The Novel (a memoir)

By Darian Lane

The Novel (a memoir) "All my life I had been looking for something and everywhere I turned someone tried to tell me what it was. I accepted their answers too, though they were often in contradiction and even self-contradictory. I was naïve. I was looking for myself and asking everyone except myself questions which I, and only I, could answer. It took me a long time and much painful boomeranging of my expectations to achieve a realization everyone else appears to have been born with: That I am nobody but myself."

This is Vincent. The Novel (a memoir) is an adult literary novel/memoir told from multiple narrative POVs, centered around Vincent and his attempt to find his way through a Rabbi, the Bible, Pastor, a married woman, and Hollywood.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Darian Lane
• Release date: May 16, 2022
• ISBN: 9781393821731

Darian Lane

Darian Lane was born in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, and raised in Bethesda, Maryland. Graduated from Arizona State University and moved to Los Angeles to Produce and Assistant Direct Music Videos and Commercials. Best known for his work on over 350 Music Videos & Commercials—most notable for Muhammad Ali, Black-Eyed Peas, Chris Brown, Pharrell, Gwen Stefani, P!nk, Lexus Proactiv, VISA, Pepsi, American Express, and Beyoncé. Both of his parents are attorneys. Lane had ambitions of becoming a lawyer until he discovered writing. Many of his articles have appeared in The Los Angeles Times and EBONY. Darian Lane’s novels include: The Girlfriend Experience, Flashy Fiction (vol. 1 & 2), Hashtag, True Hollywood Stories, unabridged, GASLIGHT, The Great AMERICAN Novel, The Novel (a memoir) and The Sci-5 Fantasy. Available on Amazon, Barnes & Noble, Kindle, Nook

Book preview

Chapter 1

I can't stop fucking her.

Chapter 2

I still can't stop fucking her.

Chapter 3

She's married. Drives a red pick-up truck, a Range Rover, and a black Jeep Wrangler. Her husband is some sort of mogul. Travels a lot. They have two houses. One in Malibu, the other, God knows. 

Our first date: I'm not fucking you in a Prius, she said this disdainfully, while looking at my car. Now all we do is fuck in my Prius. It's weird. We call one another or rather text (modern technology), and meet at some random spot in Malibu. There's no love making, no whispers of sweet nothings, just raw unadulterated... 

Before you continue reading you should know her and I use the word ‘fuck’ a lot. Probably because that’s all we do. The word is like an anthem to us. We stand and salute it.

Ironically, I didn’t use to curse at all. Or have premarital sex. Or sleep with married women. Now look what she’s reduced me to. But let me paint the picture:

Nighttime. You're walking down a secluded neighborhood in Malibu. You spot a black 2011 Prius parked on a side street. The motor is running, but you can't hear it. You do hear the muffled lyrics of Prince scattered along with some sensuous beats. You walk closer. You can't see in because all the back windows are tinted. You walk closer. To the front windshield. It's dripping in steam. 

A hand comes flying, slamming against one of the steamy windows, startling you. The hand slides down.....slow.

That is us.

But I'm not quite ready to talk about that yet. 

Chapter 4

I'm a writer. Or rather failed writer. I wrote a novel entitled, The 2000 N-I-G-G-A. My mother begged me to change the title. I refused. Needless to say every publisher in North America and abroad rejected it. But I'm proud of it. My greatest creative feat yet. In fact, I'm so proud I'm going to read you an excerpt from it right now. If I can find it amidst this dust bowl I call a studio. The beach is a dust bowl, and don't ever forget it.

The cover is black and blue, almost identical to Camus' L’ Etranger. At the bottom there's a picture of me at five years old; dressed in a pink suit, huge Afro, staring into the camera looking defiant. Enough with the preamble, on with the opus...

Chapter One...

I walked down Main Street—again. Nighttime. Cars passed. People passed. Not a single   one stopped to ask for an autograph. How low can one get? $1.87. Pocket change. Just   enough for a slice. Perhaps I'll go to one of the greatest pizzerias in Santa Monica, so say the LA Times. What do they know? In I went.

There she was. Eating by herself, reading. I loved her. That   moment. That second.   Love! What's that you're eating? I asked. 

Garlic Cheese Bread, she replied; her voice crisp, sharp, to the point. I took out a pen   and paper...

"Hi! I just wanted to say HI to the The Woman Eating The Garlic Cheese Bread. So I can say to myself, 'I said HI to The Woman Eating The Garlic Cheese Bread.' And   I can go to bed content thinking, ' I said HI to The Woman Eating The Garlic Cheese Bread.' Maybe I would get a garlic cheese bread of my own and we would eat garlic cheese bread together, go garlic cheese bread shopping, enter garlic cheese bread eating contests, make garlic cheese bread lunches, garlic cheese bread dinners, even create the first garlic cheese bread...

I sat watching her eat that garlic cheese bread, until it was gone and she gone with it. Good-bye to The Woman Eating The Garlic Cheese Bread, I waved, but my hand   didn't move. Or maybe she didn't see me. Yes, that's it. Of course! She didn't see me. I smiled and put pen back to paper...

End of Excerpt.

I fall back onto the propped pillows in Writers Bliss. What a genius I am! Clear, precise, powerful. It resonates. Now I'm depressed.

Chapter 5

My name isn't Vincent by the way. It is some derivative of that fella's name on this book cover. But that's not important. The important thing to know is that by the time you read this, I will be dead. But I need to tell this my way. And don’t worry; it’s not the husband who kills me.

Chapter 6

Let's start at the beginning, for lack of a better word.

I was born. Wait, that's too far back.

I graduate college.... mother kisses me on the cheek...no, that's still too far back.

Okay, I'm living in Los Angeles, having just finished my first flop of a novel. I'm heading to my local coffee shop/bookstore to read my self-published The 2000 N-I-G-G-A to a whopping three audience members. Three white people. It doesn't get more disheartening than that. I left.

Now I was searching. For what, I was unsure. I decided to start with the Bible. Genesis through Deuteronomy in just six short weeks. I was sold. Now I was off to convert to Judaism.

Chapter 15

Yes, you read correctly. This is Chapter fifteen. Since this is MY novel memoir I’ve decided to jump around a bit.

It was karaoke night. Cafe Havana. Wednesday. I was with my friend the Air Force pilot. He had just completed twenty years of military service and retired. He was happy to be out. Sort of. The impending question jangling in his mind was, Now what? All of his life he had been told what to do. Who calls the shots now? His wife? Certainly not. Right now he was going to drown his sorrows and questions in beer and shots while watching The NBA Finals.

I was drinking Corona; he was drinking Bud Light. The night waned on.

It was hard to concentrate on the game with all the Talent walking in. Supermodels, Ex- Supermodels, Actresses, Ex-Actresses, Housewives, Divorcees, and their daughters, who more than likely attended Pepperdine.

By the time the 4th Quarter arrived we could barely sit down. So many girls were vying for our bar stools it would have been ungentlemanly not to give them up. My friend, The Air Force Pilot, relinquished his stool to an overweight black woman, who couldn't sing, but performed like she was trying out for American Idol. I remained seated. This infuriated quite a few female vultures hovering. I didn't care.

A few hours later my friend would be expressing regret for having given up his seat. His feet hurt.

Speaking of feet. Why would you wear sandals if your toes were shaped like a gorilla’s? Enter the Divorcee. The game was over and I was stuck listening to the sexual exploits of this older woman with overly dyed blonde hair and gorilla toes.

Why do people think I would be interested in the sordid details of their personal lives? Is it because I'm Black? White people always think Blacks are super engrossed in their sad lives. We’re not.

I could see The Air Force Pilot's smirk as she emptied her dirty laundry into my ear. Her lips so close. It appears her husband—or rather ex-husband—was not a very attentive lover. So now she works out her aggressions with her plentiful supply of Boy Toys. The irony is...she's still not happy.

She speaks of her shower fiasco...and I quote, He had me pinned up against the shower...Real porno-like...My face against the shower wall...ass out... I glanced her feet. She thinks I'm getting turned on by this conversation, which I am, just not for her. You see, there's a girl dancing adjacent to me. Her jeans have little rhinestones on the back pockets. Her hair is blonde. Gentlemen don't prefer blondes. But I'm not a gentleman.

It's the way she sways, moves, dances...it's...it's.

The song is Nasty Girl. The Pepperdine Girl isn't singing it very well. Perhaps she doesn't understand. My focus is adjacent. Rhinestones, jeans, cute feet. She sips her drink and cuts me a glance. And what a glance.

Aside from the girl with the rhinestones, nothing here appeals to my senses. My friend The Air Force Pilot is captivated with all the glitz and glam; so it has made him a lackluster conversationalist. I plod on. 

What are you guys working on at the base? I ask, haphazardly.

Huh?

A bodacious blonde squeezes by, while brushing her fake chest against his arm. 

The Base. What are you guys working on at the base?

He sipped his Bud Light. Oh, the base. Yeah. We've got some really innovative stuff going on. Planes disappearing into thin air. Stuff like that. 

You mean like the Stealth Bomber? I sipped my Corona.

No, I mean like disappearing. Real Star Wars shit.

Wait, the pilot disappears as well? I looked at his boots.

Yup! Crazy, right? I test all the new stuff that comes on the base.

That gave me something to think about. While I was processing he nudged me with his elbow, Who's that? Over there? The beer on his breath was unmistakable.

In the white jeans? I had noticed her earlier.

Yeahhh... He was enraptured.

Dunno...I think she used to model or something, but you don't want that.

I don't? He was leaving for Hawaii in a week.

Nope. You want something like this. I indicated the girl with the rhinestones.

She's married. He smiled, glancing at his own wedding ring.

"I said something like that. Look at the way she moves. Sways. Look how light and lively she is. Your girl is dark and depressive without her meds."

He laughed. Yet I could tell I had him reconsidering. So much so, he began to fantasize. I could literally see it in his eyes. He didn't say a word. His eyes were raping her.

Why did I have to open my big mouth?

Chapter 7

Back to Judaism. His name was Rabbi something or other. Long Beard. Big hat. Need I say more? He sat looking at me perplexed. Like I was an enigma. His chair was uncomfortable, but I didn't mind. I rattled on about Jacob's Ladder, were there 12 or 13 Tribes of Israel? If 12, how do you account for Ephraim and Manasseh? Why do you call yourselves Jews? Jew is a person from the tribe of Judah. You're not all from the tribe of Judah.

This is all very interesting. Where did you say you were from? he questioned.

I didn't, I said, striving for leverage.

He smiled. Do you work?

Not if I can help it.

He nodded, the question still lingering.

I'm self-supported by my parents. They're both lawyers. The moment I said it, my heart sank, a tear crept into my eye. Dropped.

It was a real revelation. 

The Rabbi nodded. Rabbis certainly nod a lot. He sat there quietly looking concerned and moved at the same time. I would like you to come back, he said, still pondering, I would like to further discuss your questions. I honestly was not prepared for this. Why don't you come back, say...Monday at two o'clock?

Monday at two o'clock.

I'm sitting in the waiting room. It's plain. Dark dirty gray carpeting. Chairs with metal arm rests. Brown leather. My butt hurt. In he walks. He flashes an enormous smile. He appeared confident, which drained my confidence. Now I felt like a child being summoned into the principal’s office. Oy!

Come in, come in. The Rabbi beckoned. His voice warm, lush. I entered and sat. He had several books spread across his desk. He was calm, serene. It put me at ease. My heart was soft, open.

I slid into the chair in his office. This chair was not much more comfortable than the chair in the lobby.

Sorry, I’m a bit disorganized, he said, indicating the books piled high on his desk, but at least I’m ready. He sat across from me. To answer your questions. Yes, there are 13 tribes. But according to Torah, they count Ephraim and Manasseh as half tribes, totaling in one.

That seems off, I countered. They are all from the sons of Israel, they should count as their own tribe. My heart was soft, but my mind was still working.

That is how the Talmud describes it. He handed me the