Gerald Everett Jones's Blog: Gerald Everett Jones - Author, page 31

Not Quite After Lisette: A Short Story - Part 1

I decided to send her a card on her birthday.

For me, it was an act of courage. The act of phoning instead seemed easy enough, but I knew I wasn't up to the challenge emotionally. No matter how I imagined the conversation beforehand, I expected a bad outcome. She might try to be polite initially, might even inquire about my feelings for a change, but I dreaded her delivering a lecture before it was all done. Her professional training was of absolutely no use to her when matters came down to her personal life, but she didn't know this about herself yet. Upon taking an immediate dislike to someone at a party, she'd turn to me and confide, "Character disorder." The combination of sarcasm and professionalism in such a gorgeous creature was baffling, but that was Lisette. The fact that I can't help picturing her in a pair of black fishnet stockings bent over a leather ottoman keeps me from being totally objective about her, I suppose.

I overcame the temptation to pick a card with some coy double meaning, a game she often played that I find particularly hateful. She was biting the Big Four Oh this time, so I had plenty of humorous choices to reject. (I knew she was sensitive on the subject because she had said absolutely nothing about it to me  –  no sarcasm, no hints, no leading questions.) The sheer mental energy I spent on my selection was a good measure of how complicated my feelings for her had become. Looking at the relationship from something like her professional viewpoint, I'd say I had a neurotic fixation, as if we were acquaintances catching the faint scent of a chemistry between us, each sniffing the other, not even daring to date yet. Instead, she moved out, our community is dissolved, and I don't like her anymore. But, I wouldn't go so far as to say I don't love her. I'm like a tree with its bark grown around a strand of barbed wire, so interpenetrated that extraction is not possible without a lot of destructive cutting. I don't have any idea how we are supposed to continue, but I acknowledge that we must, at least long enough to be sure Andy is okay with all of it. For my part, I didn't know what I wanted, after Lisette. For her part, she wanted to be away from me but took great delight in trying to control my life at a distance. I was afraid she could do it.

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Book Review: Ballad of the Black and Blue Mind

People might say a tween is “mixed up.” Or that an older person is “confused.” But in everyone—whether disturbed or mellow—the mind is a bubbling froth that isn’t the same from one moment to the next.

Has your mindset changed as a result of the lockdowns?

It's understandable that people in lockdown go stir-crazy. But some brain specialists believe that mental stability is a delicate balance for everyone, all the time. Here's another work of literary fiction that will get you thinking about thinking.

I offer for your thoughtful consideration Ballad of the Black and Blue Mind by Anne Roiphe.

If you're in therapy or considering it, you may find this novel unsettling. But perhaps also strangely comforting. It's about Manhattan psychiatrist Dr. Estelle Berman, and two of her colleagues – middle-aged men identified only as Dr. H and Dr. Z. Most of the other characters in the book are their students or their patients. And all of these lives intersect and become entangled.

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Chemistry: A Short Story - Part Two

We all know lessons learned often don’t stick for life.

After a few minutes of preparation, I inserted the acid ball in the left end, and she popped the base into the right. We waited awhile, and I stifled a yawn.

After a full minute, no ring.

We had both done the experiment several times before, first as coursework when we took the class, then later as lab assistants when we supported other students. It always took just a few seconds for the ring to form, and like the distance calculations, the time lapse should have been consistent from one trial to the next.

We repeated the experiment four more times that day, each time with the same – that is, no – result.

As we were about to clear the counter at the end of the period, Maxwell hustled over: "Well?"

This time, Liz spoke. "It seems we're doing something wrong, too."

Maxwell looked totally stumped. "That so? Show me."

It took two minutes to repeat the experiment in front of him.

Again, a negative result.

We all stared at the clear tube. Perhaps to appear more diligent, I checked my watch.

"Imagine that," Maxwell muttered, and walked back into his office.

"This is stupid," I said to her after he'd gone. "There's something he's not telling us."

"I know," she said. "And it makes me feel stupid. Must be something really dumb we're overlooking."

"We'll nail it next time," I said.

With a meaningful glance over to Maxwell's closed office door, she said, "We'd better."

During our next session, we tried reagents from different trays. Then we tried different tubes, and we broke open a fresh package of cotton balls.

A dozen tries, a dozen total failures.

As we stared at yet another blank tube, suddenly there was Maxwell.

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Guest Post from Moscow: The Journey to Stardom

Los Angeles and Moscow link up in this freewheeling interview exploring showbiz, Hollywood, and the art of storytelling. The show is Being Modern, Being Human, hosted by Inna Logunova.

As she describes our excited exchange of views:

In this episode, we step behind the scenes of showbiz and the entertainment industry. What sacrifices one has to make on their journey to fame? How does Hollywood operate? Where is the line between the constructed public image and the real person? We explore these questions and more with award-winning author Gerald Everett Jones whose recent novel, “Mick & Moira & Brad,” inspired this conversation.

This interview is filled with real-life anecdotes, curious details, and plenty of insights about life, love, and the art of storytelling.

You can find Being Modern, Being Human on most podcasts feeds, including Apple.

And you can find the book on Amazon, as well as from booksellers worldwide.

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Book Review: The Forgery of Venus

Think about the time-honored celebrity status of jewel thieves in books and movies. Aren't they typically romantic characters, admired for their cleverness, and intending physical harm to no one?

Here's my book review of The Forgery of Venus by Michael Gruber.

The Forgery of Venus by Michael Gruber (William Morrow)

Gruber's writing style has a voice, and right away that puts him at the top of my list. Besides the plotting, which goes back and forth in time in ways I've never experienced in a book, The Forgery of Venus fascinates in two other ways – its meticulous description of painting technique and its depiction of mental illness. Peter Carey's Theft, which I also enjoyed, also has these two elements. The neurological issues are reminiscent of another masterpiece novel, The Marriage Plot by Jeffrey Eugenides, which I reviewed in a previous post.

The protagonist of this novel is Chaz Wilmont, an accomplished fine arts painter. He's a brilliant technician but insecure about his creativity. His insecurity is rooted in the emotional abuse he received from his father, who was also a famous painter and intensely jealous of his son.

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Chemistry: A Short Story - Part One

Here’s some fiction—or at least my memory of it is so fuzzy the facts have become blurred with fantasy.

You can't tell teenagers anything.

That's because we think we will live forever. By the time we realize that's not true, we're older, in which case we're not teenagers anymore. Or we're dead, and we can't know anything, or at least we're not in a state of being that qualifies as being a teenager any longer. In any case, quod erat demonstrandum – as my geometry teacher used to say – you can't tell teenagers anything.

I don't know how I got on the subject of geometry when I intended to talk about chemistry. Chemistry was my best subject in high school, and I don't mean the hormonal kind, although I worked pretty hard at that, too. No, I'm talking real chemical bonds, the molecular kind, not the body-locking, fluid-swapping kind, although that aspect came into play eventually.

Her name was Elizabeth Bressler – with a last name to match those nicely rounded, perfectly developed breasts of hers – but I'll touch on those, I mean, come back to her, later, and the chemistry we shared.

It all started because, in the chemistry department, I was ahead of my time, literally. I had transferred into the Baltimore school system from suburban Chicago, only to find that the beer-swilling crab crunchers of my new home were on a totally different academic program from the beer-swilling sausage stuffers I'd left behind. In my four-year high school back on the verge of the Windy City, high school ran four years – freshman, sophomore, junior, senior – and so did the science curriculum – biology, chemistry, physics, and Advance Placement science, or AP. AP was a college-level course in one of the other three sciences so you could get a head start becoming a big man on campus. But in the Baltimore system, junior high ran three rather than two years, leaving only three for high school – sophomore, junior, senior. And so the science courses ran in parallel – biology, chemistry, physics – with no AP even possible. So when I transferred as a sophomore who had already completed freshman biology, I was a year ahead, at least in science. They put me in chemistry class, as I expected, but with a roomful of juniors. So I'd skipped a grade without doing anything, like it must be to fall through a wormhole in space and end up on the other side of the galaxy without having to waste any of your precious proton-drive fuel.

My new lab partners were a couple of seniors (the killer couple, I called them, and her knockers were not bad either) who complained almost immediately to the teacher, a dyspeptic Scotsman named Mr. Maxwell, that I was not of their caliber. I hadn't been taught to wash out beakers properly (according to his rules). And what was worse, I didn't respond to direction (namely, theirs) – which actually further reinforces my contention that you can't tell teenagers anything.

So cranky Maxwell called me into his office and informed me that my fellow lab rats had ratted me out. Shape up, he told me, or you're getting reassigned. People apparently don't like people who skip a grade without earning it, especially if they then brag about it and compound the insult by comparing the cheap, Army-surplus lab gear furnished by the state of Maryland to the shiny, class-A gear they give you in the enlightened state of Illinois. Me, I didn't see the point of his threatening to remove me from their sway. Maybe he'd reassign me to somebody I could taunt and dominate. There were plenty of rats in the room, and some of them looked downright cuddly and cute in their fuzzy sweaters, although I'd not yet had an older woman.

Not that I said all this to Maxwell in so many words. I was missing the point, he said. He'd assigned me to the two top students in the school (yes, the killer couple), and I should count myself damned lucky. Because, he said, they are not only his star students, but they are also his specially appointed lab assistants – meaning, they get certain janitorial and paperwork chores around the lab – and they grade all the tests and papers he assigns.

Point taken. So getting bumped off the starting lineup with the killer couple would cost more than just ego points. With them wielding the red pencil, I could forget about scoring bonuses on any exam or extra credit on any paper for the rest of the semester.

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Preacher Raises the Dead: What's behind the story?

IWOSC meeting host Steven Sanchez was curious about the medical, moral, and legal research I undertook to inform the story of Preacher Raises the Dead, when Evan anguishes over a dear patient in a coma.

Guest preacher Evan Wycliff gets pulled into schemes and intrigues because sometimes no one else in this small town will take the side of the victims.

In the first novel in this series, Preacher Finds a Corpse, Evan investigates the untimely death of his best friend. The authorities rule it a suicide, but Evan isn't so sure. But even if Bob Taggart took his own life - did someone drive him to it?

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In the second book, Preacher Fakes a Miracle, Evan uncovers a trafficking ring tied to local charities that is not only exploiting young women but also selling child adoptions. Oddly, his reputation is enhanced because some folks believe in demonic possession.

In the third installment, Preacher Raises the Dead, Evan's reputation precedes him, and he has to manage expectations he can work miracles. Stepping into the role of full-time minister, he quickly finds out the work is harder than he imagined, and his success at seeking a wider audience stirs controversies.

Pulled into ministerial responsibilities during the onset of Covid, Evan must now visit the sick and the dying. A central crisis in the story has him dealing with someone dear to him who is in a coma with only marginal hope of recovery. I researched Near-Death Experience (NDE), neurological bases of consciousness, and therapeutic approaches at end-of-life, along with legal and moral implications of euthanasia.

Is Evan a faith healer? That’s the rumor in this little farm community.

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Does Hollywood promote gun violence?

When a Hollywood studio exec tells the writer to “raise the stakes,” it almost always means “threaten to kill someone.”

When I was writing Bonfire of the Vanderbilts, I fretted about how to resolve the plot. Admittedly, it’s a “woman-jeopardy” story, and one form of abuse she gets is gaslighting by a malevolent spouse.

The novel has a parallel plot about a century-old art scandal involving the family of Cornelius Vanderbilt II during the late nineteenth century. Only after I’d written the book did I learn that art theft and art forgery have become a popular genre in historical fiction.

At the same time, I was imagining how the complex, interwoven plots would play as a streaming TV series. So to resolve my puzzlement, I resorted to a technique that author Michel Houellebecq used in his novel The Map and the Territory - I inserted myself into the drama as a principal character.

Here follows the chapter from Bonfire the Vanderbilts in which a fictional character with my name takes a meeting at Spectacular Artists Agency about what must be done to his story before his reps will consider selling the movie rights.

Chapter 31: At Spectacular Artists

Monday, April 13, 2015, Century City

Gerald Everett Jones drove his 2005 Chevy Malibu north on  Avenue of the Stars and pulled into the driveway of the long, glistening building that housed Spectacular Artists. Although he’d passed the place any number of times, he’d never been inside. He’d had some dealings with them at the old location on Wilshire Boulevard, which was itself an impressive designer structure. This new one appeared to be constructed entirely of tinted glass and seemed more appropriate to some secret government agency where people puzzled over computer displays behind cypher-locked doors.

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James Bond's E. Jean Carroll Moment

Times have changed. The Hugh Hefner era coincided with the introduction of the birth control pill, the feminist revolution, and the notion that sex for reasons other than that procreation might not be sinful, even recreational and normal.

Certainly, none of this would have been news to earlier generations, but sexual promiscuity until about the 1960s had been like alcohol under Prohibition - something most people wanted to do - and many did - but as a social norm was considered shameful.

It’s amazing to me now that James Bond was ever openly admired. But because I lived through that era - I know that such aggressiveness was considered by many to be a role model for macho behavior.

This clip doesn’t show what Bond did to the nurse in the steam room, which viewers were made to assume she enjoyed because of his irresistible endowment and prowess. Viewing this clip in the light of today’s sensibilities, I’d say her actions here weren’t meant as an invitation. So, even within the context of movie fiction, the filmmakers must have assumed that showing she said no would simply encourage him.

The further implication is that she didn’t really mean it. That’s where it goes all wrong.

Reading from 'Preacher Fakes a Miracle'

Some troubled teens are in much more trouble than they realize.

The gentrification of Missouri farmland has brought not only casino culture but also investors and influencers from all over the world. Evan Wycliff, a lapsed Baptist minister and unconfessed agnostic, often gets dragged into dealing with problems others have given up solving. There's an orphanage that serves young women, and some get placed in part-time work at the lakeside resorts.

They're supposed to be working in the laundry. But some have been pushed upstairs.

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And then the prettiest one goes missing...

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