Translucence: Everything That’S Dark: Book Two of the Devil Speaks Louder

By Jeremy Stevens

Its been roughly two years since Jason Braswells former high school buddy, Brian Dildy, was convicted of DUI vehicular manslaughter. Jason, now twenty and a sophomore in college, is drinking more heavily than ever. The apartment he shares with roommates is filled with a gallery of beer bottles, cards, quarters, shot glasses, and dice.

The snow is falling on a Sunday afternoon when Jason and his housemate crack open their first beer, long before the party at the Sugar Magnolia gig at Crossroads Bar. As the snowfall turns to a whiteout, Jason chews an OxyContin, sending his entire existence spiraling to a shockingly absurd bottom peppered with intriguing characters that include his undergraduate girlfriend, a cop, a porn star, a rugby player, and a gangster who all converge into the dark decay caused by the addicted life.

In this compelling novel, the grim realities of alcohol and narcotics abuse are brought to the forefront through a young mans eyes as he battles personal demons and chooses his future.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Jul 23, 2015
• ISBN: 9781504923828

Jeremy Stevens

Jeremy Stevens, a public middle school teacher and former principal, is an alcoholic in recovery who freely uses his harrowing personal story to alter opinions and save lives. He lives in Wilson, North Carolina, with his fish, and in privileged proximity to his three boys: Andrew, Samuel, and Jack. His own spiritual journey can be found on his blog site, YoungDrunks.com, and on “The Devil Speaks Louder” Facebook page.

Book preview

© 2015 Jeremy Stevens. 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 07/17/2015

ISBN: 978-1-5049-2383-5 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5049-2384-2 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-5049-2382-8 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2015911579

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.

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

About This Book

PART I

I. Jason, Pete, and Fred

II. John Hedley and Slang

III. Zachary Hughes: Then

Iv. Zachary Hughes: Now

V. Jason, Pete, and Fred

VI. Abby McNeil and Jamie Pender

VII. Marcello Troncone

VIII. Sean Reynolds

PART II

PART III

PART IV

Critics’ Praise

for

The Devil Speaks Louder, Book One:

We Stood at the Turning Point

This engaging book admirably advocates for the difficult path of recovery, instead of the easier choice of avoidance, without ever coming off as preachy or heavy-handed.

-Kirkus

Abundant alcohol and a devil-may-care attitude fuel this realistically penned novel about young men in their late teens whose drinking leads to a disastrous outcome.

… a sobering tale that could potentially influence teen readers to make more clear-eyed decisions about alcohol consumption.

-Blueink

The Devil Speaks Louder is a compelling and poignant read for parents and teens alike.

-Foreward Clarion

About This Book

Translucence (noun): absorption, diffusion, and transmission of light, as through wax paper, or frosted glass, creating often an indecipherable shadow of the original object.

In 2006, when two DUI’s in two months (totaling four in twelve years) saw me resigning from my position as principal of a middle school, it was most certainly tragic, as the Times editor wrote.

I found myself in a halfway house, pedaling a bicycle around my small city, working a minimum-wage job at a sandwich shop and trying to stay sober. While in that halfway house, I wrote the first book of the series, We Stood at the Turning Point. That was good therapy, keeping my mind off the media fodder, the tragedy at hand, and my desire to drink.

I thought I had hit my bottom. I think everyone did; or they must have, those that cared.

But of course, good alcoholic that I am, a few short weeks later I succumbed to the insidious insanity of that first drink, convinced that this time will be different. I was right; it was different.

The roughly forty-five months that followed was sheer translucence. A scary percentage of it was blackout. It was during this time that the skeleton for this book was written in shadow, under bridges or on park benches or in abandoned tool sheds amidst briars and brambles, scribbling ideas without chronology on dog-eared loose leaf, passing out and coming to and needing more of the anything that would stave off the monsters.

I’d read somewhere, If you’re going through hell, keep going.

It was not me that kept me going. I had long since lost the fight. I wanted to die, but God had other plans.

Today, I try to want for nothing, for I see clearly it is not up to me.

And, I am not very good at it.

This novel is not kind. While the introduction will warm the reader to the conviviality and camaraderie of the college drinking environment, there are rapid descents into dark underworlds that may catch the inexperienced, sensitive reader off-guard.

I do not recommend this book to the same middle school audience as Turning Point. Reader (and parent) discretion is strongly advised.

The more mature, savvier reader will notice different writing styles, different voices, throughout the novel. Indeed, but please recall: my mental state ebbed and flowed during its construction. For most of it, I was not a sane man.

I extend my sincere gratitude to Michael (Bo) Pittman, Tartt Thomas, and Robert Kendall for their expert opinions and advice. At the end of the book, Written Wings Over Recovery lists the names and dedications of those who contributed financially to the costly expense of this self-published novel. You had faith in me, in my mission to inform, alter perceptions, and potentially save a life. Thank you.

Finally, all names, and most situations exterior to the life of Jason Braswell and kin, are products of the author’s then-disturbed mind. Similarities to or duplications of personal names or experiences must be regarded as pure coincidence.

Stay sober, my friends.

Knowledge is Power

-Schoolhouse Rocks

for Austin Wiggs

1992-2015

TRANSLUCENCE:

Everything that’s Dark

Book Two of The Devil Speaks Louder

by

Jeremy Stevens

PART I

I don’t really know

if I care what is normal.

And I’m not really sure

if the pills I’ve been taking are helping.

-Sentimental, Porcupine Tree

I.

Jason, Pete, and Fred

1.

Abby and Jason Discuss the Night Before

I can’t believe you’re still on this.

What’s not to believe, Abby? It was obvious to everyone.

"What was obvious to everyone?"

The dude, trying to score. It was obvious. Everyone kept asking me, ‘What’s up with the dude?’ nodding your way. I played your angle, though they didn’t believe it either.

Jamie being a friend from high school isn’t ‘an angle,’ you creep. We were in chemistry together.

So, he’s queer.

No. She giggled. No, he’s definitely not queer.

Why ‘definitely not,’ like you’re so sure?

Alright. So he’s queer, Jay. Is that what will get you to shut up? Jamie’s queer, ‘as a football bat’ as you like to say.

See, Abs, fact is, any dude’s not gay’s looking to score. Everyone’ll tell ya. I’m not overreacting here, you know.

She was just about to tell him he was overreacting. Her leg was damp from resting against his. She scoonched closer to the wall, turned her head to face it. He propped up to face her.

So you think this is me, overreacting again?

I think I need to leave. In fact, yes. Let me up, Jason.

The sheet was tucked in tightly on her side against the wall and his propped elbow had it pinned across her chest on his side of her, and there she lay strapped, as if on a psych ward gurney.

"Look, I’ve got everyone asking who the dude is, and there’s the dude, his face buried in your ear; and, there’s you, with a smile bright as the, as the damn Stroh’s neon sign above your head, laughing and nodding, and tapping him and motioning his ear to your mouth to ask if he ‘remembered the time when.’ What’s a guy to think, Abs?"

"A man might put down his darts for a few rounds to come scope it out for himself, Jay. He might shake hands, join the conversation, weigh the competition if there was any. A guy? He’d give beady eyeballs from afar, pound another draft, head-butt his teammates, and draw his own conclusions, like you did. Now let-me-up."

Her head flopped with each word. He really had her pinned.

Okay, picture this then. I’m all cuddly with this girl—

—don’t put me in your shoes, Jason Braswell. If you want me to yourself, take me on a date. A real date. Take me someplace that doesn’t have a DJ, that doesn’t check your ID at the door. I’m starting to feel like a groupie, like I’m supposed to give high-fives when you trip on twenties, whatever the hell that means.

It’s when you hit three—

—Jamie at least talked to me, Jason. And not only did he talk to me, he wasn’t drinking, so I actually understood him over that P-Diddy crap, the third time they played him.

"Wasn’t drinking? Maybe he is gay."

Let. Me. UP!

What? Oh, come on, Abs! We went to dinner. I even had reservations.

"Jesus, Jay, we went to The Stuffed Mushroom. Decent restaurant, okay, until 10:00, when they move the tables. Toughest bar to get into, unless you eat there first. Ask everyone, they’ll tell you. Your motives are all too clear, for Christ’s sake."

It’s Sunday, Abigail. You really shouldn’t talk like that.

That’s it. She found the strength.

The digital read 11:47. This was ridiculous. Abby McNeil had things to do, school for starters, and since she’d met Jay Braswell a month prior at Slammy’s Halloween party she seemed to have placed that second.

Just like her, too, her housemates would tell you. Abby needs her a man.

2.

The Halloween Amoeba

Jason had broken free from the third head-hole of the queen-sized white sheet he shared with his two friends long enough to grab a Coke at the bar and to tickle Abby’s interest.

A guy who doesn’t drink, she said. How rare.

I’m the driver, he said, nodding towards the two-thirds of his costume, now jerking about like bobble-heads on the dance floor, tripping over his share.

I want to guess a ghost, but—

—an amoeba, darling. An amoeba. Those black things are vacuoles. Our legs are the, um, the flagella I guess.

Right. And your heads?

They were to be the nuclei, but I see no major life functions being carried out now. The impaired, single-celled organism had engulfed a scarecrow.

I’m Abby.

Sean Reynolds, Abby. Pleasure. He held out his hand.

Sober, responsible, smart, and polite, all in the first two minutes, Abby thought. Guy sure wasn’t saving himself.

She shook his hand, and his other brought out his ID. Wanna show you something.

It’s okay, I believe you, she said, putting up both hands in surrender.

No, just look at it. Really. There’s something funny, you look closely enough.

Abby had a penlight on her keychain which she shone on the laminated card beneath the bar, because she knew how uncool the whole idea was, and she looked for something funny.

"Other than your middle name being ‘Ernie’ and that you’re from, where?"

Bailey’s Crotch.

"Right. Well, that is funny."

But that’s not it.

Abby looked closer. I’m obviously missing something.

Yeah, he said casually, taking the card back. "That’s the only thing sucks about the ID, the middle name and the place. Might have put ‘Ernesto,’ given a more Latino ring to it. And Bailey’s Crotch really catches the eye, might cause a bouncer to linger a bit longer."

"So you’re not that guy in the picture? Holy shit. Lemme see that again." She held the light closer this time, lowering her head closer to the bar and seeming to forget how uncool the whole scene was; but the bartender was across the way, busy prepping tequila shots for two obnoxious cavemen.

Yeah, okay, I see it now. But wow, that’s close. Man. Dead ringer. You know this guy?

Never met him. It just sorta came to me, a hand-me-down some random dude I met at a party. Gave him only twenty-five bucks, if you can believe that. It’ll last me ’til I turn.

Which’ll be?

Over a year. I’m twenty in April, a sophomore at Brinkley.

And your name, for real this time?

Jason Ottomar Braswell.

Ottomar?

Yeah. Can’t win there, can I?

3.

The Game Called Punch

Abby McNeil dressed in clothes smelling like Marlboros and did a once-over in the bathroom that rivaled a gas station’s. Okay, I’m going, she called. And you might want to get a plumber for that toilet.

What’ja leave behind this time? No response. Abby?

The front door shut like someone had a purpose. Son of a bitch.

As there were no more cool spots beneath the covers or on either side of the pillow and the mattress springs were identifying themselves, and his boxers and undershirt were warm and twisted and saggy, Jason Braswell decided he’d overdone bed.

Indeed, the toilet water was at high tide, a small plastic sailboat riding the slow whirlpool of regurgitated paper shreds. Jason peed tippy-toe into the sink, aiming for the hollow drain with the stopper long removed and running the water for not only the flush, but for the disguise, as if his two housemates might care. He squeezed the rolled-up bottom of a half-full, cap-less tube, and a thin line of blue toothpaste squiggled through a small, crusty opening onto his toothbrush, its soft bristles parted down the middle.

He pried an oblong piece of petrified striated-black housesoap from the bathtub shelf to wash The Stuffed Mushroom from his face and hands. Fred’s ball python, Mama, was in a tight coil on the tub’s filmy, bacterial floor.

Pete was literally in the couch they called Daisy, his right leg crooked over the back and his left arm outstretched towards the Sony, bouncing with each click of the remote. He was wrapped in a blanket he’d drug from his bed. Jason took the sucker’s couch, a big brown thing that scratched like burlap—Beast, they called it—and moved beer bottles from the Masonite table to the floor to make room for his feet.

Lots of beer bottles. A gallery.

And cards, and quarters, and shot glasses, and dice.

And two miniature plastic piggies, both on their feet. Great roll.

Time d’jou head out? Jason asked.

No idea. Pete answered.

Time d’jou get in?

No idea.

D’jou eat anything?

Dogs outside Mushroom.

How’d’jou get home?

Walked.

They’d calculated the distance at five miles from that bar, home, and added a quarter mile if walked when drunk. They’d all walked home from bars, Pete usually because he got really pissed when he lost at darts. He was good for the disappearing act; and, he justified it was good for his partner, too, who was always held responsible for the loss, and was therefore liable to get smacked.

Pete’s head was turned at an impossible angle towards the ceiling and his eyes were closed, yet still he pointed that remote, his thumb doing the driving, full audio. Pete looked like a work in progress.

Looking fit, Pete.

This new carb diet I’m on. Listen, Jay. Um, yeah, there it is. Killed some brain cells last night.

What’s up?

Your dad stopped by.

Jason’s feet jerked from the table like they’d been tickled and several bottles toppled like dominoes. Someone had been dipping tobacco.

Fuck you say?

"Almost got jawed, too, tapping me on