To say that Beaver's marriage didn't work would be like saying that the launch of the Challenger space shuttle went a little bit wrong. Joe "Beaver" Clarendon and Laurie Sue Kenopensky made it through eight months and then kapow, there goes my baby, somebody help me pick up the fucking pieces. ~Dreamcatcher, p. 10

The year was 1987. This was the year that I had my first waitress job, attended my first punk concert, and was finally starting to feel like I was making it on my own… at the ripe ol' age of twenty-three. This was also the year that I became both the wife and ex-wife of one Mr. Joseph Clarendon, otherwise known by the rather questionable nickname of Beaver. We were quite a site to behold. I with my bad 80s fashion and mall hair, he looking like some sort of a cross between a nerdy hippie and the Marlboro man.

My name at the time we met was Laurie Sue Kenopensky. I was a New Jersey transplant who somehow or another found myself living in Maine of all places that year. Granted that they were both in the Northeast, but the Jersey shore was a far cry from the northern most state in New England.

I had just gotten off from my shift at the diner. It was late, maybe two or three in the morning. It was definitely after midnight. I had to park my car over a block away from the diner because of some water main project the city was doing on that street. Never mind that some of us had to walk in the cold at ungodly hours.

I didn't see him until he was almost at me. I don't know if I hadn't been paying attention or my mind had simply frozen. In any case, I remember how cold he looked bundled up in his dirty denim jacket. He didn't seem to notice me at all. That is until, just as he was passing me by.

As he walked by me, there was a sound. It was the oddest thing I think I'd ever experienced up to that point in my life. The sound is sort of hard to describe to someone who's never heard it before, perhaps the sound of a poorly tuned radio might come close. It was an unintelligible bunch of noise that resembled voices, but they all ran together and made no sense. I later found out that this was the sound of thought. Only in order to understand it you had to pick out what you wanted and hone in on it. Sort of like tuning a radio to the right station, if we want to go back to that analogy again. Anyway, as he passed, this sound filled my head.

He had heard it too, obviously, because we both looked at each other at the same time. We both stopped walking and stood for a moment. The amalgamation of noise died down to a low buzz then stopped completely. I was left with only the sounds of my inner voice, and I presume it had gone away for him as well. Though, of course, I couldn't be certain.

He looked tired, drunk too. Actually, he didn't just look drunk, he reeked of alcohol. Against my better judgment, I asked if he wanted a ride home. He nodded yes, then quietly walked with me to my car.

This would come to be known as the beginning of his dark time, his blue period as it were. Otherwise, he would have had a smile and talked a mile a minute. But, not tonight. He seemed to have a cloud of doom hanging over his head. Which was probably for the best, if he were in cheerful mode he wouldn't have seemed so sad and I may not have been inclined to offer him a ride. He may not have even accidentally shared his thoughts as we passed as strangers, and we never would have met. Funny how things work.

We didn't get maybe five minutes from where my car had been parked before I looked over to find him sleeping almost peacefully in the passenger seat. He hadn't told me where he lived. He hadn't told me his name. In fact, I didn't even know what his voice sounded like. I reached over and gently pried the toothpick from his mouth, not wanting him to swallow it.

I let him sleep. From the looks of him, I doubted very much that he'd be able to give directions home anyway. A Flock Of Seagulls was one of the bands on the radio that night. Romeo Void was another. I only remember because that was the last time my car's stereo wasn't tuned to the oldies station.

When we got to my apartment, I all but carried him in. He was awake enough to walk, but he relied on me to hold him up and prevent him from running into anything. I lived in a tiny studio apartment. I had a bed, a black and white tv, and several milk crates that served as tables. That was basically the extent of my furniture. If he were a date I would have been too embarrassed to bring him here. But, as it were, he was just some guy around my own age who needed a place to sleep it off.

I helped him onto the bed. He fell asleep again while sitting up as I helped him take his jacket off. Or, rather I took it off for him. He woke up again for a minute and mumbled something as he lay down. But, he was out for the night before I swung his feet up onto the bed. I took off his Doc Martens and glasses but left everything else alone.

Now, the next part may seem questionable, but let me say this… there are big rats in Maine. Or at least there were in my apartment building, so I wasn't about to sleep on the floor. I had a reasonably sized bed though, so it wasn't like we were even touching. Of course, if I seem prudish in any way, that all changed soon enough.