Author: Jeff Oberlee
This is a different sort of novel for me to promote. But then, is it really? Something different is what we’re about here, right?
It’s a novel written by Jeff Oberlee, an old friend who contributed to the print OYB once upon a time.
It’s a sweet youth story about growing up. It includes references to “Catcher in the Rye” because that’s what the kids of the story had to read in school. But this novel shows a different way to grow up. It defeats the cynicism of “Catcher.”
It’s full of references to 70’s and 80’s radio hit songs. Back when kids used to talk every day about the songs on the radio.
But here’s the twist—and I suppose that in a sense it would be best if I never brought it up. But really it’s part of the story. Jeff never wanted it played up, of course. But, hey, he really was a hero here. So people say what they did anyway, even if it embarrasses them.
Ol’ Oberlee was a nerdy lad in high school. He started to come into his own in his first year of college, at MSU. But that’s when he caught Elephant Man’s disease…on the inside, on his nerves. Neurofibromatosis. Over the next few years his senses closed in on him. He didn’t look too different from the outside, but his nerves got all tangled on the inside. His body shut down as well. He fought like a relentless lion to keep his independence, first using a cane then wheelchair. In the end, after he graduated from college he was only able to slowly crawl around his apartment. Endlessly stubborn, never giving an inch. Then he died.
He once wrote me a story for OYB about riding a wind-trainer for exercise when he no longer had the balance for biking on the road—he wrote about how travelled freely in his mind. He built his mind.
One of his favorite professors at MSU was also one of mine (and both of my brothers as well) — Vince Lombardi. (No lie. A real character. But not a football fan.)
But before ol’ Oberlee left this world he wrote his novel. He never did get his own chance for a girlfriend but he explored what that would’ve been like.
He wrote while his body and senses were shutting down. He couldn’t hold a pencil. Then he got tunnel vision so he couldn’t see a keyboard. He became deaf. He input his novel using the slenderest of connections to this physical world.
…A novel full of the love of music. And love of life. Full of the bloom of young new relationship, friendship, challenge and respect.
It’s a schoolkid novel. About friends, learning and adventure.
It took Oberlee years to write and input this novel—it was the one thing he did. His life work. 235 pages.
It stands fine on its own. It’s wholesome, and developmental, with a special emphasis on kids using music as a way to talk to each other. Does my spilling the beans about how it was written mess it up? I hope not—but neither does it really add to the story. The story is its own. Oberlee didn’t get to live it with his body—but you know it was in his life.
Here it is as an eBook. (Priced at $3.95 in honor of another traveler, Jack Kerouac, and the 50th Anniversary of his “On The Road,” which came out in hardcover at $3.95…) Just click on the link below to get a PDF of this novel…
Here’s an excerpt:
[It’s from a scene where the boy and his newly-new first girlfriend are in his room looking at his art projects. Getting to know each other.]
I turned and headed back to my room. Lisa was examining some of my clay sculptures.
“These are wonderful,” she said.
“Thanks. I like playing with clay sometimes.” She was holding a clay sculpture of a parrot that I kept on my windowsill.
“This one’s really beautiful. When did ya make it?”
“Just last summer. I used to have a parrot for about two years, but he vanished one day last June and we never found him.”
“What was his name?”
“Voltaire.”
She smiled. “After the French writer?”
“Yep.”
“Did he look like this?”
“All except for the color, of course. He was colored like a rainbow, only brighter—red, orange, yellow and a little light blue on the tail.”
“He sounds beautiful.”
“He was… When I start missing him, I picture him in a tree somewhere, sitting on a branch next to a little brown sparrow that’s mauling a worm, and he says (in a parrot voice), ‘Voltaire wants a grape.’ Then the sparrow looks at him and says (in a normal voice), ‘What, you too good for worms?'”
Lisa laughed. “He could say ‘Voltaire wants a grape’?”
“Yep. He said a lot of things. He about drove us crazy with all his vocalizations… I remember at about seven o’clock every morning, he’d start at it, making a ton of noise. I’d lay in bed sometimes just listening to him and laugh at all the noise he made. He was crazy… but I loved him.”
Lisa put the clay parrot back in its spot and hugged me. “I’m sure he loved you, too,” she said quietly. I just stood there holding her, too happy in her presence to cry for my lost friend. God only knows what happened to him. We let go of each other reluctantly and sat down.
“Have you ever read Candide?” I asked.
“Several times. I think it’s a lovely story.”
“I like it, too. Did you know Voltaire was supposed to have written that in three days?”
“I heard that somewhere… We’re supposed to read it for French this term, so I bought the English translation at the bookstore last summer to get a little head start. I thought it might help to be familiar with the English translation when I’m trying to translate the original French.”
“Good idea… Have you ever heard of a song by Duran Duran called Last Chance On the Stairway?”
“I don’t think so…”
I really wanted her to hear it, so I stuck the tape in my tape player and let it go. That song makes me rise so high� Wonder why.
“That’s a pretty song,” she said as it ended. The next song, Save A Prayer, played as we talked.
“It used to be my favorite. When I first bought the tape, I didn’t know who Voltaire was. But a year or so later, I stumbled across a copy of Candide and, seeing Voltaire’s name on it, I read it. Now I know what the singer means by, ‘Funny, it’s just like a scene out of Voltaire, twisting out of sight…'”
She smiled. “You really pride yourself on understanding lyrics, don’t you?”
“I sure do. I think music is essential. It’s been around in one form or another ever since the world began, so it must be pretty important. The only problem is that, today, too many people are out to get rich quick and don’t give a damn about sharing something with the world that means a lot to them. Instead, they’re littering the radio with meaningless garbage… Music’s really taking a beating… But I imagine it’ll survive…”
Lisa was staring at the clay parrot on the windowsill. She wasn’t saying anything and I didn’t want to bother her. Save A Prayer is even more romantic than the other song and, for those who actually think and feel, it can be hypnotizing in a way. I wondered what she was thinking about, so I sat down softly next to her. She still didn’t move a muscle; she just kept staring at the clay parrot with a blank expression on her face. But when I put an arm around her, she started crying.
“What’s on your mind, Lisa?”
“…Voltaire. How much Voltaire must’ve meant to you… and how beautiful the sculpture is and how all the money in the world couldn’t buy something that means that much to someone… Rich people get so used to buying everything, they’d buy a sculpture like that before they’d ever make one… and it wouldn’t mean a damn thing to them, except for how much it cost… and which king owned it… It’s all too new. I can’t explain it… It’s just a flood of emotion I can’t deal with yet…”
“You’re doing great,” I said and gave her a squeeze of support. I could only imagine what she was going through.
“It’s no big deal, really. I’m just having some trouble adjusting to a new and better world. I was such a fake for so long, being a good girl, doing what Daddy wanted me to do… which was fine until I got into high school and wanted to date. He had me going out with sons of his friends… They’re all rich and know it all too well. They expect everyone to bend down and kiss their ass… when what they really need is a good kick.” She paused and dropped her head. “My dad doesn’t like our friendship… because your family isn’t in his social circle. He can’t stand the thought of me dating a guy whose parents he doesn’t personally know. And, of course, he only personally knows rich people…” Another pause. “But I want you to know one thing: I don’t care if you don’t have a dime to your name, and I expect you to treat me like I don’t have a dime to mine.” She sat quietly, looking relieved to have talked out what she was feeling inside. Sometimes that’s the only way to find what you’re feelin’, as Harry Chapin put it.
“It’s a deal,” I said.
