The Reason
Adam
I can’t keep anything.
I swear on my dad’s life, everyone’s born with a curse.
My curse is to never have .
Twenty-three years ago, life slipped a noose around my neck, and since that first breath, I’ve been taking swings and choking.
Instead of plans and this and that cooking up in my head, my brain was a tumbleweed in a ghost town before the isolation and dead air spun me out and I had to get something on track.
Enter my dad and my reason.
My plan sucked but it was a plan. Another swing.
Another belly-up embarrassment.
People think because I’m doing what they expect me to, I’m doing okay.
I’m walking around.
I’m dressed.
I’m smelling better—thanks for that one, Summer.
I’m pumping gas at the edge of town—had to, it’d be out before I could make it out.
I’m paying for the gas I’m pumping… guy’s doing all that, he’s got money, he’s doing okay, he’s free .
Yeah, I’m free to take what I have and leave. Get rid of all my crutches. Thanks for that one, Dad.
I’m alone.
And my out-of-sync heartbeats can’t decide if alone is what’s best for me or not. I’ve never been alone. I always made sure somebody was in my corner.
Now I want to stab out every eye that stares at me.
I feel them pointed at me like the barrel of a gun, paralyzed in anticipation until they pull the trigger.
On display, for what? Nothing. Immediate answer. I have nothing for nobody to be proud of. Nothing to fucking see here.
My failures are a constant crawling under my skin I’ll do anything to make disappear, short of scratching and slapping at myself.
The smell of gasoline—let’s blame that—is starting to make me woozy, when the pump nozzle finally releases. I move on autopilot to get back in my car, being loud and attracting more attention, but it’s Kemper Biggs’s that repels me, because his fucking stays. He couldn’t read back in school and he can’t read the room now.
Read the surroundings.
He can’t get the message.
I get a picture of myself spraying gas all over him while asking him what the hell he’s looking at.
My heart bangs around like I’m doing it, my skin hot with it, but that scene doesn’t happen.
Kemper’s a nice guy. I’ve lost my energy for being a nice guy, but I guess I still have my moments. Granting him the mercy he’s not granting me.
He’s not who I’m after.
He’s not the one is an echo to get myself in my car.
When I’m sheltered, relaxing my jaw with my whirling head steadied against the headrest, I loosen the strings and neck of my hoodie, fisting it from my body, and I drag in a breath.
This will be over soon. Something has to give…to me.
I’m taking it all back.
An ill-fated glance to the side mirror reflects that I left the fuel door open, but I’m paralyzed to the seat. I’ll have to close it somewhere up the road, out of this tuned in town, before my mean streak and martyrdom runs riot on the wrong guy.
Meeting my own eyes gets me to look away, their next stop on my rejected passenger seat, to apparitions of everyone who’s ever sat with me and isn’t anymore.
Alone.
My new plan, the plan I should’ve mapped out to begin with— better late than never is shit for an athlete’s future, my sacked future, but motivating for this—relies on my being alone.
If I’m going down again, I’m only taking the one who deserves to be at this level with me.
This isn’t a nice guy moment. For once, I don’t need a distraction.
I scroll on my phone to find the face my eyes have made holes in, the barrel pointed at me now pointed at him.
The drunk and the reason.
The reason I lost everything.
Here he is, in the palm of my hand, a wrong so close to being righted.
But not yet close enough.
Not yet right .
I hold down the side button on my phone until it shuts off, pitch it to the passenger seat, then start the car, my foot fast and furious on the gas.
I drag in another breath, my stare straight ahead, the wheel in a chokehold.
I’m the train. He’s the dodger. And I won’t miss.