A New American Classic

Nick Desjardins grew up an army brat, bouncing around the south until settling in Elizabethtown, Kentucky. As a teenager he started collecting books and records, and when college came, he couldn’t quite figure out what to do. The depression probably didn’t help. Leaving behind a mostly finished degree, he took to traveling and menial labor jobs, typing away on a beat-up laptop any chance he could get. He’s had short fiction published in A Literation, The Underground Literary Journal¸ Pique Magazine, and Human Parts. He currently resides in Kentucky, where he spends far too much time trying to figure out the musical preferences of his two dogs and hanging around dive bars. He has a serious problem not comically exaggerating his own biography and may or may not be part of a crack commando unit, wanted by the government, surviving as a soldier of fortune. . Debut Novel "In-Between Days" Available Now. Order Here Writing Greatest Hits American Hearts Series Short Stories for Short Attention Spans Letters to Ex-Lovers I Think I Fall in Love with Every Girl I Meet Social Media Official Site Facebook Instagram Twitter Genius var sc_project=7138611; var sc_invisible=0; var sc_security="337706c4"; var scJsHost = (("https:" == document.location.protocol) ? "https://secure." : "http://www."); document.write("");

[a-new-american-classic]

“A bastard from the start but a charming one at that, bad reputation but I really ain’t bad.”

[a-new-american-classic]

And you'll dance with Rita, I know you really like her Just don't hold her too close, please don't stab me in the back I didn't mean to say that, it's just my mind it plays up Multiplies each matter, turns imagination into fact You know I love her badly, she's the one to save me I'm gonna make some gravy, I'm gonna taste the fat

“How to Make Gravy” - Paul Kelly

[a-new-american-classic]

Left of the Dial

 The ergonomic black chair swivels sideways, and Sawyer slips in. The fingers on his left hand tap out a military cadence, punctuated by the snare-drum smack of a ring rattling the desk. He’s found his battle station, warm and familiar, the same as it ever was. Readying himself for the journey and sipping from his mug— all Irish, no coffee—he reaches toward the weathered set of headphones on the desk. Brushing thinning wisps of salt and pepper behind his ears, the cans take their rightful place atop his head. Sawyer is instantly transformed from a half-awake zombie with a stack of papers into the grand marshal of the late shift lonely hearts parade. The last frenzied notes of “Because the Night” fade out as he dons an affectation, the slight southern in his voice growing deeper as his finger finds the button.

“As always that was punk priestess Patti Smith with ‘Because the Night’ and you’re dialed in to Sawyer’s All Night Radio Love Line. Have you got anything to say to the one that got away? How about a declaration of love for the one sent from up above? If you’ve got someone on your mind, dial the number and wait on the line.” Instinct kicks in as his outstretched finger smothers the flashing red of the switchboard. The empty airspace is filled by another lonely-hearts tale, as The Great Depression goes into great detail about the love lost and left behind by his Asbury Park Mermaid. Sawyer offers his best attempt at consolation as the caller corks his tear ducts and makes a request, something soft, slow, and soulful they’d danced to once upon a time. The click of the receiver coincides with the click of Sawyer’s mouse. He knows it won’t be a proper panacea, just a sonic set of stitches. A decade behind the live mic had taught him that they’d always call back, just as brokenhearted as before. All Sawyer can hope is that maybe this caller will find a little temporary relief.

Sawyer sits back in his chair, exhales heavily like he needs to make room and long sip from his mug. It’s as routine as blinking or breathing. It’s hard for him to remember a time when the whiskey still burned. It takes time, or so he tells himself, but he’s been stretching that platitude thin for longer than he’d care to admit. The Delta blues wash down with another gulp, the rye coating his chords in armor as he prepares to lead the lonely-hearted into the Promised Land.

 “Caller number five, thank you for joining us here on the All Night Radio Love Line. Tell me what it is troubling you tonight.”

 There’s a slight pause, not long enough to cause concern, but the quiet begins to creep in on Sawyer. He turns away from the microphone to let slip a sigh as a soft voice drifts out of the speaker. She says she’s sitting next to him in the jeep right now, and that he’s steaming something fierce. She knows it’s her fault that they haven’t spoken for the past twenty minutes, but she doesn’t cotton to apologies as well as she should. She asks Sawyer if he wouldn’t mind playing track nine off of Some Girls, and he can’t help but to oblige. The neon glow of the on-air sign fades as the disco grit of Keith’s guitar filters in.  “Beast of Burden” always hit close to home. Sawyer slides the headphones down to his neck as elbow meets desk.

A wandering thumb finds the bottom of the band on his finger and begins to rock it back and forth. Still tight after all these years, there isn’t much give, but the slight twist is comfort enough.  Sawyer works it up to his knuckle and bends his finger just enough to feel the squeeze before he slips it back to its proper place. Eyes still closed, he brings the cans back to his ears and lets the auto-queue take DJ duty.

He fades in and out with the sway of the music, eyes to the bootleg sky of the studio, great incandescent stars flickering in and out. Sawyer tells himself it’s better in here than it is out there, opening the bottom drawer to find a refill. The bottle’s half empty, but it’s enough to fill his mug half full. He finds in it the same warmth that the rock & roll and repartee provide the callers. The ring on his finger taps against the desk, the same meter of the engine block before it gave out eight miles east of Tishomingo. His plans had been ruined, but he’d turned them around. They never made it to Muscle Shoals, but she said yes over body shop coffee and vending machine sticky buns. Fifteen years and that memory hadn’t withered. It took the switchboard flicker and track fade out to snap him back into the present.

“You’re on the All Night Radio Love Line, bringing hearts together from Biloxi to Bangor, what can I do ya for?” Sawyer’s voice is never lacking for sincerity, but he’s locked in the groove and going through the motions. He listens intently as the caller gives him the rundown. He’s a lonely Romeo on one coast, his Juliet on the opposite, sharing scenes with some other lead. Sawyer slips into his role, the cupid of cool for the neon-dwelling downhearted, as he queues up a consolation song. He tells Romeo that real love doesn’t fade as easy as it might seem, and that he’s probably kicking around in her brain when the weather gets cold and sleep steals away in the middle of the night.

The receiver clicks and the next track begins. Sawyer leans back, staring once again at the makeshift midnight sky on the ceiling. He wonders to himself when he’ll hear his own voice on the other end of the line, telling listeners coast to coast about her ghost and how hard it is that she’s gone.

[davidwduffy]

Finally getting around to reading In-Between Days by @a-new-american-classic - about time, heh.

[a-new-american-classic]

It's been almost six months and I never, ever get tired of seeing this. I hope you love it man!

[a-new-american-classic]

I will take my love for her as a person to my grave, because Stevie Nicks is the kind of woman who inspires that devotion.

Mick Fleetwood

[a-new-american-classic]

What a weird couple of weeks. Lots of behind the scenes book things. I ended up in the Emergency Room, with not very first IV. Not bad for 29. Memphis next weekend, complicated feelings about that, but I've got to see the boys for their 20th anniversary. Oh. And I got a new tattoo. My ribs hated it, but Dave loved it.

[a-new-american-classic]

Punk rock girls and Lonestar beer,

And tonight'll be okay,

And if I could get your attention my dear,

Things might go my way.

[a-new-american-classic]

Lord I worry when I get old I'll be lonesome Chasing all the umbrellas in London Every footstep in Angel Station For even the scent of her perfume again Watching detectives chase the one that got away

“Watson” - Brian Fallon

[a-new-american-classic]

Saudade (Don’t Look Back)

The gray haze of a defiant winter gripped the Atlantic coastline, squeezing out all traces of impending spring. Huddled inside a crowded seaside cafe, we were crammed in a corner between a counter and a foggy window. You were every bit the myth the years built you to be, a leather jacket wrapped around a Fitzgerald quote, the best song that the Rolling Stones never wrote. The northeast attitude had manifested in a stubborn sense of pride, always the best looking girl in the room even as your insides were shredding themselves. You caught me smiling, my eyes a little misty as you sipped your very first Irish coffee. The “we need to talk” shot through our Saturday afternoon like a stray bullet from some far off corner.

They slipped from between pale pink lips, little high-powered explosives, hitting our ears for the first time. I listened intently, each word like a wrecking ball knocking through preconceived dreams and foundations.

“I need you to understand, if we’re going to be together… we’re not going to be able to have kids.”

It would have been a lie to say that my little world didn’t implode, just for the briefest of moments. Hurricane Illness had ripped up through the continental coast, meeting us at the top to tear Stars out of the sky and my daydreams of the future right along with it. That Norman Rockwell painting of you, me, and two little ones changed in an instant. Four became two and I sat staring at a picture that seemed incomplete. Lost in my own world I can only imagine you were staring at the blank, lost puppy expression of some dolt who’s heart was always too big when it came to you. Scanning that Rockwell re-do I was drawn to the one thing that hadn’t changed; that bright, cinematic grin, the one that made your eyes squint and shifted your gaze, always to the left. That smile was always the easiest way to paint one on my face.

I looked up, your eyes glittering like some existential lighthouse, pulling me back to the shores of what mattered right now. I told you I understood, my hand reaching out to feel yours as it emerged from that leather sleeve. You squeezed back tightly, and I stood from the chair, pulling you in close, your once stone-serious face now leaving wet spots on my flannel. The surrounding crowd didn’t matter, your textbook cool dissolving into my arms, an Irish coffee kiss bestowed upon my neck as some sort of thank you.

Two hours later you were passed out on the couch, sweatshirt dwarfing your body, blanket covering every inch of you and not a spot on me, your head resting in my lap. In twenty minutes I’d have to somehow move you, to get the food we’d already ordered. I wasn’t afraid, I wasn’t resigned. I wasn’t concerned about offspring anymore than I was the toppings on our pizza. I was where I wanted to be.

[a-new-american-classic]

All Too Well

I once built a bookshelf with my father, completely from scratch. With a table saw, raw lumber and some varnish we built something that sat comfortably in the den for over a decade. People asked about it, they complimented it. “Surely,” they’d say, “You bought that at some antique place.” So I couldn’t understand how this goddamned IKEA dresser was giving me so much trouble.

I sat on the floor of your apartment, splayed out in a torn pair of jeans with an unfamiliar pink tool kit, spare nails gripped between my lips, and a healthy dose of determination. I lost an hour of time to a raging smoke detector because I still hadn’t quite gotten the hang of your gas-burning stove. I almost fell three times, barely balancing on a step stool right next to the front stairs. I wasn’t entirely sure that I wouldn’t end up in a heap at the front door, waiting patiently for you to come home so we could casually stroll off to the emergency room. Fortunately, the worst injury I snagged was a bruised thumb, a tiny little hemorrhage in the shape of a heart that I didn’t even show you. I didn’t want you to feel guilty, and you already felt guilty that I was spending my day off building furniture in your apartment.

But I didn’t mind. How the hell could I? I looked around an apartment that wasn’t my home, and realized just how comfortable it felt, how I’d seeped into the little cracks of it all. My jeans on the floor next to your bed felt right, the little remnants of past holidays and anniversaries and random gifts had accrued, scattered along shelves, adorning the walls. It was all slowing me down. How was I to build a fucking bookshelf when I could still see us sitting on the couch, your head in my lap, passed out before the take-out even made it to the door. It wasn’t my home, but you were, and this place would more than suffice for shelter.

I was almost finished when you walked in. I had everything but the roller guides on and I felt a bit like a disappointment. Five hours and I couldn’t even get three pieces of pre-made furniture fully assembled. But I’ll never forget the look on your face. That big bright smile that still leaves sunspots when I blink, all this time later. The fucking afterglow could have turned the cold New England winter into a goddamned Brazilian summer. “Welcome home, honey,” had been a long time coming, and it galloped off the tip of my tongue like a prize racehorse. It was the kind of homecoming I wanted to give you every day.

On the dark car ride later that night we were talking about music, just like always, and you mentioned the song. You’d played it before, at least a half dozen times, but I let you tell it all the same because I was a glutton for every thought you had and every audible syllable that trickled off your tongue. You told the story again, you played the song, your hand firmly clasped in mine, somehow warmer than either glove that we’d chosen. And though I’d been reluctant to admit, I liked the song more than I was willing to tell anyone other than you. And… it’s not that I wasn’t listening, because you always held my attention right in the palm of your hand. It’s just that I was thinking about when you’d come home, and how natural and right it felt. You were there, smiling on the stairs, and I remember it all too well.

[a-new-american-classic]

Hey Guys!

So, we’re a little over month into the life of this novel, and sales are pretty okay right now, but there’s something you can do to help us expand.

If you’ve bought the book, please consider leaving a review on Amazon or Goodreads. Even if it’s just 50 words and a star rating, those reviews boost the books visibility on both sites and gets us more traffic and more possibly buys. If you like what I do with words, help a brother out, because I’d like to be doing this full-time. I’m just about to start a second book, and the success of this one plays a big part in the new one making it to you.

From now until March 13th, if you leave a review on Amazon or Goodreads and contact me after, I’ll send you one of the limited edition screenprinted promotional poster that Rockets-Are-Red created for the book. They’re a variation on the book cover, and not available for sale, so this is your only chance.

And if you haven’t checked the book out yet, what are you waiting for? It’s a new year and you’ve probably set reading goals for yourself, why not throw my book on your list? You can find it at all major book retailers. There’s a link in the sidebar on my blog here, and what the hell, if you just click here you can buy it.

Thanks for the support so far guys.

[a-new-american-classic]

Hey guys. Have you done this yet? Because if you haven’t, it’d be a lot cooler if you did. There’s still some pretty cool swag to give away @jayarrarr @writteninjoy2 @theadventureto-be (Help a brother out?)

[a-new-american-classic]

But oh, my Lily, if you only knew I only want to be haunted by you And I would crawl across the glass To bow at your feet in the service of the queen

Brian Fallon “Her Majesty’s Service”

[a-new-american-classic]

Saudade (Don’t Look Back)

The gray haze of a defiant winter gripped the Atlantic coastline, squeezing out all traces of impending spring. Huddled inside a crowded seaside cafe, we were crammed in a corner between a counter and a foggy window. You were every bit the myth the years built you to be, a leather jacket wrapped around a Fitzgerald quote, the best song that the Rolling Stones never wrote. The northeast attitude had manifested in a stubborn sense of pride, always the best looking girl in the room even as your insides were shredding themselves. You caught me smiling, my eyes a little misty as you sipped your very first Irish coffee. The "we need to talk" shot through our Saturday afternoon like a stray bullet from some far off corner.

They slipped from between pale pink lips, little high-powered explosives, hitting our ears for the first time. I listened intently, each word like a wrecking ball knocking through preconceived dreams and foundations.

"I need you to understand, if we're going to be together... we're not going to be able to have kids."

It would have been a lie to say that my little world didn't implode, just for the briefest of moments. Hurricane Illness had ripped up through the continental coast, meeting us at the top to tear Stars out of the sky and my daydreams of the future right along with it. That Norman Rockwell painting of you, me, and two little ones changed in an instant. Four became two and I sat staring at a picture that seemed incomplete. Lost in my own world I can only imagine you were staring at the blank, lost puppy expression of some dolt who's heart was always too big when it came to you. Scanning that Rockwell re-do I was drawn to the one thing that hadn't changed; that bright, cinematic grin, the one that made your eyes squint and shifted your gaze, always to the left. That smile was always the easiest way to paint one on my face.

I looked up, your eyes glittering like some existential lighthouse, pulling me back to the shores of what mattered right now. I told you I understood, my hand reaching out to feel yours as it emerged from that leather sleeve. You squeezed back tightly, and I stood from the chair, pulling you in close, your once stone-serious face now leaving wet spots on my flannel. The surrounding crowd didn't matter, your textbook cool dissolving into my arms, an Irish coffee kiss bestowed upon my neck as some sort of thank you.

Two hours later you were passed out on the couch, sweatshirt dwarfing your body, blanket covering every inch of you and not a spot on me, your head resting in my lap. In twenty minutes I'd have to somehow move you, to get the food we'd already ordered. I wasn't afraid, I wasn't resigned. I wasn't concerned about offspring anymore than I was the toppings on our pizza. I was where I wanted to be.

[a-new-american-classic]

I know, I know, the flow of stories has been a little low around here, and I’m working on that, don’t worry. Life’s been real busy lately. Between promoting one book, writing another, and being a miserable grump in tight jeans, things have been a little hectic.

[a-new-american-classic]

Like a kaleidoscope in vibrant hues, I navigate around your tattoos, said you got that one on a whim, when you were breaking up with him

After The Party - The Menzingers

[a-new-american-classic]

Hey Guys!

So, we’re a little over month into the life of this novel, and sales are pretty okay right now, but there’s something you can do to help us expand.

If you’ve bought the book, please consider leaving a review on Amazon or Goodreads. Even if it’s just 50 words and a star rating, those reviews boost the books visibility on both sites and gets us more traffic and more possibly buys. If you like what I do with words, help a brother out, because I’d like to be doing this full-time. I’m just about to start a second book, and the success of this one plays a big part in the new one making it to you.

From now until March 13th, if you leave a review on Amazon or Goodreads and contact me after, I’ll send you one of the limited edition screenprinted promotional poster that Rockets-Are-Red created for the book. They’re a variation on the book cover, and not available for sale, so this is your only chance.

And if you haven’t checked the book out yet, what are you waiting for? It’s a new year and you’ve probably set reading goals for yourself, why not throw my book on your list? You can find it at all major book retailers. There’s a link in the sidebar on my blog here, and what the hell, if you just click here you can buy it.

Thanks for the support so far guys.

[a-new-american-classic]

Memphis in April.

Deer Tick being on the line-up stings a little bit.