Meanwhile, These Things Remain
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CHAPTER 1:
MEANWHILE, THESE THINGS REMAIN
by Kevin G. Carney (kevin@kevincarnate.net)
Based, in part, on characters created by Patrick Wilde for the screenplay GET REAL
PREFACE
MEANWHILE, THESE THINGS REMAIN, is less directly a spinoff from GET REAL, and
more so a spinoff from my earlier story, STAY REAL, itself a more direct spinoff from GET
REAL. Hmm, did that make sense? Anyway, you might want to read the previous story first,
if you have not done so, as the current story will make more sense to you that way. And, of
course, none of this makes a damn bit of sense unless you've seen the movie GET REAL. So,
if you haven't, spit out those Doritos and put that can of beer back in the fridge, and go to
your local movie rental store and get GET REAL. Then come back and read what I've done
to cause poor old Patrick Wilde to spin in his grave, a place to which, as of this writing, he
fortunately has not yet retired.
MEANWHILE, THESE THINGS REMAIN removes Steven Carter from Basingstoke and
the familiar cast of characters. It brings him, for a time, to the United States of America,
surrounds him with new people, and confronts him with a situation that is, I suspect, more
typically American than British. (Please feel free to correct me if I am wrong in this assertion.)
The story begins just over two years after STAY REAL ends. The challenge in writing this
story has been to make the somewhat older Steven Carter recognizable and endearing in this
new situation. I'll leave it to readers to decide if I have succeeded.
Many thanks go to Pete for creating this superior website, and providing this forum for we
who write unpublishable derivative fiction. And I honestly can't express my appreciation
enough to those of you who actually take the time to read this stuff. Thank you.
_________________________________________________
I can't conceive the hidden life anymore, don't think of it as life. When you finally come out,
there's a pain that stops, and you know it will never hurt like that again, no matter how much
you lose or how bad you die.
From BECOMING A MAN: HALF A LIFE STORY, by Paul Monette, Harcourt Brace
Jovanovich, Publishers, c. 1992.
_________________________________________________
CHAPTER 1
At twenty, Eric Bradford had never looked more handsome. Because of his well tanned, blue
eyed, shaggy blond headed good looks, people usually assumed he hailed from Southern
California's beaches. But as soon as he opened his mouth and said something like "Hahvad,"
or "Mahtha's Vinyad," his Boston origins were unmistakable.
On a warm, sunny October Saturday afternoon Eric sat at the piano in the chapel of Dallas
Baptist College and played the intro to Barry Manilow's "Even Now."
"Hold it," his friend Dan said, standing by the piano with his electric bass guitar slung over
his shoulder. "You mean we just sing this straight through, like we're serious?"
"Like we're singing for the Royal Family," Eric said.
"I still don't get it. What's so funny about that?" Dan asked.
"Nothing. That's the point. It's just an insipid pop song. The humor is in the commotion.
The screaming and the panties flying around."
"Panties!? Bradford, do I need to remind you this is a Christian college?"
Eric was growing impatient. "It's not like the girls are going to strip or anything. Our job is
to sound beautiful and look as nerdy and earnest as we can be. I swear to you, it will work. If
it doesn't we'll just slink off stage. If it works, we'll give them 'Mandy' for an encore. You do
know 'Mandy'?"
"Oh, brother. If you see my mind lying around let me know. I'm sure I lost it when I let you
talk me into this." Dan threw his head back and rolled his eyes toward his brow.
"Yeah, yeah, yeah. OK, Danny Boy, from the top." Eric began to play. Dan joined in on his
bass. Eric nodded and they began to sing in a lovely harmony.
Even now, when there's someone else who cares,
When there's someone home who's waiting just for me,
Even now I think about you as I'm climbing up the stairs,
And I wonder what to do so she won't see,
That even now, when I know it wasn't right,
And I've found a better life than what we had,
Even now I wake up crying in the middle of the night,
And I can't believe it still could hurt so bad.
Even now . . .
"Wait," Dan interrupted again. "Eric, are you OK?"
"What? Huh? Oh, yeah-- ah, I'm fine," Eric tried to assure him. "Now do you think we could
manage to rehearse this all the way through at least once before the show next Friday?"
The chapel doors swung open."Eric Bradford!" Dean Watson approached. "I have a message
from your mother."
Eric took a note from the Dean and read it. "Did she say what the problem is?"
"No," the Dean replied, "But she seemed rather upset. She wants you to call as soon as
possible."
Eric stood up from the piano bench and grabbed his blazer. "Dan, drop by my room later.
We'll figure out a time to rehearse tomorrow. I need to make this call."
_________________________________________________
Home in Basingstoke for the weekend, Steven was lying on his bed trying to make sense of
the squiggles and hen scratches in his calculus textbook when the door bell rang. He got up
and took the stairs two at a time to the first floor. He opened the front door.
"Jess, what's wrong? Come in."
Jessica stepped inside and threw herself into Steven's arms. "It's Randy," she said as tears
began to flow again.
"Bloody hell." An iron claw squeezed and twisted Steven's gut. "Is he sick again?"
"Steve," Jessica cried, "he's dead."
Steven felt like he was falling backward outside of himself- falling into a chasm with no
bottom. He watched with an eery objectivity as he slid his arms from around Jessica and led
her by the hand into the living room. He sat next to her on the sofa, staring, not seeing
anything. A slow explosion tore him apart inside, yet he could not register any emotion.
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