Daydream Believer...

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by Andrea Lena DiMaggio

Montville, New Jersey....Summer, 1968

Darren sat in the chair in the corner of the dimly lit living room; a rare night of television with the whole family; the whole family being Darren and his parents. His mother was sitting on the couch as usual; her blanket and pillow lay off to the side belying the fact that it was her bed most of the time.

Tony sat in the arm chair across from the couch; the cardboard beer container lay empty on the floor and his head was lolled off to the side. Even still, the odds of him waking up during the program made it impossible for Darren to ‘enjoy’ the program, if by 'enjoy' you mean being reminded of how odd and strange he felt about himself. The figure on the screen was familiar, and yet evoked an almost loathing from the boy; both for the character and for himself as the young man almost pranced around pretending to be a girl.

“What the…what a fag,” his father murmured as he sat up, taking notice of the music. He leaned closer and turned the volume down as the boy slunk further into the chair. His mother looked over at her husband and frowned before taking a sip of her own beer.

“What the hell is this shit on for anyway? I told you I wanted to watch Gunsmoke.” He slurred the words. Helen didn’t bother to answer since he was almost in enough of a stupor to fall back asleep; something he did almost immediately after he finished talking. She was going to suggest they watch The Man from Uncle to Darren, but he had already gotten up to tap his father on the shoulder.

“Come on…let’s get you to bed.” The man growled a bit in his sleep before rousing enough to walk to the bedroom where he collapsed in a heap over the covers.

“Nite, Dad…” Darren said as his father began to snore loudly. He came back to the living room to find his mother working on her second quart of beer. He kissed her on the forehead.

“Nite, Mommy.” She blinked back some tears and grabbed his hand almost blindly.

“Nite, honey. Mommy loves you so much.” He kissed her cheek before walking down the hallway to his bedroom. He closed the door behind him and slid a bolt across the jamb to lock himself in. He stripped quickly and tossed his clothes in the basket in the corner before looking in the mirror.

At seventeen he looked more like a boy just entering high school rather than one on the verge of college. His pale skin was almost at odds with his Sicilian name; something else to thank his Scots-Irish mom for. The rest of his form was more to be blamed on a treacherous or benevolent deity, depending upon how he felt about himself at any particular moment. Tonight he was torn; almost cursing and thanking God at the same time as he reached into his closet and pulled out a Fordham gym bag with a zipper secured by a small combination lock.

Cheer up, sleepy Jean, oh what can it mean
To a daydream believer and a homecoming queen?

A few moments later the boy had been replaced by a fairly ordinary looking girl; adorned with a lime green and yellow striped polyester mini-dress. She stood a bit taller on strappy green sandals with two inch block heels, and her legs shone from a brand new pair of sheer pantyhose. She looked in the mirror. Her dark brown hair brushed against the big shirt-type white collar of the dress and she felt oddly comforted by the tickle of the curls that touched the back of her neck.

The sound of the television was muffled enough by the door, which also served to keep the girl’s sleeping parents from interrupting the music that hissed and popped from the cheap record player on her desk.

Only one thing left to do; almost a weekly ritual which became more frequent as her resolve to be herself grew. She pulled the cardboard backed poster from her closet and pulled off the big decoy picture of Joe Namath to reveal her prize possession. She propped the poster on top of her desk against the wall and retreated to her bed where she lay down on top of the covers and leaned her head against the pillows propped against the headboard.

Oh I could hide 'neath the wings of the bluebird as she sings
The six o'clock alarm would never ring
But it rings and I rise, wipe the sleep out of my eyes
My shaving razor's cold and it stings

A few minutes later the boy turned his head to the side and coughed, hoping to cover the out-of-breath sounds as he came. The handsome boy singer in the poster seemed to gaze in amazement and disgust; his eyes almost following the boy as he got up and went to the bathroom. He stripped off the clothing that had comforted and betrayed him both and shoved the garments rudely back into the gym bag. Stepping into the shower he turned the handle, not bothering to wait for the hot water to kick in. A few moments later he turned the water off and grabbed a towel off the rack. As he grabbed it, he was tempted to wrap it around his torso, but instead scrubbed the water off his body quickly before stepping out of the shower.

The large picture of Broadway Joe was attached onto the poster once again with paper clips and placed carefully back in the closet. He hadn’t even bothered to get dressed; his robe was probably in the laundry already, and the cold air from his drafty bedroom finally pushed him urgently to his dresser, where he grabbed some clean whites and a faded blue tee. He pulled the clothing on quickly before turning off the light and hopping into bed.

The last song on the album ended and the needle skipped until he got back out of bed and turned off the record player. The lyrics seemed to condemn the boy; at least that’s what he thought. He frowned and picked up the album, almost tempted to scale it across the room, but it cost too much to waste and he couldn’t afford to explain the loud noise to his drunken parents. He handled it gingerly instead, replacing it in the paper sleeve before sliding it into the cover. He walked back and climbed into bed.

Closing his eyes, he was flooded with odd and wondrous and sad and angry emotions as the scene he had imagined only minutes before played out like a movie in his head.

“You’re pretty, Darien,” the handsome young man said to her as he placed his hand on her thigh.

“Oh, Davey…that’s such a sweet thing to say.” She kissed him lightly on the cheek and he returned the favor by kissing her full on the lips as he pushed her gently back on the bed. She had never felt this kind of love in her life and here and now she was being loved by her favorite singer. He was gentle and kind and made her feel more alive than at any time in her life....

The ‘movie’ seemed to change; turning on a dime as they say. The scene distorted; almost like watching acetate melt in a dream turned nightmare. The young man still smiled and kissed and touched gently, but instead of a girl feeling love and life, the boy lay on his bed feeling nothing but shame and sadness. The scene dissipated like a vapor as the real world intruded with his uncomfortable mattress and even more uncomfortable confusion about whom and what he was. He raised his head a bit and looked toward his open closet door, spotting the gym bag lying on the floor. As he gazed at the bag, it was almost as if he could see the clothes once again, but now feeling detached from them as if they belonged to someone else.

And they did.

* * * * *

The tall girl stood behind woman seated under the awning as the rain cascaded behind them. She wore a plain black sleeveless shift covered by a thin black raincoat. Her heels were flat; owing more to the weather than convention. The hat she wore was a black silk pillbox that her aunt had loaned her; the only other one in the family who actually cared about her. The lace veil only partially covered her face and did nothing to hide her look of relief; a look mirrored in no small way by the woman sitting in the chair in front of her. She leaned closer and kissed the woman on the cheek. The woman lifted her head slightly and brushed the girl’s veil aside to return the favor, saying finally,

“Thank you, Darien, honey. Mommy loves you very much.”

Cheer up, sleepy Jean, oh what can it mean
To a daydream believer and a homecoming queen?


Daydream Believer
words and music by
John C. Stewart
as performed by
Anne Murray
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RIrPU1yA90o

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Comments

Rip davey jones

A touching story and a fine tribute to Davey Jones. May he Rest in Peace.

I wonder if this will be the final entry.

Rami

RAMI

wait....what?

Raff01's picture

Davie Jones is dead? I thought Tork would go first due to cancer. Guess it is time to dust off my Monkee cds

I Think There Was A Silver Lining On This Cloud

littlerocksilver's picture

You play with my mind. How you can bring tears to my eyes so quickly I'm not sure. The words in the song are a bit scary, and I was so worried that suicide was in the offing. We don't know for sure what transpired, but I feel that several things worked out for the better - I hope.

Portia

so sad ....

and so true to life for so many of us. And a lovely song, too.

you owe me for the box of Kleenex I used because of this one.

DogSig.png

we all come home in the end...

Poignant, and wonderfully expressed. I enjoyed that very much, despite the reminder of us all being here for such a short time. Love Ginger x

Did You Know?

joannebarbarella's picture

About Davey Jones?

Joanne

Once more with feeling

Beauty and sadness in a vignette, Andrea. Perhaps the tragic realism -- shared by so many of us in those teen years -- is so well-expressed due to the autobiographical nature of this story. Well done!

This is a wonderful tribute and very well written.

You owe me a box of tissues for this one. This little short story is very vivid and the emotions just reach out and touch a person. It is awful the way we are judged for things that aren't true.

"Look at the way,
we gotta hide what we're doing,
cause what would they say,
if they ever knew?

And so we're running just as fast as we can,
holding out to one another's hand
trying to get away in to the night,
and then we tumble to the ground
and then you say.

I think we're alone now,
the beating of our hearts is the only sound,
I think we're alone now,
there doesn't seem to be anyone around.
(I Think We're Alone Now/Tommy James & The Shondells)

This little story gives the reader something to really think about. Shame and disgust followed by a sense of identity. It is too bad that many of us have taken suicide as a way out, or self mutilation to rid ourselves of that gross thing we shouldn't have had in the first place. I hope and pray that some day we will be accepted for who we are, and that we will be able to start transition earlier than mid teens, and have the surgeries to make us whole before we are eighteen. Wouldn't that be a wonderful world?

"With confidence and forbearance, we will have the strength to move forward."

Love & hugs,
Barbara

"If I have to be this girl in me, Then I have the right to be."

A 60's Childhood

laika's picture

This brings back memories. The one television family,
the Father sneering at the unmanly long haired weirdo on the tv
(In my case it was Donovan on the Smothers Brothers show,
he had a circle of wannabe hippies seated around him on the stage,
tittering at some joke he told, and my Dad was convinced they
were laughing AT him for being such a wimpy-ass limey poof...)
While the son cringes, wishing he'd be allowed to grow his own hair longer
for reasons that had little to do with any counterculture pretensions.

The Monkees were pure product, cynically produced by some cigar chomping exec
wanting to cash in on the whole 60's rock and roll rebellion thing;
but they were perfect for kids like us back in those days.
Essentially good spirited and harmless.

This story and the context of Davey Jones' death
reminds me of this song http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mdd5xI9l7Ns
for some reason, my favorite Monkeees song, which I believe was written by Carol King
(they had some really excellent song writers, Harry Nillson was another...);
The melancholy and sense of loss coming through the cryptic "psychedelic" lyrics.
~hugs, Veronica

My, my the clock in the sky is pounding away
There's so much to say
A face, a voice, an overdub has no choice
And it cannot rejoice

Wanting to be, to hear and to see
Crying to the sky
But the porpoise is laughing good-bye, good-bye...
Good-bye, good-bye, good-bye...

.
The closest approximation to what it's like in my brain:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=u08E7c-FRbU&t=4s

A wonderful tribute...

Ole Ulfson's picture

But perhaps also a sad little wish for what might have been with more loving parents. Sigh...

Our plight wasn't easy with the best of parents especially back in the '50s & '60s when they were fighting their upbringing and expectations. It was a different world then. But still, hiding kills the soul.

Life is what it is; but it could be so much more!

Ole

We are each exactly as God made us. God does not make mistakes!

Gender rights are the new civil rights!

This beautiful story.

I have been lurking here forever and have read many great stories by many great authors (you are one of my favorites). But this story made me create a profile and leave you a note. I had a chore trying to explain my tears to my coworkers. In a short passage you have spurred me to join the one community that will see me as I am and not what the world sees. All the more poignant that it includes mention of Davey Jones, that brought back many happy childhood memories of which there were to few. Thank you.


I wear this crown of thorns
Upon my liar's chair
Full of broken thoughts
I cannot repair