the sound of the drops again. Then I heard each droplet. Each splat of water hitting the cement walkway outside my window.

Thud!

I jumped up in bed. I looked up to the ceiling, towards my two roommates’ bedrooms. Then I heard another thud. My heart relaxed a bit. I heard the patter of very small feet. It was Tristessa and Cody, our two cats, coming off the beds and down the stairs for their morning feedings.

Right in front of me, right at the foot of my bed, was my desk. It was one of those small plywood desks that had three drawers going down the right hand side. When it was empty, when I went to buy it at one of those cheap furniture stores up in Santa Ana, I could grab it with two hands and lift it over my head. It was so cheap and light.

But right now it was stuffed full, and heavy. My typewriter was on top, an old IBM electric. To its right were stacks of colored resume papers and matching envelopes—mainly brown, blue, and beige. That’s what the counselors had told us would do the trick. There were also other envelopes—credit card bills, student loan bills—none of which were opened. Beside them were a couple of flipped over paperbacks and a spiral notebook, left open with a blue ball-point pen resting on top of it.

Down on the carpet, leaning up against the desk, there were a number of old school books with papers stuffed in and out of them. And from the middle drawer—which hadn’t been closed all the way—the corners of three dog-eared pieces of white typing paper were sticking out.

I pulled back my sheets and covers—they were still slightly damp with sweat—and I turned to my right, towards my closet door and towards the doorway that lead to my bathroom. I brought my feet around and dropped them down on the carpet. They landed with a thump.

The sound was like one of a number of distant noises: there was the thump of my feet, there was the rain outside, there was my own heart beating.

I stood up and immediately felt pain shooting through my left leg. I wobbled and went blank for a second. It was the lack of sleep; I knew this.

I reached to my right, to try to steady myself against the wall, and instead grabbed hold of my surfboard, which had been leaning in the corner near the closet. The board bounced against the wall and then bounced back at me before both of us fell backwards onto the bed.

Lying there, looking at the stucco ceiling once again, I heard the sound of a siren way off in the distance. I couldn’t tell which it was—a policemen’s or a firemen’s.

After putting my board and body back in place, I took my first steps towards the bathroom. Again the pain shot into my left leg with each small step; at least that DAY it wasn’t in my head.

In the bathroom I lifted the toilet seat and then stood there and used it. The sound of one liquid hitting another became distinct. It echoed above the rain.

After flushing, I glanced over my shoulder at the shower. Through the beveled glass I could see a number of bottles still down on the floor, down near the drain. One was Clorox, two were conditioners or moisturizers, another was liquid soap, another was ammonia, and two that had fallen over were half-used bottles of shampoo. In the corner there was a small tan plastic bucket and two twisted-up, folded-over towels—both of which looked half dry, half wet.

I turned back around and saw a few balls of half wadded up duct tape on the counter, my red toothbrush hanging over the edge of the sink, and my blue disposable razor and an empty red box of Colgate toothpaste both tossed in the corner of the counter, down below the partially opened medicine cabinet. I noticed that on the cabinet’s third shelf there was a bottle of Advil sitting upside down. The cap was still on, and it was probably still full, but it had been placed on the shelf incorrectly.

I looked up at the mirror. The first thing that I noticed were the bags. Thick and puffy, with about three creases in each of them, they sunk down under my bloodshot eyes.

I looked up at my forehead; it was very tan. My cheekbones were tan too, so was my chin and my neck. Actually, every part of my thin face looked tan. Yet below the color, down below the pigment, you could see a paleness. A paleness duller than my bleached-out blonde eyebrows, duller than my long, shoulder-length, bleached-out scraggly hair, duller than the whites, which were barely visible, within the redness of my discolored brown eyes. Then I saw the scab on my forehead—very small, right near the scalp.

I reached up to my neck and traced my finger along it horizontally, right along where my wetsuit had left a tan line. It was a variation in shades; dark above, lighter below. Yet very distinct. It cut like a knife right along my neck.

I reached out into the air in front of me and grabbed an imaginary microphone.

Suddenly three loud cracks of lightning hit one after another: Boom! Boom! Boom!

I pulled the microphone towards my mouth and said, My name is Jack and my first poem tonight is called . . . And then I hesitated a bit; I thought I was going to go blank again. I looked up towards the ceiling, trying to listen for any sound of life within the upstairs portion of our town house. Then I looked down at the mirror and looked into my eyes and gave myself a half smile/half frown. I felt my eyes becoming redder and heavier.

The poem is called . . . Desolation Spirit—Visions of a Death. And then I dropped the microphone back down to the counter. It’s absence of sound echoed around me.

DAY TWO

Sand. That was the first thing I felt. Sand within my teeth. Then I made a mistake—I moved my jaw bone. The gritting sound charged into my head, splitting it in two, maybe three, sections. Then a vise clamp was pressed down against my temples. It was squeezing the mounds and mounds of wet, dark cotton that had been compacted into my skull.

An engine was exploding all around me. It was the sound of war, of gunfire, of mortar shells and claymore mines exploding right above my head.

I opened my eyes and saw, about thirty yards away, one of the big city tractors sweeping the beach for trash. It was basically only a farm machine which dragged a sifter, which plucked the trash off the beach and left the sand where it was. But to me it was a tank. It was the enemy.

I lifted my head off the sand to see where I was, and immediately my temples started throbbing. Large, obnoxious, practically on the verge of death, the veins within my head pulsed with pain.

I laid my head back down on the sand. I had no strength, no energy; I was immobilized. I wanted to go back to sleep, to be dead, to be anything except feeling what I was feeling right then.

My vision was blurred. I looked past the sand, past the part of the beach where the trash tractor had just swept, and I saw houses, two-story houses with porches right on the sand and balconies which overlooked the entire beach. I was at Newport—I knew this—somewhere near fifty-sixth street. But god, how did I get there?

I didn’t have a clue.

I raised my head again and then sat up on the sand. Nausea came up from my stomach—heavy nausea. For a moment I thought I was going to be sick.

I looked around. I was on the edge of the sand, right before the sand cut down into the whitewash and the surf. I was about ten feet from the jetty, the Fifty-Sixth street jetty—it was one of those rows of big, bolder-like rocks that stretched out like an arm into the surf.

Already, out in the semi-light of pre-dawn, I could see about ten or twelve surfers in the water, off to the right of the jetty. The waves were big again, and the shape was good. I saw a surfer catch a good-sized, left-breaking wave. It was still dark, but I could see his small wetsuit covered body stream along upon this giant wall of water. He was right in front of where the curl was breaking, right at the critical section, at the dangerous section, the fun section.

Then the wall of water above him suddenly slammed down and the surfer was buried within the explosions of whitewash.

My head started hurting again; nausea came up quick. I laid back down on the beach and rested my head on the sand. I got myself in a fetal position, curled up within myself. I kept watching the waves, but my vision was again blurred. Only on occasions did I notice the image of a surfer out in the water.

Then, like the curtains at a movie theater coming down before the movie is half over, my eyelids started to close. The images and colors became faint. I wanted so bad to sleep; I knew that sleep would stop the pain. But I couldn’t; I was frozen there in the in-between. Then I remembered why I was where I was—I still didn’t remember the how, but I remember the why—and I smiled.

I started to watch my eyelids flutter. I watched the shadow of my own nose—those loose images to the right and left and center of your own vision, those images you usually don’t notice.

The trash tractor swept by, and I heard a couple of surfers walk past me towards the water. A few of them made comments, possibly about me, possibly above the waves.

I must have stayed in that state for a half hour, maybe an hour. I thought I’d never get relief. Then, right when the sky started to lighten, right when a number of loud surfers walked past me, right when the tractor swept by me as close as it would come, the inevitable happened; I dozed off.

DAY ONE

Moaning—loud, bellowing, rhythmical—is what I heard first. Then thumping; the thump, thump, thump of a headboard.

I opened my eyes. I smiled. I could almost feel the stucco ceiling moving above me. I looked left and saw my hanging lamp in the corner; it was swaying a slight bit. I looked to my right, to my digital alarm clock on my unpainted, furniture-in-the-bare, wooden night stand. Five-forty five, it read. He was right on time.

I pulled my covers back and swung my feet around and onto the floor and sat up, all in one motion. I stopped for a second and sighed. I wasn’t quite awake yet.

I shook my head back and forth a few times. There was no pain; it was a good sign.

I walked to the bathroom and noticed that the moaning had stopped, but the thumping was still continuing.

I turned on the hot and cold water and watched as it bubbled up at the bottom of the sink. The bubbles were crystal clear and small; each was like a tiny sheet of glass that rose up from where the water hit the bottom; each little sphere showed itself, then disappeared without a pop. Right behind it came another one—just like magic.

I leaned down and splashed the hot water onto my face. It felt good. It seemed to wash the last bits of my dreams away from me.

With my eyes closed, I reached to my left and grabbed a towel from the rack and dried off my face. Again I heard moaning; he was going to be late.

I couldn’t squeeze another drop out of my flattened tube of toothpaste, so I squatted down and looked in the cupboard under the sink. I was pretty sure I’d gotten an extra tube.

I searched around and saw a bottle of economy-size Moisturizing Shampoo, a few dried-out, thick sponges, a small, tan, plastic bucket, a bottle of ammonia, half a bottle of hydrogen peroxide, a new roll of silver duct tape, a bottle of Clorox, a crusted-over tin container of black wetsuit repair goop—I should have taken better care after the last time I used it—and finally, on the side nearest the wall, mixed in with about a half dozen rags—three-fourths of which had been used and never cleaned (there were grease stains and black wetsuit goop smudges all over them)—there was my new tube of Colgate toothpaste; the red box, the regular flavor.

I stood back up, ripped open the box, tossed the red carton onto the corner, turned on the cold water, squeezed out the virgin-like, brand new white toothpaste and immediately started brushing.

There was a fierceness to me brushing my teeth in the early mornings. I was in a hurry, and I wanted to be quick, but I also wanted to get the job done—teeth were always important to me; besides, I hated visiting the dentist—so I’d brush the hell out of my teeth up and down, up and down, while gritting my face at the mirror, constantly thinking of the time.

I spit out the used toothpaste, rinsed, and then quickly went back into the bedroom and grabbed a pair of jeans and a T-shirt from my dresser in the closet. I put on my black jeans jacket and then slipped on a pair of flip-flops—which were on the floor near my bed. I reached over and grabbed a new bar of wax from the top of my desk and then stood there for a second to catch my breath.

I brought the wax up to my nose and smelled it. The scent was strong even through the plastic wrapper. I looked over to the corner. There was the surfboard. I dropped the wax down onto the bed and went back into the bathroom, through the opposite door which lead into our kitchen and dining room, through the kitchen’s sliding glass door and screen door, and then onto our small, very small, backyard porch. I grabbed my wetsuit off one of our cheap reclining beach chairs. The suit was a slight bit damp; the night air had gotten to it.

I retraced my steps back to the bathroom and grabbed my large brown towel that was hung over the shower door.

Back in my bedroom, I went over my usual process, saying it out load as always. Okay, I started to say as I looked down at my feet, Surfboard, wax, wetsuit, towel to change, and I don’t need shorts because they’re in the car; besides, I don’t have time for any sun today.

I stood there looking at my stack of resumes on my desk. I blew them a quick kiss.

I put my board under my arm—it was a six foot five inch thruster-style board; those are the smaller ones with the multiple fins in the back and the sharp, pointed noses in front. They were always light weight and usually painted up with bright-colored airbrush designs. But mine was all white; I hated to be noticed in a crowd.

I draped my towel and wetsuit over my board and grabbed the bar of wax with the other hand and was heading for my bedroom door when I remembered that I’d forgotten my keys and