AN: So if you're reading this, welcome to my backstory of Dean McCoppin from the hit animation film, The Iron Giant. After watching the movie for possibly the billionth time, a thought struck me: what was a beatnik like Dean doing in a small time town like Rockwell? Obviously an explanation was needed, and thus, this story idea was spawned. What I'm attempting to do is explain how Dean came to reside in Rockwell, and possibly diverge on how he became the beatnik artist he is today. This first chapter is simply the epilogue, a retrospective ending to all things yet to come. There will be names and people you don't recognize, but as this story progressives and starts back in Dean's childhood and youth, you will get to know the players. Anyways, being the history nut I am, I'm trying to involve real-time American history with the concept of the Iron Giant. For example, the man Herb Caen in this chapter actually did exist and he really did write an article about "beatniks", coining the term in April of 1958. I'll probably be including a little history lesson in the beginning of every chapter, just to explain things better, so enjoy. As always, read and review: I'd love to hear what you think.
The Beat Generation
Epilogue
June 2nd, 1958, Rockwell, Maine
In the early morning hours of May, 1958, the Hughes household was an abyss of quiet, mind the red-robed artist who wandered through the kitchen with bleary eyes, rubbing them ever so slightly. The 31 one year old man, after living a short stint in his office at the scrap-yard was now happily residing with his would-be-wife of one month, and after a quiet reception in the town's local church, the couple were perfectly content living in matrimonial bliss. Still, despite being tied down to married life, it didn't stop Dean from breaking his habits, especially the one that dictated he wake at an ungodly early hour to sit and read the newspaper while sipping espresso. He had learned after much gusto not to wake Annie unless he was prepared for a grumpy onslaught of lecturing, and so much like he had done while living in the scrap-yard, sat in solstice while watching the sun rise while waiting for the morning paper to be delivered.
Shuffling around the kitchen in his navy-blue slippers, the beat artist rummaged around in the cupboards, deftly pulling out a bulky looking coffee-maker that had definitely seen better years. Although not his style, he had still yet to bring his petite and particularly loved coffee-maker that still sat in the make-shift kitchen in the office of the scrap-yard to his new 'home'. The little percolating baby had made it clear to him some years ago that taking it from it's place on the dusty counter in the office was not an option (for in all honesty, where else would he find such a perfect coffee maker capable of brewing instant cups of espresso while he was at work?), and so Dean had settled on using Annie's old and slightly out-dated machine instead. True, the espresso it brewed was rather bad, but Dean told himself in a few month's time he would have enough money saved up to buy them a brand new coffee-maker, and thus the problem was inherently solved.
With sleepy fingers, he plugged the cord into the outlet on the wall and scooped out a filter from the drawer, fitting it snugly into to the open mouth of the maker.
A loud thump resonated against the wooden front door, and Dean took this as a good sign. The morning paper had arrived, and just on time. He glanced at the time on his wrist-watch. 7:14. Smiling, he shuffled to the front door and picked up the thick morning newspaper, bringing it back to the kitchen and setting it down on the table. It would be another half hour before either Annie or Hogarth got up, and it gave him the perfect amount of time to browse through the world politics section.
Setting his attention back to the coffee-maker, he was midway through reaching up into the cupboard above the stove when the black melomite plastic phone on the end of the counter-space let out a shrill ring. The sound was far too loud and far too sharp for this early in the morning. It let out a second ring, and Dean, fearful that it would wake up his family (more specifically the wrath he would recieve from Annie in the aftermath), scrambled to the phone and picked up the receiver in sudden casual and collected manner, as if someone had been watching his humorous run.
"Hughes-McCoppin residence," he intoned to the reciever. Before he could even ask who was speaking, the voice on the other end of the line burst out excitedly.
"Dean, Dean! Is that you!?"
The loud voice blasted his eardrums and Dean abruptly pulled the receiver away from his tender ear.
"Darwin?" he questioned weakly.
"Dean!"
"Darwin," he reasoned, still sleepy. "Not to rain on your parade or cramp your style, but it's seven in the morning! Did it ever occur to you that some people might still be sleeping?"
The man at the other end of the line snorted.
"You, Dean McCoppin, asleep at seven in the morning?"—again the man let out an abrupt laugh—"When that happens, either the Commies have finally attacked or you died sometime during the night. I know you Dean; up at 6:45 am at the dot, not a moment sooner."
Dean let out an amicable sigh and ran his hand through his thick head of black hair.
"You got me there, Dar'," he admitted in defeat. Forgetting that he had been intent on making himself some morning coffee, he quickly cradled the phone between his shoulder and his ear and carried the cord with him as he headed back to the cupboards. "So any particular reason why you decided to call me at such an early hour?" he mused with slight mock sarcasm. His question seemed to re-ignite the other mans enthusiasm and he could literally visualize Darwin's face breaking out into a goofy smile.
"Dean, Dean!" Darwin said excitedly. "You wouldn't believe it, you wouldn't believe what I'm about to tell you."
With a tired yawn, Dean stretched out his limbs and raised a skeptic brow, one that Darwin couldn't see and re-positioned the slipping phone, cradling the receiver closer to his head. He reached for the tiny tin of espresso Columbian bean coffee grains from the cupboard and busily began preparing the coffee maker.
"We have a name now Dean," Darwin went on to tell him. "The lot of us in New York here; they gave us a name."
Measuring out 3 exact spoons of the tiny, black grain, Dean poured the contents into the filter of the machine. Meticulously, he made sure the filter was positioned exactly the way he wanted it, and gently jostling the white paper, evening out the grains so they spread out across the filter and covered it completely.
"A name?" Dean questioned. The phone slipped from his ear and he quickly grabbed it, pressing the receiver tightly back against his cheek.
"They're calling us Beatniks Dean—beatniks! Can you believe it?"
He turned on the kitchen sink and a stream of water gushed forth. Beatniks, Dean questioned to himself silently. His shoulders seemed to lag with a shrug and he grunted, the phone once again slipping.
"Who's calling us Beatniks, Dar'?" The water gurgled slightly before coming out clean and he carefully and slowly poured 2 and ¾ cups of the liquid into the coffee maker.
"The American media!" Darwin went on to say excitedly. "This loon Herb Caen from San Francisco was talking about the Beat generation here in New York and decided to add the suffix 'nik' to the word—you know, like the Russian satellite, Sputnik? I think he was trying to make us all seem un-American, but the term took off like a jiving whirl-wind! Now everyone's referring to us as Beatniks! Even the President in his address made a joke about the beret wearing, goatee sporting poets from the Big Apple! 'Those crazy Beatniks and their written word' he said, 'why I'll be damned if their berets and goatee's that everyone keeps telling me are evil will be the downfall of America!'"
Dean chuckled slightly at this and turned on the coffee maker. Well, he atoned to himself. Stranger things had happened to them.
"That sounds like one hellva' circus, Dar'," he finally said.
"A media circus you mean," Darwin replied thoughtfully. "The Libertine underground is up in arms. Some are angry that we are being merged into the American culture we fought to stave off, but others, like Frank, think it's funny and comical. Either way Dean, me and you are Beatniks now. We're not just the Beat generation anymore. We have ourselves a name."
Dean grinned and loftily sank down into the wooden kitchen chair. He was tempted to kick his feet up onto the table, but resisted in fear that Annie would come in any moment now and start his own circus that he'd have to deal with right here in Rockwell, Maine.
"Nah," Dean passed off into the receiver, still smiling. He wasn't convinced. "You've got it all wrong Dar'. I'm not a Beatnik; you're a Beatnik. I left the Big Apple, remember? I got out of the underground and the art scene. I was part of the generation, but not the coined word."
Darwin, like Dean, didn't sound convinced with his answer.
"You still listen jazz and scat, don't you? You've got that junk-yard of yours full of art and I'm betting right now you're making yourself a cup of espresso-joe. Amelia here's got ten dollars on the fact that you still wear that robe you got from that Taoist cat, Kim-Lee and that you're wearing it right now."
Dean's grin widened and he chuckled ever so slightly.
"See, see!" Darwin cried enthusiastically. "I knew you were still living like you were in the underground. You can take the Beatnik out of New York, but you can't take New York out of the Beatnik."
"So you have an expression for me now, do you?" Dean joked in his warm, baritone voice, twirling the phone cord around his fingers. He lifted his feet onto the table and leaned the chair back on its back two legs. He could hear the coffee percolating, and drip, drip, drip from the machine was an indication that momentarily he would have himself a nice uplifting cup of grade-A Colombian espresso.
"You've still got it, Dean," Darwin told his friend warmly. "Your still one of us, no matter how far away you traveled."
"Rockwell, Maine is pretty far away," Dean said with another smile his friend couldn't see.
"Yeah," Darwin replied humorously, and Dean imaged the musician to be grinning crazily like the time he was when he first met him. "Where the hell is that again anyways?"
Dean couldn't help but feel an overwhelming sensation of nostalgia and lowered the lids of his eyes ever so slightly, his voice coming down to a slight reverberating hush.
"Exactly."
Darwin laughed like mad and in the background he could hear Amelia yelling at him to get off the phone, that Kate needed help with her homework and somewhere along the line, a dog was barking.
"Look Dean," Darwin said in a sudden rush. "I gotta' jet. I just called to tell you the news. If you get a chance, pick yourself up a copy of the New York Times and flip to the entertainment section. Do they sell the Times in Rockwell?" He could literally imagine Darwin absent-mindlessly trying to figure out if the famous Times newspaper made its way to the tiny unknown town of Rockwell, his face screwed into a look of wonder and confusion. "Nah," he finally decided. "Listen Dean, Amelia's yelling like crazy and the kiddo's got some math equations to do before she heads off to school. But I'll call you again soon, 'kay? We'll get together; me and 'Melia will take a road-trip with little Kate and we'll find this crazy little town of Rockwell, Maine that swallowed up our beloved Beatnik metal artist."
"That sounds great Dar'," Dean told the guitarist with a small smile. "Call me soon."
The phone conversation came to and end, and before Dean could even think of hanging up the phone, he turned his head and found himself looking into the crossed-armed glare of a fiery red-head, fully dressed and ready for the day.
"Dean Gerard McCoppin!" she lectured. "How in the world am I supposed to keep Hogarth from keeping his feet off the table when you, a grown man, can't even stop yourself for five full minutes!"
Sheepishly, Dean hopped off the chair and hung up the phone.
"I'm sorry, babe," he said smoothly to his wife. He kissed her cheek and wrapped a loving pair of arms around her slightly swelling waist line. "That was Darwin calling. I guess I forgot."
Annie shot her husband a reproaching look, as if she wasn't satisfied with his answer, but after looking into his pleading eyes, her face softened and she smiled.
"Just don't do it when Hogarth's around," she told him lovingly. "The boy looks up to you, Dean. And I don't want him catching on to any of your bad habits!"
"Me?" Dean said, feigning mock innocence. "Bad habits? You must got the wrong beatnik, honey."
"Beatnik?" Annie questioned. She busied herself by the stove and began to make breakfast.
"Yeah," Dean replied softly. "That's what they're calling me now in New York. A beatnik."
Annie simply shrugged, as if the word held no special connotation to her and returned her attention back to the stove. Dean however, kept smiling, and wordlessly went to pour himself a tiny cup of the perfectly brewed black liquid that was now sitting finished in the pot over on the counter. He couldn't expect Annie to understand what Beatnik meant to him, let alone the word 'Beat'. To the citizens of Rockwell, Maine, beat was just a word used in musical terms. To suggest it was a label for a whole generation simply didn't make sense to them. They were too sheltered; too small-time. Even now, he felt Annie had difficulties understanding his art. Sure, she liked it, but the concept of turning junk into something useful seemed foreign to her. They didn't see the value in his scrap, and like most people in the town, he was pretty sure despite marrying him, that his wife thought him to be eccentric. Still, he didn't let himself muse too long on the subject, and after finishing his tiny cup, poured himself another and stretched. He reached for the newspaper, and drolly, unfolded the thick white and black tome, tipping backwards on his chair again.
"Dean!"
The voice of his wife reprimanding him startled him and he lost his balance, the chair tipped over, sending Dean, his newspaper and his espresso tumbling to the floor.
"Ow!"
"You deserved that," Annie simply said and began cooking a pan full of bacon and eggs.
Only moments later, 10 year old Hogarth Hughes, still clad in his pajamas entered the kitchen, and seeing Dean awkwardly splayed out on the floor with a chair beneath his backside and his Mom ignoring her hurting husband, busying herself at the stove, easily deduced what happened.
"Mom," Hogarth whined. "Why does Dean get to lean back in his chair at the kitchen table? Whenever I do it, you yell at me. But when Dean here,"—Hogarth eyed Dean suspiciously, who still had made no attempts to get up off the floor—"does it, you don't even turn around! Look Mom, he fell and he's on the floor!"
Dean grinned, and Annie sighed, burying her face into her hand, before instructing Hogarth to go back upstairs and get dressed. With little resistance, the boy left and she turned her attention back to Dean who was currently up-righting the kitchen furniture.
"See?" she stressed in agitation. "Now he thinks I let you play with the kitchen chairs."
Dean shrugged, still grinning and went back the coffee maker.
"He's a kid Annie—let kid's think what they want."
Sensing her growing frustration, he quickly pecked his wife on the cheek before slipping out of the room, taking his newspaper and coffee with him.
From the living room, he could hear Annie sputtering, muttering about the ungrateful 'boys' who she lived with, but he simply smiled demurely, mostly to himself, and opened up the newspaper. She's cute when she's angry, he thought to himself.
Hogarth barreled down the stairs again and was half way into the kitchen before he skidded back into the living room and shot Dean an impish smile.
"I know my Mom doesn't let you play on the chairs," he admitted in hushed tones to the older man. "But it's fun to bug her like that." Dean, sensing that Hogarth in all honesty was about to cause more trouble, buried his face in his paper, and listened while the boy walked into the kitchen and let out another harrowing:
"Mom! Dean's drinking coffee in the living-room again. Does this mean I can drink chocolate milk in there too?"
He listened intently while his wife attempted to explain the reasons why Hogarth could not drink chocolate milk while sitting in the living-room and ultimately used the time-worn excuse of "because I said so," and "Dean's an adult, sweetie. He can do what he wants."
Hogarth strolled out of the kitchen moments later and Dean eyed the kid with lax interest.
"I wouldn't go in there if I were you," he said as a matter-of-fact. "I think she's pretty angry with you."
Dean shot the boy an unimpressed look and muttered a low-key: "Thanks, kid. That's exactly what I need right now. Your Mom all riled-up and angry at seven in the morning."
Hogarth however, simply smiled brightly and walked out of the room.
"No problem, Dean," his retreating back told the man. Not fully buying he was gone, Dean wasn't surprised when Hogarth popped his head back into the living room momentarily. The boy always had something else to say. "And by the way," he said, tapping the non-existent watch on his wrist. "It's eight o'clock now, so Mom's anger is right on schedule. Don't worry though. In another fifteen minutes, she'll be sad and mopey and possibly with her head in the toilet bowl upstairs! Isn't it great now that she's pregnant? It's like she has twenty different personalities all at once!"
Dean however, wasn't quite convinced as Hogarth was of his Mom's mood-swings. In a few weeks, he had the feeling Hogarth would be just as annoyed by her constantly fluxing personality as he was. Maybe then he could explain to the boy the virtues of keeping a women happy. Only five more months he told himself futilely. And then I'll have another baby like Kate to take care of. Still, it was another day in the life of Dean McCoppin, and for the first time in nearly 10 years, he was genuinely satisfied with what he had.