Bernard Boyce Bennington & The American Dream Read Online Free Page A
Author: Peter Crowther
anesthetize the stories in Crypt of Terror , Haunt of Fear and Vault of Horror to the point of virtual emasculation. Long-toothed creatures of the night drawn by Jack Davis and which owed more to Nosferatu than to Bela Lugosi’s tuxedo-clad European Count…and paved the way for the TV adaptation of Stephen King’s ‘Salem’s Lot and the almost animal-like Mr. Barlow.”
“But this life-long fascination with horror comicbooks and, in particular, with the undead made me a difficult man with whom to strike up a casual conversation. I accept that without question. And this, in turn, meant that my chances of companionship were slight at best, what with the vast majority of the fairer sex’s staunch ignorance of such fundamentally important matters. Sure,” he went on, shrugging his shoulders, “I had passed time in comic convention bar areas chewing the fat with like-minded souls—most of whom could recount exact dialogue and page numbers of ‘key’ stories in the favorite books—but these brief liaisons were ill-fated and amounted to nothing even approaching stability. But then something happened that was to change my life.”
The man stopped and took another drink, this time a bigger one which almost drained the glass. Without even asking, Jack Fedogan pulled another Michelob off the shelf, flipped the cap, and placed it on the bar.
“Eventually, earlier this year, just as the summer was giving way again to autumn’s moods of melancholia, the lure of settling down coupled with a suddenly looming mortality persuaded me to actively look for a mate. But the question was, how should I do it?
“Singles bars were out. They were filled with folks that I could scarcely identify with, sharp dressers all, driving sleek continental cars and wearing the latest colognes and playing the latest CDs. Sex was what those folks were after and it wasn’t—at least not primarily—what I was after. What I was after was The American Dream…a wife, a house, Norman Rockwell-style picket fences, and the smell of meatloaf coming from the oven.”
“That’s quite a dream,” Jack says, his mind drifting back to his life with Phyllis.
“You know,” Jim ventures, “I had a dream once…dreamed I won the Lottery.”
Edgar nods. He’s thinking of informing the others that sex would be pretty high up on the list of things he wants right now, but instead he says, “Yeah?”
Jim carries right on the way Jim can do when his mind isn’t fully on what his mouth is doing. “Bought a car.”
“Why’d you need a car in New York?” McCoy asks.
Jim gives a shrug, shuffles his glass around on his coaster. “I don’t.”
“But that was the first thing you did?”
“I didn’t say it was the first thing. Just that I bought a car.”
“What else did you buy?” Edgar says, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, taking a rise out of Jim.
“Don’t remember. Just remember the car.”
McCoy says, “What kind of car was it?”
“A Mustang.” In Jim Leafman’s mouth the word sounds like a mantra— musssss-tannnng —or a sibilant call for rain by an old Apache or Shawnee, staring up into the sky looking for water-bearing clouds.
“Now that was the American Dream,” says Edgar. “That’s what they called it. By the 1950s, young couples marrying, heading out to the suburbs, buying houses and cars, starting families. It must’ve seemed like we had it all.”
“Ah had a dream!” McCoy says, trying to capture the milky rounded tones of Martin Luther King.
“I was six in 1950,” Edgar says. “Didn’t know nothing about no American Dream. My folks lived-”
“You want to let the guy finish his story or what?” Jack asks, frustration spread thick in his words.
Edgar nods and waves for the newcomer to go on with his tale.
“Dating agencies were the next consideration but even those made for a short-lived solution, the problem being that I just couldn’t cope with the intrusive questioning of the
“But this life-long fascination with horror comicbooks and, in particular, with the undead made me a difficult man with whom to strike up a casual conversation. I accept that without question. And this, in turn, meant that my chances of companionship were slight at best, what with the vast majority of the fairer sex’s staunch ignorance of such fundamentally important matters. Sure,” he went on, shrugging his shoulders, “I had passed time in comic convention bar areas chewing the fat with like-minded souls—most of whom could recount exact dialogue and page numbers of ‘key’ stories in the favorite books—but these brief liaisons were ill-fated and amounted to nothing even approaching stability. But then something happened that was to change my life.”
The man stopped and took another drink, this time a bigger one which almost drained the glass. Without even asking, Jack Fedogan pulled another Michelob off the shelf, flipped the cap, and placed it on the bar.
“Eventually, earlier this year, just as the summer was giving way again to autumn’s moods of melancholia, the lure of settling down coupled with a suddenly looming mortality persuaded me to actively look for a mate. But the question was, how should I do it?
“Singles bars were out. They were filled with folks that I could scarcely identify with, sharp dressers all, driving sleek continental cars and wearing the latest colognes and playing the latest CDs. Sex was what those folks were after and it wasn’t—at least not primarily—what I was after. What I was after was The American Dream…a wife, a house, Norman Rockwell-style picket fences, and the smell of meatloaf coming from the oven.”
“That’s quite a dream,” Jack says, his mind drifting back to his life with Phyllis.
“You know,” Jim ventures, “I had a dream once…dreamed I won the Lottery.”
Edgar nods. He’s thinking of informing the others that sex would be pretty high up on the list of things he wants right now, but instead he says, “Yeah?”
Jim carries right on the way Jim can do when his mind isn’t fully on what his mouth is doing. “Bought a car.”
“Why’d you need a car in New York?” McCoy asks.
Jim gives a shrug, shuffles his glass around on his coaster. “I don’t.”
“But that was the first thing you did?”
“I didn’t say it was the first thing. Just that I bought a car.”
“What else did you buy?” Edgar says, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, taking a rise out of Jim.
“Don’t remember. Just remember the car.”
McCoy says, “What kind of car was it?”
“A Mustang.” In Jim Leafman’s mouth the word sounds like a mantra— musssss-tannnng —or a sibilant call for rain by an old Apache or Shawnee, staring up into the sky looking for water-bearing clouds.
“Now that was the American Dream,” says Edgar. “That’s what they called it. By the 1950s, young couples marrying, heading out to the suburbs, buying houses and cars, starting families. It must’ve seemed like we had it all.”
“Ah had a dream!” McCoy says, trying to capture the milky rounded tones of Martin Luther King.
“I was six in 1950,” Edgar says. “Didn’t know nothing about no American Dream. My folks lived-”
“You want to let the guy finish his story or what?” Jack asks, frustration spread thick in his words.
Edgar nods and waves for the newcomer to go on with his tale.
“Dating agencies were the next consideration but even those made for a short-lived solution, the problem being that I just couldn’t cope with the intrusive questioning of the
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