Another chunk of the
“Brookdale Mythos” or “Brookdale Cycle”, here....this one is
more or less a kind of “Prequel” to my novel, HELLO, UGLY, taking
place in the '60's. Old Man Delprete is kind of a peripheral
“character” in the book in that the teenagers who are the main
characters bust into what, according to urban legend, is an old,
abandoned “murder house”, wherein they find sheets over a lot of
the old furniture and they party, socialize, wear the sheets and run
around acting like ghosts....they drink a toast to Old Man Delprete,
the historic murderer the urban legends are all based around.
This is Old Man Delprete's
story.
In the act of compiling short
stories for two collections I've decided to drop this one from the
list (so I'm putting it here). Reason one is that whenever I revise
HELLO I'm probably dropping the section in the Delprete House...it's
excessive and heavy-handed and I don't think it adds anything of
substance to the story. So “OMD” ends up with less of a context.
I also have my doubts as to how well the story, as a whole,
“works”...kind of overwritten, and I'm not too sure the
multipart, multivoice structure functions well, particularly the kind
of dark folk ballad sections---you could tell I was listening to a
lot of Nick Cave at the time. Does it work? You tell me....
Nothing earth-shattering went
into the guts of this---a little Faulkner here, a little Bloch there,
some Selby frosted over the top----the “cake” of it all is my
interest in the case of John List, and if you don't know who he is,
you should look him up. It's an interesting case and I'm not gonna
say anything else.
Oh---yeah---because you can't
take such things for granted these days, the “N” word gets used
in this story. Sorry, I'm not taking it out. This character's entire
motivation is his fear of all the change and social upheaval around
him....that's the way he thinks and that's the word he uses. I'm not
in the habit of self-censoring for the Politically Dainty, so rather
than engage in mealy-mouthed apologetics
I'm doubling down. The word stays. I
don't think I should have to lecture you lot like a goddamned grade
school teacher but evidently these days you need to preface
everything because everyone's like a goddamn child.
And get offa my lawn.
Anyway, enough ranting.
Here's “Old Man Delprete”.
OLD MAN DELPRETE
I
Old Man Delprete sits with his
wife and two sons in the basement sitting room he has constructed for
them. He leans forward in his easy chair and scowls at the television
set. His boy Liston once again failed to beat that uppity,
loudmouthed commie nigger who'd claimed he was a Muslim rather than
fight for his country. Disgrace, yes, a disgrace. And funny business,
as far as he could see. That wasn't any kind of a punch. Dirty
Italian Mafia Fixers, no doubt---anyone could see the Mafia were in
cahoots with the Commies. They ran everything now----ran the U.S.
Mail, ran all the shows in Atlantic City, for sure. Just as well, he
figures. If this were the old days he'd have most likely gone down to
Sully's and shot his mouth off. Old Man Delprete isn't much for going
out these days---more content to stay home with the family and watch
it all go to hell from the basement.
Still, it's a disgrace about
Clay, or whatever it is he's going to call himself now, and he tells
his wife so. No reply. No reply needed. She's smiling and she
understands. He loves her so much. And the boys. Perfect young men.
Old Man Delprete sits back and
reflects upon the ominous state of the world. Portent, he believes
the word is. It's different from the old days. Can't tell who your
neighbors are. Crime. Immorality. Widespread acceptance of Communism.
Where are our values going? Old
Man Delprete asks himself this a lot.
But a man shouldn't dwell on the
negatives, he supposes, but instead look on his fortune and thank the
Lord for simple things. Home. Family. The things that have real
meaning.
Old Man Delprete thinks this
and smiles at his wife. He looks at her, closely. Something's wrong.
II
The obsidian cloud settle over
the small town of Brookdale. Visitation of the evil and the madness O
woe O day O woe to little Brookdale. The shadows clutch n drown poor
little Brookdale.
The grass grow long an a monster
keeps his little hell in Brookdale. The secret cloaked in a decayin
paint on a quiet little street in Brookdale.
III
Old Man Delprete takes a walk
over to his workbench and looks for the needed instruments---oh, he
must heal his wife---the larger ones----no, he needs the finer ones.
A few minutes later he returns
to the sitting room and heals his wife. Magic. The magic of love. He
touches up her face, the perfect shade of red, replenishes her
winning smile...
Much better.
IV
Mabel Watson put down her
teacup. She thought about the friends she'd known all her life, those
she'd grown up and gone to school with, how it seemed that all moved
away a long time ago. No jobs in Brookdale. No life in Brookdale.
Honey, thjis town just isn't going anywhere. It'll die where it is
right now.
Even young Agnes had stopped
coming over to play Rummy, like she used to.
Mabel's son and daughter said
they wanted to move her into a rest home. They said they'd been
worried about her.
Terrible. Locking her in a rest
home.
She thought about looking for Irv
out in the back yard and calling him in for lunch. Then she
remembered that, of course, there was no point to that. Irv had been
dead for at least five years.
Maybe ten.
Could you blame a girl for
getting lonely? And now all this business with the rest home. Just
look at the way all her old friends had moved away, as had her
children---so long ago.
Even young Agnes had stopped
coming over to play Rummy, like she used to.
V
Enter the Electric Man.
Christ, thinks the Electric Man
stalking through tall grass headed round back the house to read the
meter, don't these people ever mow the lawn?
Finally he finds the meter next
to the window and takes the reading
Job done the Electric Man turns to
go one stray bored eye peering casually in the basement window
Storefront display
What the----?
VI
Horror, freezing cold, digs deep
into Old Man Delprete. It was there. He's sure, this time. Again. The
phantom. The pervert. Peeping.
The face. The face in the window.
God almighty, a man and his
family aren't safe in their own home anymore.
Old Man Delprete frowns, grimaces
with iron resolve.
--I will not, he screams, will
not lie down to the decay the immorality swallowing America---they
can't do this to me!
Gun
VII
The Electric Man
doubles over and weeps.
VIII
The children in the schoolyard
loiter and talk.
--Yeah we went downa the
cranberry bog yesterday tryin to catch some frogs. Didn't find any.
--Aw, man, the cranberry bog?
Down by Delpretes?
--Yeah, An' what about it? Ain't
nobody lives down there.
--I hear Old Man Delprete still
lives down there.
--Oh he died years ago.
--You mean 'e's a ghost?
--Naw, I don't mean 'e's a
ghost. Grow up, will ya? All I'm sayin' is there ain't no Old Man
Delprete an' he's just dead, he ain't no boogeyman in his cave,
stewin' kids, is all.
---That house is empty an' has
been for years. Ain't no Old Man Delprete, he was just this old fart
moved away a long time ago.
---Scary house, though.
--Pshaw!
IX
Old Man Delprete finds the
pervert cowering by the side of the house. Grovelling. Drooling.
Aims, fires. Justice is
dispensed.
X
The boys gather 'round Sully's
after work for a few rounds of beer.
--Well, sighs Levesque, godda go
back to the missus before she starts suspectin' . Round of laughter
from the boys.
--Ah, Levesque, chuckles
Thibodeau, ya Missus is in good hands. Another round of laughter. I
gotcher Missus right here.
---Seeya. Hi to the wife. Etc.
More drinking. Talking.
Reminiscing. The boys grow a little older and smile. They are the old
boys of Brookdale. Pushin' for that pension. Every night work. Every
day Sully's. They are comfortable. Waiting to die.
--Ah, says LaPierre, ain't the
same. Alla good people, the ole folks, movin' outta town...
--Ain't what it used to be.
--Nope.
--Know what we could use around
here? Asks Old Jean.
--Some life, cracks Thibodeau.
--We could use ole Delprete.
--Ah, go on.
--No, no! Hear me out!
--Get outta here. Delprete was a
crazy old cuss.
--He was one of the boys! An'
lemme tell you he had some life in him...
--All Delprete ever did was go
on an' on about this'n'that'n'the world goin' to hell an' such.
--Here, here.
--Delprete was a bore. An' he
only got worse after his taxidermy business went under. Went buggy.
Good riddance.
--No, no! Says Old Jean. Ain't
nobody could replace Delprete...ya may have disagreed with his grumpy
ass on the time of day, but you remember every conversation you ever
had with him, yeah?
--Can ya believe this?!
--Ain't nobody could replace
Delprete, nobody. Look at alla you, ya deadasses, you go from here to
there an' back again. Whaddya do, huh? Whaddya do? Delprete, he was a
character....
---Ah, go on....
XI
Old Man Delprete manages to weigh
down the Electric Man using cinderblocks from the cellar. The
cranberry bog sucks him down.
XII
A hole opened up where a life
once was, and a name, a tiny world, is blotted out in Brookdale.
Ravens in heir solemn ritual
pace dropping roses down 'round Brookdale's shame....
XIII
Legend.
The children for generations will
ring their laughing, dancing plague circles round, chant the grisly
legend of Old Man Delprete.
The stories vary. The number of
victims shift. The misdeeds grow and distort and intensify in Legend.
XIV
Old Man Delprete sits and beams at
his fine family. Agnes smiling, starry-eyed. The boys now perfect
young men. Steadfast. Tall.
When things get too much, one must
fight. There are very few things in this world that are of lasting
importance. A man must defend and protect those that matter. Nothing
must come between a man and his home, his family.
Sometimes, one has to make the
hard decisions. One must sacrifice. Sometimes harsh measures must be
followed in order to teach those who might make wrong turns, so that
they might eventually pursue the right course. He has no doubt about
that now.
Old Man Delprete frowns
thoughtfully. He figures he ought to tend to the lawn.
Maybe later. It seems to be one of
those things he always puts off. Maybe later.
Thooming raps on the front door
upstairs. Damned IRS. Best to just ignore it.
XV
cranes in the cranberry bog. The yellow
line. Brookdale opens its eyes and screams at its face takes up the
mask nails it to its face in terror, never to remove it again.
Smash the mirror, little Brookdale.
XVI
In the tiny room Old Man Delprete
sits frail in the wooden chair and he smiles a nervous smile. A
parade of men walk in and out.
It all frightens him a little bit.
He asks when he might be allowed
to go back to his family.
XVII
A tiny, hunched and humble man
crosses the threshold on a gray horizon and shuffles into myth.
copyright 1992 C.F.
Roberts,
2019 Molotov
Editions
“Old Man Delprete” was
picked up and run by a zine out of Maine called GOTHICA. Don't know
what ever became of it----the editor, who's apparently one more
person from back then who just dropped off the face of the earth, ran
a couple of things of mine---she respected me as a writer although
for some bizarre reason we never got along. A lot of it may have been
our different approaches to the word “Gothic”, which to her meant
Anne Rice----to me it meant The Sisters of Mercy and the Cure, or on
a literary angle, Goethe, the Bronte Sisters, et. al. So we didn't
necessarily get off on the right foot...she always perceived us, for
some inexplicable reason, as being diametrically opposed on some
ethical or philosophical level. Even her glowing mention of me in
editorials were undercut by bizarre little “digs”. Hey, my ethics
and philosophies amounted to this: I'm just some fucking guy who
writes stories.
However, the lady was kind
enough to publish me in her mag, and she also supported a good many
writers I knew who were worthy of the attention. So wherever she may
be, hats off to her.
THIS WEEK'S PLAYLIST:
THE KINKS-Arthur (Or the Decline and
Fall of the British Empire)
FAITH NO MORE-King for a Day, Fool for
a Lifetime
FAITH NO MORE-Angel Dust
