A Day In The Life of Mr. D
Quasi-fiction based on an interview conducted with Brett Dennen via Skype by Super Sarah in January, 2011
Brett Dennen, known around these Eisenhower-era hallways as Mr. D, was spending his mid-morning break in the teachers’ lounge enjoying a freshly-juiced blend of kale, apple, beet, and carrot.
“For real, Brett,” said Sasha Freelander, known by the students as Mrs. F, as she entered the room and noticed his beverage of choice. “I bet you shit, like, four times a day.”
Mr. D smiled, unembarrassed. “You don’t?” He asked. “You’re probably blocked up.”
“Jesus,” she said, also smiling.
“Do you remember that polenta mash at Debbie’s pot-luck last week? Remember? It had soybeans and all kinds of awesome stuff in it. But still. I had to take a laxative afterward.”
“You? Took a laxative?” She was incredulous.
“It was all-natural. It was pretty much herbs.”
Mrs. F laughed. Surely this was not the kind of conversation her students referred to as ‘talking shit.’ She removed her own snack from the fridge, a small piece of leftover quiche, and took out a few papers to grade. The air conditioner was broken and on a warmer day like this one (it was ninety three), they were the only two teachers in the room.
“You know, I thought I was being clever with this assignment,” she said to Mr. D. “I asked the kids to consider their lives in chapters and to write a table of contents.”
“Interesting,” he said. “Even if they’re only twelve.”
“Yeah, I know, they don’t have decades and decades of life experience. But I wanted to get them thinking about the way time passes, and how events can weigh that movement down. It’s never too early for self-reflection.”
“I agree with that, for sure, Sasha,” he said, swigging. “But I don’t think life is linear like that. Why not bounce around? Why not divide it up into categories like ‘family’ and ‘love’?” He thought for a minute. “If someone asked me to do that, I might write a whole chapter about how I came to think of myself as a teacher.”
“Brett,” she said, “that’s beautiful. Really. And maybe that would work in our adult world. But I wanted them to think chronologically. I wanted them to start doing the math of their lives. Sure, they’re twelve, and next they’ll be fifteen. Then twenty, then middle-aged.”
“Are you feeling a little stressed out, there?” Mr. D replied, eyebrow up. “I guess it’s good news for you that today’s Friday.”
“Yeah. I really couldn't be happier that it’s the end of the week. But the point is, my little experiment totally failed. Probably ninety percent of them have the same chapter headings. Or, you know, chapter themes. There’s a lot of dogs or hamsters or grandmothers dying. There’s a lot of first slumber parties or first summer camps or first time away from their parents.”
“Jesus, Sasha, cut them some slack. Don’t you remember your first pet dying? Or your first time away from home?”
“Not distinctly, no. Let me think for a minute. I remember being at a friend’s house and she had a Teddy Ruxpin. That was a big deal.”
“Really? That’s it? What about being homesick? I clearly remember my first time away from home.”
“Do you?”
“I do. Man, I must have been eight or so? My sister and I went to my grandmother’s geriatric apartment complex. There weren’t any stairs anywhere, it was all set up for old people. Even the garbage cans, man the garbage cans, opened with a foot pedal and you just dropped your garbage down into a hole until a younger, stronger person could take it away. The whole place was like a giant playground for us. We loved it. But about an hour into it I started freaking out. I very clearly remember listening to this Beach Boys greatest hits cassette tape.”
Mrs. F started singing “I Get Around” and dancing in that way that people do when they try to look like they’re swimming.
“Man, no! I was bummed they didn’t include that track! That’s why I had bought it in the first place! But you know what it did have? That song Sloop John B about being on a boat, getting into fights, getting sick, and then the chorus goes ‘I feel so homesick.’ That just put me over the edge. I pretty much burst into tears right away.”
Mrs. F was quiet for a moment. “I’m going to make you a playlist and I’m going to put that Beach Boys song on it,” she teased.
“I might start crying,” he said. “Well, maybe not real tears, but I’d get choked up for sure.”
“It’s funny, you know, when you have this idea of how something is quote unquote supposed to look and then it turns out entirely differently. I thought I would really learn something about my students but it turns out they’re maybe more alike than I realized.”
“And maybe that’s a good thing,” Mr. D offered as the bell rang.
“Hell’s bells. So much for getting any grading done,” Mrs. F said. “Catch you on the flip side. Oh, are we still on for this weekend? I know Bridgeville is quite a drive, but Dean's super excited about it.”
“I wouldn’t miss it,” he said.
Mr. D meandered back to his classroom. He shot ‘hellos’ to a few students (pistol finger and all, because even with the strict rules about guns and gun jokes, it couldn’t be illegal to just say hi, could it?). He gave a knowing look to a fellow red-head, a lucky-us-to-be-part-of-the-vanishing-breed look. The kid didn’t really get it but he knew Mr. D (because everybody did) and so he gave him the up-eyebrows/ chin-tilt of recognition. “If you were older,” thought Mr. D, “I’d throw you a copy of Still Life with Woodpecker.”
The art room was as familiar as his own body. Every inch of wall was covered: students’ paintings, his own sketches, an old wooden placard from his beloved summer camp boasting the peaks he and his cabin-mates had bagged, influential characters from childhood books like Peter Pan, Robin Hood, and Rin Tin Tin, Rolling Stone magazine covers, concert posters, an old guitar that a friend had covered in mosaic tiles, etc. His students were clustered into groups of three or four in that natural way that big groups separate into smaller groups, like water droplets.
“Okay, so, like, would you rather have to wear a diaper to school,” Blake asked his droplet of a group as they waited for class to start, “or...” He thought for a moment about an alternative.
“Wait, would you actually have to, you know, go in the diaper?” asked Cassie.
“Yeah, of course,” Blake answered. “Okay, diaper at school or... Or give up your phone for a week?”
“Oh my god, phone for sure,” said Billy. “Jesus, Blake, that’s not even close.”
“I don’t know,” Cassie said. “A whole week? Like, the weekend, too? Would anybody see the diaper or could it just hide under your clothes?”
“Howdy, everybody,” said Mr. D to the large group and everybody turned toward him. His voice was simultaneously mellow and mighty. “Let’s start with a game, shall we?” The class, as usual, was intrigued.
“I think some of you have played this game before. In fact, I think some of you have played it recently.” He paused for effect, looking around in a cartoonishly suspicious way. “It’s called Would You Rather, and we’re going to keep it clean, got it?” The class was quiet. They weren’t sure if they were in trouble or not. “I used to be in junior high school once, too, remember, and I know where this can go.
“So here’s your first question,” Mr. D continued. “Would you rather spend a month on a deserted island with no other human contact OR spend a month in a closed apartment with ten members of your friends and family? In both choices you don’t have to worry about food or shelter.” He gave them a few minutes to discuss the topic, during which he fielded a few questions about the specifics of the quarry. No, you wouldn’t have internet access on the island. Or in the apartment for that matter. Yes, you would receive medical attention if you were hurt in both scenarios.
“Well?” He asked.
A boy near the windows half-raised his hand. “Yes, Jeremy?”
“I think the apartment because it would be, like, really lonely on the island.”
“Sure, I see what you’re saying. But does alone always mean lonely?” responded Mr. D.
“Well, no,” said Cassie, jumping in. “But maybe a week or two being alone would be nice. A whole month seems like it would turn into, I don’t know, Crazy Town.”
The larger group discussed the issue for about ten minutes before one brave soul asked Mr. D what he would do.
“Hm, it’s a good question. I think I’d have to go with the island, though. People are capable of incredible things when they have the time and space to really focus. Besides, with nobody around, I could do whatever I wanted! No seriously though I believe if you can get into a quiet state of concentration, you can do anything.” Enter, segue. “And speaking of quiet states of concentration, I’d like for you all to get out your pencils and mirrors and we can use this little exercise for our next assignment.
“I’d like for you to imagine you’ve just spent a month in the environment of your choice. Now imagine how you’d look and feel by the last day. Are you tired? Are you refreshed? Are you lonely? Are you bored?” He wanted to add, “Remember! Emotions are subtle!” but he didn’t. He was always cautious about over-teaching and preferred for his students to find these little gems of truth on their own.
As he wandered the room, checking on but not hovering over his students, a man in his early twenties walked in. Mr. D recognized him immediately.
“Scott! Come in!” Now this was a surprise. Scott Miller had been in Mr. D’s class during his very first year as a full-time art teacher. Scott was clearly an adult now, albeit a young adult, and Mr. D felt like this was the closest thing to a time machine humans could muster. It certainly didn’t feel so long ago that he himself was wet behind the ears, and now, well, now here was proof that seconds and minutes and years had, indeed, been passing. He introduced his guest to the class. They murmured a faint hello before returning to their projects.
“How have you been?” Mr. D asked, and Scott filled him in on the general details of his life: he’d taken a few community college classes before traveling to Australia to work on a vineyard. Now he was back in town, visiting old friends and family.
“Mr. D, I just wanted you to know that your class really meant a lot to me. I think I’ve really seen things differently after your class all those years ago.”
“Thanks, Scott, that’s kind of you.”
“Like remember that time you just told us to really look at the shadows of objects and not at the object itself? I do that all the time now without even noticing that I’m doing it. It’s just this subconscious game I like to play. And I started sketching again in Australia and ended up meeting some really great people through the art scene there. Anyway I just wanted to say thanks. Because you probably don’t know what an important role you play in a lot of our lives. And I know this may be sort of a strange way to thank you, but I brought you this rock I found at the vineyard where I was working.” He produced a small, rough, and extraordinarily beautiful stone from his pocket. “I thought you of all people might actually appreciate it. It’s sandstone.”
Mr. D took a slow, deep breath. “Now, Scott, I don’t think you could have offered a better gift. I love it. Thank you.” It would not be an exaggeration to say that these were the kinds of moments that kept Mr. D teaching.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
By Saturday morning Brett was feeling all kinds of warm and fuzzy. The past had shaken his hand and the future felt bright, like turquoise or amber. As he drove to Sasha’s house, Sheryl Crow’s voice serenaded him from the FM waves and he belted out the words right along with her. “If it makes you HAPPY! It can’t be that BAD!” He decided that he was sitting in on her set, singing his heart out on stage next to her. Next up: the Dixie Chicks. It was a regular Lillith Fair here on 91.3 today, and he was stoked. It’s not like he owned any Dixie Chicks records, but he admired their female positivity, not to mention their ability to rock a fiddle. “I wouldn’t even need a microphone,” he thought as he continued his private sing-along in front of thousands of imaginary fans.
When he pulled up at their house, Sasha and her husband were ready to go.
“Where’s Melinda?” Sasha asked as she climbed into the backseat.
“Oh, she had a last-minute family gathering that she didn’t want to miss,” said Brett. “Howdy, Dean,” Brett said to Mr. Freelander, whom he’d known for almost a million years.
“Hola, amigo,” said Dean. “Ready for some good, old fashioned flying saucer action?”
“I am so ready,” said Brett.
Seven hours and twenty minutes later, the carload of friends unloaded their cramped limbs at the official Flying Saucer Festival in Bridgeville. They made stretching noises and surveyed the scene.
Some quality live music was happening in one corner of the large lawn, some aromatic Middle-Eastern food was happening in a food truck on the road, and some verifiable weirdness was happening near the famous bridge of Bridgeville. The crew meandered over to the bridge where an MC explained the history of the town.
“Ladies and Gentleman, welcome to Bridgeville, where one hundred and seventeen years ago aliens descended upon this very spot. We honor our founders every year with food, music, and of course our famous Flying Saucer Festival.” Cheers and hurrahs. “If all the contestants could make their way to the bridge, we will begin our countdown.”
“Good timing,” noticed Sasha.
People dressed like people and people dressed like aliens were crowding around the bridge, ready to launch their own home-made flying saucers over the railing. Whether they were trying to see whose flew farthest or whose floated longest, Brett couldn’t tell, but the spectacle was amusing regardless. There were saucers covered in aluminum foil, saucers covered in glitter, and saucers covered in “photos collected from the mothership.” When the bulk of the UFOs had been launched, Sasha and Dean told Brett that they were going to set up camp on the lawn.
“I’ll find you guys,” he said, heading closer to the bridge to get a better look at the remnants of the extra terrestrial space crafts.
As the crowd around him followed Dean and Sasha’s lead, migrating toward the music, Brett found a mental peace in looking down at the moving water. He watched it float over the rocks, watched the flying-turned-floating saucers transform once more into flotsam, and began experiencing a strange sort of vertigo. The bass of the somewhat-distant music filled his spine but the white noise of the water filled his ears and his head. One flying saucer, one he hadn’t noticed until now, was circling in an eddy almost directly under him, and as it spun, it reflected the bright sun straight into his eyes.
He blinked, opened his eyes, and he was a musician. He was a rock star. And he was late for his gig. The dazed musician, Brett Dennen, made his way briskly toward the stage to perform his real live set in front of an audience of humans dressed like humans and humans dressed like aliens. He would bring the house down. Afterwards he would crash at the promoter’s house with his three bandmates and they would watch a late-night show on television called Young Indiana Jones, narrated by Harrison Ford, where an actor who was not Harrison Ford would play the young hero, and who would follow his love for jazz into a 1920s speakeasy in Chicago meant only for black patrons. Brett, in the meantime, would fall asleep, wake up early with his fellow musicians, and hit the road. Because that’s what you do when you’re Brett Dennen, rock star from a parallel universe. Even Mr. D would agree that that’s what you do.
“For real, Brett,” said Sasha Freelander, known by the students as Mrs. F, as she entered the room and noticed his beverage of choice. “I bet you shit, like, four times a day.”
Mr. D smiled, unembarrassed. “You don’t?” He asked. “You’re probably blocked up.”
“Jesus,” she said, also smiling.
“Do you remember that polenta mash at Debbie’s pot-luck last week? Remember? It had soybeans and all kinds of awesome stuff in it. But still. I had to take a laxative afterward.”
“You? Took a laxative?” She was incredulous.
“It was all-natural. It was pretty much herbs.”
Mrs. F laughed. Surely this was not the kind of conversation her students referred to as ‘talking shit.’ She removed her own snack from the fridge, a small piece of leftover quiche, and took out a few papers to grade. The air conditioner was broken and on a warmer day like this one (it was ninety three), they were the only two teachers in the room.
“You know, I thought I was being clever with this assignment,” she said to Mr. D. “I asked the kids to consider their lives in chapters and to write a table of contents.”
“Interesting,” he said. “Even if they’re only twelve.”
“Yeah, I know, they don’t have decades and decades of life experience. But I wanted to get them thinking about the way time passes, and how events can weigh that movement down. It’s never too early for self-reflection.”
“I agree with that, for sure, Sasha,” he said, swigging. “But I don’t think life is linear like that. Why not bounce around? Why not divide it up into categories like ‘family’ and ‘love’?” He thought for a minute. “If someone asked me to do that, I might write a whole chapter about how I came to think of myself as a teacher.”
“Brett,” she said, “that’s beautiful. Really. And maybe that would work in our adult world. But I wanted them to think chronologically. I wanted them to start doing the math of their lives. Sure, they’re twelve, and next they’ll be fifteen. Then twenty, then middle-aged.”
“Are you feeling a little stressed out, there?” Mr. D replied, eyebrow up. “I guess it’s good news for you that today’s Friday.”
“Yeah. I really couldn't be happier that it’s the end of the week. But the point is, my little experiment totally failed. Probably ninety percent of them have the same chapter headings. Or, you know, chapter themes. There’s a lot of dogs or hamsters or grandmothers dying. There’s a lot of first slumber parties or first summer camps or first time away from their parents.”
“Jesus, Sasha, cut them some slack. Don’t you remember your first pet dying? Or your first time away from home?”
“Not distinctly, no. Let me think for a minute. I remember being at a friend’s house and she had a Teddy Ruxpin. That was a big deal.”
“Really? That’s it? What about being homesick? I clearly remember my first time away from home.”
“Do you?”
“I do. Man, I must have been eight or so? My sister and I went to my grandmother’s geriatric apartment complex. There weren’t any stairs anywhere, it was all set up for old people. Even the garbage cans, man the garbage cans, opened with a foot pedal and you just dropped your garbage down into a hole until a younger, stronger person could take it away. The whole place was like a giant playground for us. We loved it. But about an hour into it I started freaking out. I very clearly remember listening to this Beach Boys greatest hits cassette tape.”
Mrs. F started singing “I Get Around” and dancing in that way that people do when they try to look like they’re swimming.
“Man, no! I was bummed they didn’t include that track! That’s why I had bought it in the first place! But you know what it did have? That song Sloop John B about being on a boat, getting into fights, getting sick, and then the chorus goes ‘I feel so homesick.’ That just put me over the edge. I pretty much burst into tears right away.”
Mrs. F was quiet for a moment. “I’m going to make you a playlist and I’m going to put that Beach Boys song on it,” she teased.
“I might start crying,” he said. “Well, maybe not real tears, but I’d get choked up for sure.”
“It’s funny, you know, when you have this idea of how something is quote unquote supposed to look and then it turns out entirely differently. I thought I would really learn something about my students but it turns out they’re maybe more alike than I realized.”
“And maybe that’s a good thing,” Mr. D offered as the bell rang.
“Hell’s bells. So much for getting any grading done,” Mrs. F said. “Catch you on the flip side. Oh, are we still on for this weekend? I know Bridgeville is quite a drive, but Dean's super excited about it.”
“I wouldn’t miss it,” he said.
Mr. D meandered back to his classroom. He shot ‘hellos’ to a few students (pistol finger and all, because even with the strict rules about guns and gun jokes, it couldn’t be illegal to just say hi, could it?). He gave a knowing look to a fellow red-head, a lucky-us-to-be-part-of-the-vanishing-breed look. The kid didn’t really get it but he knew Mr. D (because everybody did) and so he gave him the up-eyebrows/ chin-tilt of recognition. “If you were older,” thought Mr. D, “I’d throw you a copy of Still Life with Woodpecker.”
The art room was as familiar as his own body. Every inch of wall was covered: students’ paintings, his own sketches, an old wooden placard from his beloved summer camp boasting the peaks he and his cabin-mates had bagged, influential characters from childhood books like Peter Pan, Robin Hood, and Rin Tin Tin, Rolling Stone magazine covers, concert posters, an old guitar that a friend had covered in mosaic tiles, etc. His students were clustered into groups of three or four in that natural way that big groups separate into smaller groups, like water droplets.
“Okay, so, like, would you rather have to wear a diaper to school,” Blake asked his droplet of a group as they waited for class to start, “or...” He thought for a moment about an alternative.
“Wait, would you actually have to, you know, go in the diaper?” asked Cassie.
“Yeah, of course,” Blake answered. “Okay, diaper at school or... Or give up your phone for a week?”
“Oh my god, phone for sure,” said Billy. “Jesus, Blake, that’s not even close.”
“I don’t know,” Cassie said. “A whole week? Like, the weekend, too? Would anybody see the diaper or could it just hide under your clothes?”
“Howdy, everybody,” said Mr. D to the large group and everybody turned toward him. His voice was simultaneously mellow and mighty. “Let’s start with a game, shall we?” The class, as usual, was intrigued.
“I think some of you have played this game before. In fact, I think some of you have played it recently.” He paused for effect, looking around in a cartoonishly suspicious way. “It’s called Would You Rather, and we’re going to keep it clean, got it?” The class was quiet. They weren’t sure if they were in trouble or not. “I used to be in junior high school once, too, remember, and I know where this can go.
“So here’s your first question,” Mr. D continued. “Would you rather spend a month on a deserted island with no other human contact OR spend a month in a closed apartment with ten members of your friends and family? In both choices you don’t have to worry about food or shelter.” He gave them a few minutes to discuss the topic, during which he fielded a few questions about the specifics of the quarry. No, you wouldn’t have internet access on the island. Or in the apartment for that matter. Yes, you would receive medical attention if you were hurt in both scenarios.
“Well?” He asked.
A boy near the windows half-raised his hand. “Yes, Jeremy?”
“I think the apartment because it would be, like, really lonely on the island.”
“Sure, I see what you’re saying. But does alone always mean lonely?” responded Mr. D.
“Well, no,” said Cassie, jumping in. “But maybe a week or two being alone would be nice. A whole month seems like it would turn into, I don’t know, Crazy Town.”
The larger group discussed the issue for about ten minutes before one brave soul asked Mr. D what he would do.
“Hm, it’s a good question. I think I’d have to go with the island, though. People are capable of incredible things when they have the time and space to really focus. Besides, with nobody around, I could do whatever I wanted! No seriously though I believe if you can get into a quiet state of concentration, you can do anything.” Enter, segue. “And speaking of quiet states of concentration, I’d like for you all to get out your pencils and mirrors and we can use this little exercise for our next assignment.
“I’d like for you to imagine you’ve just spent a month in the environment of your choice. Now imagine how you’d look and feel by the last day. Are you tired? Are you refreshed? Are you lonely? Are you bored?” He wanted to add, “Remember! Emotions are subtle!” but he didn’t. He was always cautious about over-teaching and preferred for his students to find these little gems of truth on their own.
As he wandered the room, checking on but not hovering over his students, a man in his early twenties walked in. Mr. D recognized him immediately.
“Scott! Come in!” Now this was a surprise. Scott Miller had been in Mr. D’s class during his very first year as a full-time art teacher. Scott was clearly an adult now, albeit a young adult, and Mr. D felt like this was the closest thing to a time machine humans could muster. It certainly didn’t feel so long ago that he himself was wet behind the ears, and now, well, now here was proof that seconds and minutes and years had, indeed, been passing. He introduced his guest to the class. They murmured a faint hello before returning to their projects.
“How have you been?” Mr. D asked, and Scott filled him in on the general details of his life: he’d taken a few community college classes before traveling to Australia to work on a vineyard. Now he was back in town, visiting old friends and family.
“Mr. D, I just wanted you to know that your class really meant a lot to me. I think I’ve really seen things differently after your class all those years ago.”
“Thanks, Scott, that’s kind of you.”
“Like remember that time you just told us to really look at the shadows of objects and not at the object itself? I do that all the time now without even noticing that I’m doing it. It’s just this subconscious game I like to play. And I started sketching again in Australia and ended up meeting some really great people through the art scene there. Anyway I just wanted to say thanks. Because you probably don’t know what an important role you play in a lot of our lives. And I know this may be sort of a strange way to thank you, but I brought you this rock I found at the vineyard where I was working.” He produced a small, rough, and extraordinarily beautiful stone from his pocket. “I thought you of all people might actually appreciate it. It’s sandstone.”
Mr. D took a slow, deep breath. “Now, Scott, I don’t think you could have offered a better gift. I love it. Thank you.” It would not be an exaggeration to say that these were the kinds of moments that kept Mr. D teaching.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
By Saturday morning Brett was feeling all kinds of warm and fuzzy. The past had shaken his hand and the future felt bright, like turquoise or amber. As he drove to Sasha’s house, Sheryl Crow’s voice serenaded him from the FM waves and he belted out the words right along with her. “If it makes you HAPPY! It can’t be that BAD!” He decided that he was sitting in on her set, singing his heart out on stage next to her. Next up: the Dixie Chicks. It was a regular Lillith Fair here on 91.3 today, and he was stoked. It’s not like he owned any Dixie Chicks records, but he admired their female positivity, not to mention their ability to rock a fiddle. “I wouldn’t even need a microphone,” he thought as he continued his private sing-along in front of thousands of imaginary fans.
When he pulled up at their house, Sasha and her husband were ready to go.
“Where’s Melinda?” Sasha asked as she climbed into the backseat.
“Oh, she had a last-minute family gathering that she didn’t want to miss,” said Brett. “Howdy, Dean,” Brett said to Mr. Freelander, whom he’d known for almost a million years.
“Hola, amigo,” said Dean. “Ready for some good, old fashioned flying saucer action?”
“I am so ready,” said Brett.
Seven hours and twenty minutes later, the carload of friends unloaded their cramped limbs at the official Flying Saucer Festival in Bridgeville. They made stretching noises and surveyed the scene.
Some quality live music was happening in one corner of the large lawn, some aromatic Middle-Eastern food was happening in a food truck on the road, and some verifiable weirdness was happening near the famous bridge of Bridgeville. The crew meandered over to the bridge where an MC explained the history of the town.
“Ladies and Gentleman, welcome to Bridgeville, where one hundred and seventeen years ago aliens descended upon this very spot. We honor our founders every year with food, music, and of course our famous Flying Saucer Festival.” Cheers and hurrahs. “If all the contestants could make their way to the bridge, we will begin our countdown.”
“Good timing,” noticed Sasha.
People dressed like people and people dressed like aliens were crowding around the bridge, ready to launch their own home-made flying saucers over the railing. Whether they were trying to see whose flew farthest or whose floated longest, Brett couldn’t tell, but the spectacle was amusing regardless. There were saucers covered in aluminum foil, saucers covered in glitter, and saucers covered in “photos collected from the mothership.” When the bulk of the UFOs had been launched, Sasha and Dean told Brett that they were going to set up camp on the lawn.
“I’ll find you guys,” he said, heading closer to the bridge to get a better look at the remnants of the extra terrestrial space crafts.
As the crowd around him followed Dean and Sasha’s lead, migrating toward the music, Brett found a mental peace in looking down at the moving water. He watched it float over the rocks, watched the flying-turned-floating saucers transform once more into flotsam, and began experiencing a strange sort of vertigo. The bass of the somewhat-distant music filled his spine but the white noise of the water filled his ears and his head. One flying saucer, one he hadn’t noticed until now, was circling in an eddy almost directly under him, and as it spun, it reflected the bright sun straight into his eyes.
He blinked, opened his eyes, and he was a musician. He was a rock star. And he was late for his gig. The dazed musician, Brett Dennen, made his way briskly toward the stage to perform his real live set in front of an audience of humans dressed like humans and humans dressed like aliens. He would bring the house down. Afterwards he would crash at the promoter’s house with his three bandmates and they would watch a late-night show on television called Young Indiana Jones, narrated by Harrison Ford, where an actor who was not Harrison Ford would play the young hero, and who would follow his love for jazz into a 1920s speakeasy in Chicago meant only for black patrons. Brett, in the meantime, would fall asleep, wake up early with his fellow musicians, and hit the road. Because that’s what you do when you’re Brett Dennen, rock star from a parallel universe. Even Mr. D would agree that that’s what you do.
