A Fool's Journey: Book II, The High Priestess

by Mark Pannebecker

Overview

A year ago, 17-year old Benjamin Porter, was in a knife fight defending his biker friend, Craig Marse. Tonight he’s sitting in an aisle seat with his voluptuous girlfriend Joan Ponti watching Romeo fight Tybalt in a duel. Joan is an actor (“Don’t call me an actress; I’ll kick your ass.”) from another high school who works with Ben at the local movie theater. Where Ben sees a vivacious girl free of judgment, Joan sees an attractive, naive male ingénue who is ripe for manipulation. Joan’s flattery encourages Ben to gradually drop all his adolescent guards and expose his vulnerabilities, insecurities, and foibles. But Joan reveals and exploits all of Ben’s flaws for her personal gain, hoping to control and change his journey. He embraces the world of Joan Ponti and her thespian friends as a way to learn about and express himself, only to find the drama created on stage is nothing like the intrigue created in Joan’s duplicitous cast.

Product Details

ISBN-13:	9780998724324
Publisher:	Mark Pannebecker
Publication date:	12/05/2017
Series:	A Fool's Journey , #2
Sold by:	Barnes & Noble
Format:	eBook
Pages:	49
File size:	521 KB
Age Range:	15 - 18 Years

About the Author

I'm an author of literary fiction and the founder of the St. Louis Indie Book Fair.

I'm trying KDP for Book V, The Hierophant and Book VI, The Lovers, so those titles won't be listed here. You can go to my website or Amazon (www.amazon.com/-/e/B00TI17DO8) for copies. Thank you.

Read an Excerpt

CHAPTER 1

A year ago, Benjamin Porter was defending his friend Craig Marse in a knife fight. Earlier tonight, he merely watched one with Joan Ponti from an aisle seat as Romeo fought Tybalt in a duel.

"In a tragedy," Joan said, "everyone dies in the end."

Joan was of Italian descent. She had flawless olive-skin, expressive eyes, and a pouty lower lip. Her Mediterranean beauty captivated Benjamin, and for decades he'd be drawn to olive-skinned women. She called herself an actor, not an actress. "Don't call me an actress; I'll kick your ass."

"It was kinda sappy, but not too bad. Better than that other play you dragged me to, what was it? The Pimp?"

Joan shook her head. "Pippin."

Ben smiled. "Right. With nobody pimpin'."

Joan smiled. "What am I gonna do with you? And it was a musical, not a play, did you hear all those people singing, the music, the dance numbers: musical."

Shit, a year ago I wouldn't have been caught dead at a musical. Hell, I didn't even know what a musical was. What has this strange woman done to me? Her soft theatrical world of stage curtains, props, and costumes is so different than Craig's volatile world. So different, the props and costumes, there. But the transition was damn near close to seamless. Benjamin touched the small scar under his right eye. Well, not quite seamless. But still, if this is the only evidence of my journey through Craig's unstable world, then that ain't too bad. You can be proud of that, Benny-boy. But there was magic in him. I didn't see it then. I see it now. I think Joan has some, too. Or maybe I'm just easily influenced. Or maybe I'm part schizophrenic--Ha, part schizophrenic, Joan will see the comedy in that.

In the backyard of his parent's house, the two lay together in a rope hammock and tried to squeeze another hour together before he had to take her home.

"The Big Dipper is easy to find." Joan shifted in the hammock. "But on a night like this, the Little Dipper, she's a bit elusive."

"Where is it, then?" Ben lit a joint and stared up at the river of the Milky Way. In the suburbs of St. Louis in the late '70s, a cloudless evening offered a clear view of that mystical veil.

"Take a closer look, and you tell me." Joan took the joint from Ben and took a deep hit.

"I see it. It's stacked inside the Big Dipper like the pots and pans in our kitchen."

"Do you see the utensils of Venus?"

Benjamin laughed. "That's not a real thing!"

"I'm sure we could find some, though. You can always find what you're looking for."

"Piffle, you can find meaning in a deck of cards if you're looking for it." Benjamin shifted his lean frame in the hammock so he faced Joan. He took off his glasses and set them on the ground.

"Yeah, well, Benny, there's magic out there. You just have to know how to tap into it."

"I've seen some of that magic."

Joan shifted to kiss Ben. "And did you ever tap into it?"

"Tap into it? I was lucky to tap out of it."

"Oh, right, Craig."

And the Company.

"I can imagine. He's got a way of ... obfuscating. What were you looking for, running with that crowd?"

Joan and her dictionary words. "I don't think anything in particular. I think I've always been attracted to the bad element — as my parents call it."

"You must've been looking for something when you went traveling into Marse's domain. That's not an easy click to enter."

"It wasn't that hard, actually. And I guess I was just curious."

"Oh, is that why you're hanging out with me? Just curious? Is the grass always greener on the other side for Benjamin Porter?"

Ben smiled. She always cuts right to it. "Yeah, kinda."

"Oh, really? You're just curious?"

"No, no, no, I mean the grass is always greener thing."

"Uh-huh."

"I was curious to make out with you, though."

"Uh-huh, good luck with that."

"Craig said he slept with you."

"He can dream on."

"So, you never did?"

"No, I'd — wait, is that why you asked me out?"

"No, no, no. He said that after we started dating."

"Yeah, well, his magic isn't strong enough to get me to sleep with him."

And what about your magic, Joan? "So, how did you two start hanging out?"

"Ah, I've known him for years. Besides, a good actor needs to research. So, did you find the Little Dipper yet?"

"No, like you said she's more allusive."

"Elusive."

They shifted again, entangling their bodies a little more. Ben nudged his thigh into Joan's crotch and she opened her legs. Joan's hand rested on Ben's stomach, and all Ben could think of was how he wanted her hand to move farther down. They kissed and weaved together in the hammock. Joan's turquoise halter opened and her small breasts filled Ben's hands. Joan undid his pants and slid her deft hand inside. When Ben undid her jeans, his soft hand brushed past the coarse hair and found the wetness there. She always gets so wet.

The two explored each other until Benjamin's mother called out from the back door. "Ben, you still out here?"

Goddamn it. "Yes." He mouthed silently to Joan: Fuck.

Joan smiled and mouthed back: I know.

"Well, it's getting late," Ruth Porter said to the dark area where the hammock hung. "You'd better take Joan home. You can use my car."

"I guess we'll continue our astronomy lesson later," Joan said.

"I thought that was a biology lesson."

"Yeah, you need help there, too."

"What?"

"Dude, chill, I'm joking."

CHAPTER 2

"Do you know why we're so good together?" Joan asked one evening on the way to see a production of "West Side Story."

"I have no idea. I don't think I'm very good with people."

"Of course you are. What do you mean?"

"I don't know what to say."

"Not with me."

"I like talking to girls more than guys."

"Well, duh, you're 17."

"I just seem to get into fights with dudes."

"And screw all the girls?"

Ben looked over but didn't say anything.

"Yup, but anyway, you only got into all those fights because you were hanging with Craig and the Company. I don't think you're violent by nature. Maybe just impressionable."

"I just get into the role."

"Hah, nice one. Way to reference!"

"Like an actor."

"Yeah, I got it."

"Like you."

"OK, shut up now."

They smiled at each other and drove in silence for two miles. Ben kept sneaking looks at Joan, and Joan, smiling with just the edge of her upturned lips, pretended not to notice. On this summer night, Joan wore a thin, tight-fitting turquoise dress. Her favorite color: turquoise; I could buy her anything in turquoise and she'd love it. Her dress had a plunging neckline that created no cleavage but opened a sensual, inviting space between her breasts that Ben couldn't stop thinking about kissing. Resting on her exposed breastplate was the silver ankh she always wore. Later that night, he'd place his hand on that spot, feeling her heartbeat, more than he cupped her teenage breasts.

"So, why are we so good together?" Ben finally asked.

"Do you know about astrology?"

"Are we gonna talk about the Little Dipper again?"

"No, we're —"

"— The utensils of Venus?"

Joan laughed. "No, we're not, that's astronomy. I'm talking about astrology."

"I have no idea about half the things you talk about."

"Stick with me, kiddo, I'll teach you what Craig Marse never could."

"Whatever, kiddo, we're the same age."

"Oh, yeah? Are we?"

She thinks she's so wise at 17. Benjamin fell silent and turned the radio up. A teenage master of the universe. No wonder her and Craig were such great friends. The top 40 radio station cued up the Bee Gees' song "Night Fever." If he were driving with his old friends right now, he'd be called a queer for turning it up and not off.

Joan began to sing along in falsetto and nudged Benjamin to join her: "Here I am, prayin' for this moment to last — come on, sing with me — livin' on the music so fine, borne on the wind, makin' it miiiiine."

Benjamin smiled and shook his head. As an usher at the theater where he and Joan worked, he often got high in the upper balcony with friends during the 9:20 showing of "Saturday Night Fever," a movie he'd grown to appreciate despite all the gay disco crap. To this day, whenever he heard the Bee Gees, he'd return to that 25-seat smoking-section in the balcony next to the projectionist's booth. With the floor always slightly slippery from the butter-flavored popcorn oil, the broken third seat from the aisle in the last row, the deep-cushioned maroon seats with no cup holders but little ashtrays on the right hand rest. After the song ended, Joan turned down the radio.

"Why didn't you sing with me, Benny?"

"I can't sing."

"Oh, I'm sure you can. I bet you have a superb singing voice."

"I don't think so."

"Oh, no, I'm Benjamin Porter, and I don't wanna sing a song! I can't sing a stupid song! I'm Benjamin Porter, tough biker guy, and I'm afraaaaaaid!"

"All right, all right, Joan, my little songbird, we're not all performers."

"Yes we are. We are all performers. Haven't you heard that all the world's a stage? Come on, at least try."

"I'm telling you I can't sing. When I was in grade school, we had a chorus class, and we all had to sing for the teacher so she could decide where to put us. I ended up in some lame splinter group. I was on the nerd team of chorus class; the other kids would throw erasers at us like in dodgeball. No way."

"Here, sing along with this one."

"Still the Same" by Bob Seger came on the radio, and Ben started singing softly to himself while Joan sang aloud. Slowly, hiding behind Joan's vocals, he began singing louder. Soon they were belting out a duet on the highway.

"We harmonize well together," she offered during the bridge.

At the end of the song, she told Ben he had a fine voice, and he accepted the compliment with a little pride. She then taught him the scales, and he butchered them as only a tone-deaf person could do.

"Do-Re-Mi-Fa-So-La-Ti-Do!" Oh, the last note hurt both Ben's ego and Joan's ears. But she insisted he was doing well. And he believed her. They practiced the scales several times and at the end of a truly humbling lesson, she convinced him to sing a Billy Joel song he knew, a cappella.

Ben sang, avoiding her gaze. If he had looked over, he would have seen her smirking.

"There, that's the best I can do," he said, finishing the song and knowing he sounded horrible.

"Well, we harmonize well."

"OK, now I feel like an ass, Joan; thank you for that."

"Hey, ya never know what you can do till you try, right?"

"Fuck off."

"Benjamin, I'm proud of you for trying."

But Benjamin felt humiliated. "I told you I couldn't sing and you kept pushing it and now I feel like you're laughing at me. I can't dance either, and if you ask me to, I ain't doing it."

"'I won't dance, don't ask me,'" Joan began singing. "'I won't dance, don't ask me. I won't dance, sir, with you.' No? Nothing? Ben..." Joan reached over, but Ben batted her hand away.

"Don't try to make a fool out of me, Ponti. That's fucked up. And don't try to change the subject by singing about dancing."

"Ben-Ben," she said reaching over again to rest her hand on his thigh. "You silly, adorable fool; it's just you and me in this fucking car."

"I had enough of Craig making an ass out of me; I don't need that from you. Get your hand off my leg."

Joan made no effort to move her hand. "No."

Ben exhaled, closed his eyes, and then shook his head.

"What are ya gonna do about it, tough guy?"

"I'm going to make you an offer you can't refuse."

"Not bad. Slow it down next time." Joan smiled and squeezed his crotch.

Joan Ponti calmed Benjamin Porter as quickly and as skillfully as Craig Marse agitated him. "So, are ya gonna tell me about this astronomy thing, or what?" he asked.

"Astronomy? Oh, astrology. Yes. What do you wanna know?"

"What? You're the one that brought it up!"

"Oh, so I did." Joan laughed. "The reason we get along so well. Right."

"Damn, woman."

"Say that again."

"What? Damn? Woman?"

"Woman."

Ben leaned against her and whispered into her ear: "Woman."

"Not girl?"

"Not girl. I'm a 17-year-old boy, but you're a 17-year-old woman."

"Oh, Benjamin Porter, you are rich."

And Benjamin suddenly realized he really did enjoy talking to girls more than guys.

"OK, my young knight, my arrant knave, astrology is the same thing as horoscopes. You know your horoscope, right?"

"Cancer."

"Right, so astrology is understanding how the position of planets influence who we are, who we'll be, from the moment of our birth to our death. It's our destiny written in the celestial body."

"OK. Bullshit."

Joan punched him in the arm. "It's not bullshit! You just had a birthday, which puts you on the cusp of Leo. I'm a Virgo, which means we're a dynamic match. We'll push each other. We'll have passion and excitement. We're almost like soul mates, dude. And the fact that you're so damn cute makes it even more divine."

Benjamin welcomed the concept of a soul mate but retreated from the idea that it applied to him and Joan. Aren't soul mates supposed to be forever? He pulled his hand from Joan's and adjusted the radio. Forever? I don't know about that. He put both hands on the steering wheel.

"OK." Joan took her hand off his thigh and pulled away. She sat back in the car's bucket seat, drawing her legs in. "Right there. The hyper-sensitive Cancerian and the insensitive Leo. That's you; both."

It's like she reads my mind.

Ben's emotions always rested on the edge of a shiv, his confidence and insecurities constantly moving to balance and unbalance the blade. "It's a nice idea," he finally said.

Joan waited for him to work it out, finish the thought. But he just kept driving. Somewhere deep inside, Joan stirred the makings of a play titled "The Redemption of Benjamin Porter."

"No, The revenge of Benjamin Porter."

"What?"

"Oh, I was just thinking I could write a play called "The Redemption of Benjamin Porter," but I think "The Revenge of Benjamin Porter" might be better. For 17 you seem to have a lot of baggage. Or maybe you're an old soul trying to figure things out. Do you want to know why you and Craig became such good friends — my dear lost old-soul Ben-Ben Porter? Even though it was doomed from the start?"

"My dear dramatist, I welcome your insights."

"Oh, my; you didn't always talk thus. That line's going in my play."

Ben smiled and reached for her hand. "But I don't care why it failed." He pulled into the theater's parking lot.

"OK. Then we'll drop it, and I'll just say: I'm not wearing any underwear. And it's still your birthday week."

CHAPTER 3

The movie theater Ben worked in had 1,150 seats and one large screen with a 20-foot–tall red velvet curtain that opened before the beginning of each film, revealing a pristine white vinyl screen. The closing credits played across the rippling fabric at the end of each final reel. The theater had a wide balcony with a small, designated smoking section. The inadequate ventilation could not contain the thick smoke during a crowded show, but most people didn't seem to mind. The projectionist belonged to a union, and his salary was over $18,000 a year. He'd arrive every night with a lunch pail and squirrel himself away in the booth until 10 p.m., coming out to get his extra-large popcorn and soda from the cheerleader behind the concession. On Sundays, Ben spent four hours in the backroom making popcorn, storing the popped kernels in large clear trash bags for the coming week. Whenever Joan worked, he'd go out and talk to her while the corn popped in vegetable oil. When she wasn't working, he'd stay in the back and read J.R.R. Tolkien.

"Hey, you almost done?" Joan asked, walking into the backroom. "Let's check out the last matinee of 'Eyes of Laura Mars.'"

"Last matinee, thank God."

"Shut up; I love this movie."

"Nah, I can't wait for tomorrow when we get 'Up in Smoke.'"

"Once a stoner ..."

Benjamin laughed. "Dude, I can smell the weed on your clothes!"

"Yeah, so what's your point, popcorn boy?" Joan reached into the bin and grabbed a handful of fresh popcorn.

Watching "Eyes of Laura Mars" in the balcony of the nearly empty theater, Joan took on the role of Faye Dunaway and whispered many of her lines to Ben. She eventually persuaded him to participate, and Ben, knowing most of the movie by heart at this point, slipped into Tommy Lee Jones' role. With few patrons and no ushers to tell them to hush, the two slowly became more and more vocal. By the end they were in full performance mode, moving throughout the rows and aisles. Afterwards, in the parking lot under the large Marquee, the windows of Joan's family station wagon quickly fogged up in the chilly fall air.

A security guard rapped on the window and kept walking.

"I guess that's our cue," Ben said, lifting himself off Joan.

"I need to get home anyway. You still coming over?"

Joan had landed the part of Frenchy in a community college production of "Grease," and Ben was helping her rehearse in the basement of her parents' two-story home. Usually, the two would have sex sometime after she sang Rizzo's "There Are Worse Things I Could Do." And like Pavlov's dog, Ben waited for his treat.

(Continues…)

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Excerpted from "A Fool's Journey"
by .
Copyright © 2017 Mark Pannebecker.
Excerpted by permission of Mark Pannebecker.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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