by Tom DeLonge
TOM DELONGE
SUZANNE YOUNG
Poet Anderson
…Of Nightmares
Copyright © 2015 by Tom DeLonge
All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced in any fashion, print, facsimile, or electronic, or by any method yet to be developed, without express written permission of the publisher. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events, are unintended and entirely coincidental.
To The Stars, Inc.
1051 S. Coast Hwy 101 Suite B, Encinitas, CA 92024
ToTheStars.Media
To The Stars… and Poet Anderson are trademarks of To The Stars, Inc.
Cover © 2015 by Tom French
Book Design by Rare Bird
Dust Jacket Graphic Design by Valhalla Conquers
Parts of this book were adapted from the original Poet Anderson
screenplay by Ben Kull
Managing Editor: Kari DeLonge
Manufactured in the United States of America
ISBN 978-1-943272-06-8 (hc lim ed.)
ISBN 978-1-943272-00-6 (hc trade)
ISBN 978-1-943272-02-0 (eBook)
ISBN 978-1-943272-03-7 (Enhanced eBook)
Distributed Worldwide by Simon & Schuster
To all the dreamers out there on spaceship Earth, anything is possible.
Acknowledgments
Tom—Thank you to my beautiful wife Jennifer, my two amazing kids, Ava and Jonas, and to all of my teammates at To The Stars…
Suzanne—I want to thank my agent Jim McCarthy. My friend and editor, Michael Strother. And my family.
Contents
Preface
Part I
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Part II
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Preface
The idea of a book, a large volume of pages written with passion, frustration and skill, was never something I was interested in. Neither was a guitar, until I played one for the first time in the second grade.
I remember thinking about what it is I am going to do with my life at that moment.
I had it all planned out, I would be a musician til the end of time—a vagabond traveling from town to town meeting people and being praised for any small bit of skill I could muster. But flash forward to this part of my life, and I have come to realize that what I really like is just “feeling” certain things with people. Creating an environment for a group of like-minded individuals to communicate with an invisible vibration…the kind of thing that can start a riot, or make it rain. At least we all hear Native Americans could do such a thing.
What the fuck do I know?
The ultimate art form to me is some kind of conversion of sight, sound and craft. In many ways that could be a film, something that takes veterans of many art forms working together to create a cohesive experience. But these days the film industry needs help, nobody is buying tangible creations, just like nobody is buying tangible albums. It’s all digital.
So we find ourselves in a crossroads, a place where everyone must work together to create a through-line where music, film and publishing can exist together to share resources and make it all work. Here you now have my thoughts of a book.
Thinking to myself, how do I write a book? How do I take that idea and make a film? How do I create an album that is as good as those other two pieces? It’s hard as shit.
But you know me, I couldn’t give a fuck, so I just started calling people. I didn’t have the entire story worked out but I did have bits and pieces, the kind of “shape” of the house, not so much the color, or how it’s built. I love teams, and I needed a team.
I first met Ben Kull through a short-lived partner on Strange Times, another story I am working on now. Ben drove down to San Diego and pitched me his vision for where the Strange Times world could go, and it wasn’t too long after that I had him writing a Poet screenplay. He was able to take my “house” and break it down into puzzle pieces that actually fit together. Helping me work through ideas, rules, and character arc. But we were boys, “boys with toys” as they say. We had cool bikes, characters that glowed, physics of the Dream World that made a lot of sense and so on.
But we were missing a special human element, the relationship ingredient that is usually told by authors of books who have the latitude and space to dig in and build a true story between two individuals. And here comes Suzanne. I remember calling a large publishing agency in New York, asking for a guy named Jim, whom I saw “liked the paranormal” on their website. He was taken back a bit that I called him out of the blue and seemed to be so passionately driven to write a book as part of a major franchise that could go on forever, and so on…but he took me seriously, and mentioned he’d get back to me.
Three weeks later or so, I thought he had forgotten, or really didn’t buy into my “master plan,” and then he emailed me back with options. I remember thinking, “Wow, Suzanne Young seems pretty legit.”
After some online diligence and a bit of that “gut feeling thing”, I said let’s set up a call with Suzanne. From that moment forward it was all passion, laughing and work. Suzanne has this gift of seeing the world through the eyes of all of us, as teenagers and young adults. Her appetite for “getting the girl” or “getting that guy” in romance is the glue in all her work, but she paints it in such a way that there’s always a dark and disturbing energy around the most basic things. A true psychological thriller does such a thing. Where the mind gets in the way of love, where violence can keep people together or tear them to pieces. She has it all. Her words are so inspiring to me as an artist, someone who loves being a little dark of center.
Ben, myself and Suzanne would have amazing conference calls every week or two, and we would explain our points of view. Sometimes disagreeing, sometimes excited and talking over each other, and sometimes at a loss and acknowledging we’d get to it later. But who would of thought that a screenwriter, an author and a dreamer would get the job done so well. I believe this is the new way of doing things, bringing together all parties at the genesis of a project and working through it together.
Some things in this book are from Ben’s first screenplay. Some things in the screenplay are from Suzanne’s mind throughout this book. Some of my ideas made it in both… Well, let’s be fair and say I got whatever I wanted, ha!
What you are going to see here is an incredible amount of time, heart, sacrifice and passion laid into hundreds of pages of words. This is the beginning of a story, a story of dreams and the dreamers that create
them. I hope you enjoy this next step that I am taking to create that “feeling” where many individuals can come together as a whole…and change a few things here on this “pale blue dot” as Carl Sagan himself would say. Thank you for giving us a chance to take you on a ride.
—Tom DeLonge, 2015
Part I
A DREAM IS A DREAM IS A DREAM . . .
Chapter One
The rain followed Jonas Anderson everywhere he went. It was with him the cold autumn morning when he came into the world, and on the day he lost his first tooth. The rain tapped the windshield of the 1968 Ford Mustang on the slick summer evening when he lost his virginity.
And, of course, it rained the entire day his parents died.
Rain even haunted Jonas’s dreams on occasion, though it seemed to be the only place he had the power to make it stop. Dreams, after all, belonged to him.
The faded black Mustang rumbled along the desolate highway, cutting through the fog as it wound its way up the coast of Puget Sound, Washington. The near-constant rainfall had picked up over the last twenty minutes, and Jonas sighed and looked dully out the passenger window, sure that it would rain for the rest of his life, possibly into his afterlife.
Moisture clung to everything: Jonas’s jeans and hoodie, his inky black hair. Even the stack of boxes and garbage bags stuffed with clothes seemed to wilt in the humidity.
“You warm enough?” Alan asked, startling Jonas from his thoughts. Jonas glanced at his brother, and saw him turn up the speed of the windshield wipers.
“Yeah,” he replied and tightened his arms around himself. Of course he wasn’t warm—the heater had quit working three months ago and the cool evening air blew in through the vents. But Jonas didn’t want to complain anymore…at least not until they got to Seattle.
Last week, the Anderson boys had been in Portland with the promise of paid work, but it didn’t pan out. It rarely did anymore, especially without a permanent address. And it was getting harder for Jonas to enroll in high school. By the time his records caught up with him, he and Alan were moving on to their next opportunity, their next town. Jonas was the perpetual new kid—always the worst fucking kid to be in any situation.
But Jonas’s cool, careless attitude got him out of more trouble than Alan needed to know about. His sharp features, dark hair, and piercing black eyes turned heads, but the attention only succeeded in making Jonas feel more vulnerable. So he kept the deeper parts of himself hidden, a trick he’d learned while bouncing from place to place with Alan after their parents died.
That was four years ago, but to Jonas, it could have been just yesterday. He missed them too much to acknowledge any time had passed at all. But now it was just him and Alan against the world. Sometimes, literally.
The storm was getting worse. The Mustang’s tires skidded in the rain as Alan tried to navigate a sharp turn, righting the car with a quick swerve. He looked over at Jonas as if daring him to mention it. Jonas snorted a laugh and faced the road. He should have been the one driving the Mustang. The car liked him better.
As they continued to climb the mountain, Jonas tried to recline his seat and found only an extra inch or two when he jammed it back into Alan’s guitar case. His brother cursed, and Jonas twisted and turned, trying to get comfortable. His sneakers kicked the small round box crammed into his leg space, and a black umbrella tipped and banged against his knee unhelpfully. Jonas rubbed his leg and reset the handle before glaring at his brother.
“Then quit fidgeting,” Alan said in the umbrella’s defense.
Jonas groaned and tried to stretch, finding no relief.
“What is all this crap for anyway?” he asked, kicking again at the box. “You’re the doorman. How much equipment do you need?”
Alan reached out to fix the placement of the umbrella handle, holding Jonas’s gaze as he did so to show the importance of the objects. This was the first decent job offer Alan had gotten in almost a year. Their parents had once worked for the Eden Hotel, and after they died, Alan went to the manager and asked for a job. The answer was no. And now, almost five years later and under new management, the hotel had suddenly tracked him down and offered a permanent position with benefits. Something almost impossible to come by when you’re a drop-out. Alan had the classic good looks of an all-American jock asshole, even though he was neither a jock nor an asshole in high school. He was responsible—goddamn dependable. But he gave up his last months at West Seattle High in favor of adulthood. And number one on his agenda was making sure his younger brother graduated.
“Look, I know the Eden turned its back on us, but I don’t hold grudges,” Alan said, looking between Jonas and the road. “The Eden is the most prestigious hotel in Seattle—even if Mom and Dad did hate it there.”
“They didn’t hate it,” Jonas said, turning away. “I just don’t think they cared how prestigious it was.” Jonas could remember going to the hotel when he was a boy, following his mom around and sneaking a few chocolates off the housekeeping cart when she wasn’t looking. No, she didn’t hate it. She was just busy. Same with Dad.
“Either way,” Alan said, knowing that mentioning their parents was the quickest way to shut Jonas out, “I’m moving up in the world, brother.”
Jonas snorted. “Like I said: you’re the doorman.”
“It’s a good job,” he replied. “And once you get your ass through high school, you’ll have one, too. Then we’ll get ourselves a real place.”
A home. Jonas quickly pushed the thought away. That word died with his parents.
“Until then,” Alan continued, lightening his tone, “the hotel is giving us free room and board. Honestly, Jonas,” he said, smiling for the first time in two hundred miles, “things are changing for us. I can feel it.”
Alan had that flash of hope, the kind that made Jonas believe in possibilities, no matter how unlikely a change seemed at this point. Although he didn’t openly admit it, Jonas would have done anything to keep that look in Alan’s eyes. The promise of a…home was all his brother needed to get through the day. That, and a stupid umbrella, apparently.
Alan wiped his hand through the condensation gathered on the inside of the windshield, leaving a clear streak across the glass. The car’s tires hugged the tight turns of the road as they began their descent down the other side of the mountain. The lights of the city ahead were nearly impossible to see through the fog.
“You sure you don’t want me to drive?” Jonas asked, now that his brother was in a better mood.
“Shut up and go to sleep,” Alan responded without looking over, the smile still pulling at his lips. Jonas laughed and stretched out his long legs, kicking the black box again.
“I’m serious,” Alan said. “Don’t crush that box.”
Annoyed, Jonas picked it up and plucked off the lid. His heart sank as he recognized the black velvet bowler hat. He turned to Alan with a frozen smile on his face, and pulled the hat from the box. “What the fuck is this?” he asked.
“A hat,” Alan replied. He glanced at Jonas, as if waiting for his brother’s reaction.
Jonas swallowed hard, and ran his finger along the felt brim. “Dad used to wear one of these,” he said. A dull ache started in his chest, but he quickly recovered before Alan could notice.
“They’re standard uniform at the Eden,” Alan said. “The drivers and the doormen wear them.”
“Ah…” Jonas said like he understood. “So do you get paid extra to embarrass yourself?” He forced a grin.
Alan let out a laugh, and shook his head. “I thought you were going to sleep?”
Jonas put on the hat and picked up the umbrella from the floor. He tried to spin it by the handle, but hit the ceiling of the car, earning a warning look from Alan. In response, Jonas touched the tip of the umbrella to the hat in salute.
“I seriously hate you sometimes,” Alan said, although he still smi
led.
There was a flash of lightning in the distance, and Alan leaned forward to peer at the sky. Jonas looked up, too, noticing the darkening storm clouds. They were about to get blasted by the storm.
Jonas caught his own reflection in the foggy passenger window, surprised by the sudden resemblance to his father—a trait Alan had inherited instead. It’s the hat, Jonas thought, smiling to himself.
“It won’t always be this hard for us,” Alan said quietly, adding to their earlier conversation. “It can’t be.”
Jonas glanced over at his brother, his chest swelling with respect. Alan was one of the good guys. He certainly deserved more than the shitty hand he’d been dealt. Without a word, Jonas slipped off the hat and brushed dust from the brim before gently placing it back inside the box.
There was a blinding flash of light as a zigzag of lightning cut through the black sky. Close enough to touch. Close enough that it didn’t seem possible. A boom sounded so loudly, Alan yelped and Jonas saw boulders shake on the side of the cliff as bits of gravel slid down the mountain and onto the road just ahead. Jonas’s heart was in his throat.
He’d never seen lightning that close before. They should be dead.
Jonas opened his mouth to ask Alan what he thought when sharp taps began to hit the roof. Jonas darted a look at the sky as small objects pelted the car; pebbles of ice smacked against the windshield, covering the glass faster than the wipers could swipe them away.
“It’s hailing,” Alan said.
Absently, Jonas tugged on his seatbelt and leaned forward, as if being two inches closer to the glass would help him see the road better. But the headlights of the Mustang were no match for the storm. The noise from the hail grew louder, setting both boys on edge.
“We’ve got to pull over,” Jonas yelled, trying to be heard over the constant pinging on the car’s metal frame. The Mustang would be dented for sure.
“Too dangerous,” Alan called back. “Another car could hit us. We’ve got to make it through.”