This story is fiction. The characters are adults in adult situations. Warnings: The only person you can ever hope to truly know is yourself. Trust no one; use condoms. If you are not of legal age or in a jurisdiction in which this document is illegal, go way. This is my story. Please respect the copyright.
John Grant halted in mid-stride. Now, standing in the breezeway between the offices and the repair facility, his mind a blank. The morning breeze was; warm, gentle and undemanding. In the shade of the overhang, it felt good.
Soon the Texas sun would still the breeze. If it wasn't stilled, it would carry the heat so that even the shade would be unbearable.
Still, he was not here to check on the weather. He had left his office to.. He had come out here to,,
He mentally considered the possibilities. Nothing struck a chord.
Any other time he would have shrugged and headed back to his office. Instead. He stood transfixed. He just couldn't remember. He couldn't think; he couldn't move. The soul focus of his being was that simple thought. Where was he going?
These last few days, his world was viewed through the bottom of a glass. The glass didn't allow or require him to touch or be touched. Only the center seemed clear, and what he saw there was at a distance. Still he was handling it, pretty good. No one seemed to notice. Did they?
He thought back to day he found out. Was it only three days ago?
He sighed. Yes, he was almost sure; three days ago now:
Wylie had found him staring blankly at the wall of his office. He had stepped inside and closed the door. "John, this is the third time today, I've seen that glazed look in your eyes. You cant do this. You cant block this up inside, like it`s nothing. Your won't find any answers there."
John was aware of Wylie's presence. Less aware, that he had spoken. On some level he wondered why Wylie's presence and conversation were not registering? Why was Wylie trying to disrupt this numbness. This was comfortable. Maybe Wylie would leave him to it?
"GODDAMNIT JOHN ! LISTEN TO ME! LOOK AT ME! I'M GONNA SLAP THE SHIT OUT OF YOU!"
The threat registered only because it was coming from his best friend. Wylie would never hit him! Wylie never shouted. John drew his focus to Wylie's eyes.
John's head did a double take, in an effort to clear his mind and focus on Wylie. His mind flashed back to a confrontation they had that first semester in college. This was different. Now, Wylie had his attention.
Still the only response John could muster was, "huh?"
"You better fucking hear what I say. Your like a fucking drunk. Except you're drunk on hurt and guilt. If I have to knock some fucking sense into you, by God, I will."
"It's not your fault. Goddamnit, You think your God? Gordy's coming home. He may not be coming home to be with you. Not, like you'd hoped; but he's coming home. You're gonna be there John. If I have to drag your ass, kicking and screaming. You're gonna be there. I already promised Doc. We can wait a couple of days. But you're going out there."
Now; softly he pleaded, "Why do you have to shut people out. When you get like this, it's like you're a thousand miles away, even when you're right here. People think you're ok. They don't say shit to you because they figure you got it under control. That's BULLSHIT JOHN! I know you. We both know that right now you are so withdrawn, you wouldn't feel a poke in the eye with a sharp stick. This'll drive you crazy, if you let it. You figure you can handle this on your own. It doesn't have to be that way. Fuck! John people love you; I love you. Let em know this hurts you. Don't shut em out with that cowboy bullshit."
Wylie poured two cups of coffee, adding creamer to John's. He handed John his mug. Then pulled up a comfortable side chair. He looked into his cup a moment, then met John's gaze.
Smiling, Wylie took a sip, "I guess I got your attention. Huh?"
John just nodded.
Wylie sat with his elbows on the arms of the chair. Both hands cradling his mug. "You really think your dad would like seeing you like this? I spent a lot of time with him, near the end. He was the closest thing I ever had to a father. John, he talked about you a lot. He knew you so much better than you think. He could read you like a book. That poker face you sometimes wear, never phased him. He knew when you were in love, and when you pretended to be. Wylie let that sink in.
Continuing, "He knew when you were hurt. John, he blamed himself for you shutting everything inside. He figured that after your mother died. You didn't have anybody around to let you know it was ok to show hurt or pain. You watched him and the ranch hands just shrug off anything that might have hurt, physically or emotionally."
"John, we talked about how when you aren't scared or hurt, you are a great guy. But; we agreed, you shut down anytime people might see any sign of weakness. You internalize your pain and guilt. You learned that real men don't show their feelings. Hell, look at us."
At that last, John stiffened and glared at him.
He challenged Wylie, "We're not talking about us."
Wylie sighed. He stared at his coffee. Looking up, "No, John. We're not talking about us." Then added, "Not right now."
John relaxed. He would deal with the implied threat later; if he had to.
Right now, he couldn't handle any more personal issues. Especially ones he had buried so long ago.
Wylie searched John's face, "John, you're not the only one who's effected by this. If you'd just open up, you'd see that. Locking your feelings up inside, might have been the `cowboy' way. But it's bullshit and it'll destroy you. I'm not gonna let that happen."
Leaning forward, Wylie's already softened voice softened even more, "John, talk to me. You know I'd never hurt you."
John had listened, he had understood the truthfulness of what his friend had said. He was close, so close to caving in. It might help ease the pain. Then those three little words echoed through his brain and drown out everything. Everything except the pain; new and now old. It was the "never hurt you" that twisted John's guts; for just a moment. That was the defining moment. His resolve solidified.
Without flinching, without emotion, without any outward sign, withdrew to the numbness.
Even as he did, he let his friend off the hook. "Wylie, I know you mean well. I understand what you're telling me. I just need some time by myself. I need you to give some time to work though this. As much as I appreciate your concern, I need you to ease up. If it gets to be too much, you'll be the one I come to. You've known me long enough to know; I'm not lying."
John could see that his friend was not convinced, but he would back off. "Alright", Wylie sighed. "John. I said what I had to say. The rest is up to you."
Wylie was crestfallen. Slowly he got up, moved to the discreetly hidden wet bar, rinsed the mug and crossed to the door. He searched John's face for a sign of hope that his words had some impact. He found none. The silence was not uncomfortable; but it was close to it. Their conversation over.
He made one last attempt, "John, let's get some dinner after work. We can have a couple of drinks. Hell, we can go to my place and tie one on, together."
John could see his friend's eyes pleading. Pleading to be let in.
Forcing himself to remain relaxed and "open", "Wylie, I appreciate the offer. But, I'm just not up to it. Besides, I don't know when I'll finish up here."
Wylie was being bullshitted and dismissed. They both knew it. Wylie's reply was proof, "Sure boss". Wylie had called John a lot of things over the years. "Boss" was an epithet. He used to let John know he was being an asshole.
John gathered some papers from his desk and attended them. Soon after Wylie left his office, John left the dealership. He didn't need a mother hen. He needed a drink.
John had gone to the boathouse. As he had each day since. Wylie had given him space. His position as General Manager meant that they interacted frequently throughout the day. Wylie had been professional and undemanding. John was grateful. The breeze moved a piece of trash across the lot and the color and motion broke John from his reverie.
When he realized he had been conspicuously standing, staring off into the back lot, he shuffled. Nervously, he glanced around to see if anyone had witnessed his absence. He wasn't sure if he had been in this same spot for a minute or an hour.
"Morning John, how are You doing?" Her tone was conciliatory and the slight emphasis on the pronoun showed real concern.
He stiffened.
"Morning, Miss Mary." John tilted his head and touched the brim of his Stetson.
If he was wearing his hat maybe he was going somewhere.
"Oh, I'm fair to middlen, business is good, crops are looking good and my mare is about to foal any day now."
His attempt to keep the conversation on a more detached plane, was not lost on the lady.
He would have avoided her. He had turned to the voice; and there she was. They stood touching close. John rallied his strength. He hoped she couldn't read him, like Wylie did.
He wore a mask of `cheerful interest'. It was a salesman's stock in trade. He hoped it was there. Lately, it was hard to tell.
No one in the dealership had expressed any sentiments about Gordy's homecoming. In fact, other than Wylie, no one had said anything. John had seen some looks. No one discussed the Hometown Hero's return. In his presence.
Now here she was. Why was she here? God! Didn't she have enough to deal with? Weren't there plans and arrangements to be made? John was too tired to think clearly or to even care; other than to resent her presence.
If his strength failed him at this moment? if he really let go? How would she react? It was tempting. It would be so easy. For someone else.
John towered over the stout, little woman. He always made eye contact when he spoke to anyone. It went along with a firm handshake, and the mask.
Knowing Miss Mary, as he did, a proffered handshake would have been an intolerable affront. He forced a smile. If he didn't have to move, he could keep it together. Maybe.
Looking into her eye's he saw the blue of Gordy's. But the light that was always in Gordy's, was dimmed in hers. Gordy got his nose from her too. His frame was Doc's; tall and muscular. He wondered if Doc had seen love shine through her eyes?
He steeled himself.
"Miss Mary, you know, uh, I, I been meaning to come by. I figured I'd wait a day or two, and then come see y'all."
An awkward silence descended.
She seemed to be waiting. She shifted her gaze toward a tiny dust devil that danced between the shiny new tractors and harvesters. When it collapsed and died, she released a heavy sigh.
Turning her eyes back to John, "Well John, Gordy's plane comes in Friday morning. He'll be at the house Friday afternoon. Why don't you come by after you close up. I think he'd like that."
"A friend of Gordy's is coming with him. He'll be staying for a week or so. He seems like such a nice young man."
Only with that last remark did John see a flash of pain.
He realized her tone had become more distant. She was allowing him; not to feel. He wanted to express his gratitude. He was too close. He kept his own counsel.
Another awkward silence.
"John, his daddy asked me to pick up those parts he ordered for that old John Deere. He figured, since I was coming here, I might as well.
The significance of that statement, was not lost on John. Just ignored.
Realizing this; she continued.
"Don't know why he fools with that thing. It hasn't been used for work in over forty years. Not since his Daddy parked it behind the barn. He and Gordy got to tinkering with it when Gordy was... the summer he turned sixteen."
John could hear the pain in her voice. Would she fall apart; here, now?
He felt panic rise from his stomach, up his spine. He beat it down.
She seemed to rally. "They worked on it on Sunday's while I went to church. They used that tractor as an excuse for laying out. But, it gave them something to do together and seemed to bring them closer. Neither, stepped foot inside that church after Reverend Taylor came in and started preaching hell fire and brimstone."
Again silence.
John felt the pressure mounting. This had to end: Soon!
Miss Mary reached out and gently patted his arm. John glared at her small hand, as if it were a branding iron. Desperate now; he turned and in a too loud voice, called, "Fred. Would you be so kind as to take Miss Mary around to the parts department."
Fred, tipping his ball cap to Miss Mary, said, "It'd be my pleasure. If you will come with me, Miss Mary. I'm going there myself."
Together they moved off, with Miss Mary clutching her purse against her ample bosom.
John could hear her asking about Fred's wife and children. As if, today was like any other.
As if; the world hadn't abruptly stopped; then resumed spinning at half speed.
She acted as if Fred's oldest, playing little league, was the best news she had in a while. Maybe it was.
The tone of their conversation, carried by the echo of the overhang, shifted before their voices faded, then disappeared.
Now, John only heard the familiar, relentless, noise from the busy repair shop. He figured they were talking about Gordy.
John realized that his fists were clenched as was every muscle in his body. He forced himself to relax. He let out an audible sigh that brought with it a series of small, muted sobs. Residue from last night. He was surprised at the sobs. He hadn't cried since his father`s passing. He remembered getting drunk; yes. But no tears. Why then sobs?
John blinked hard. Then removing his Stetson, He ran his hand through his wavy, auburn hair.
The surprise encounter with Miss Mary had taxed his resolve. He took a deep breath and relaxed. His brown eyes moistened. Again, he blinked hard.
John Grant, for the world, felt like, "little boy lost".
He replaced his hat. Tilted it a little lower to aid the mask. He couldn't remember where he had been going. But, he knew where he was gonna go now!
Before he could draw a second breath, and take one step toward his new goal. He was approached by another customer. He knew the man. Having grown up here, he knew most everyone; farmers, ranchers, townsfolk's, and especially customers. This gentleman was from another town. He might not know about Gordy Belser.
His mask of cheerful interest locked in place, John greeted him with a smile, he could sense, but not feel. He was pleased with his requisite, strong handshake and eye contact.
This was a game. John, normally relished it and played it well. He knew this man was not after parts. He would've sent one of his ranch hands to pick up parts.
John invited him to his office for coffee. They entered the hallway, framed with windowed walls. Behind the glass, people were going about the business indicative of a large farm implement, sales and service enterprise.
Over coffee they chatted about; the latest harvest, the current and prospective weather, a local political scandal. At least these topics were distracting. Almost.
He knew this man was here to buy new equipment. With patience, he would. John chatted and waited until the man touched on the business at hand. An observer might be impressed with the deference the, obviously older, man gave John's opinion.
Together they reviewed needs versus costs. John recommended a more expensive and more versatile harvester. Not top of the line, but not an economy model like the man wanted. John presented the features, advantages and benefits of the model. After some discussion, deliberation and a, coffee fueled, trip to the John's bathroom, the customer agreed. Using his desk top, he checked figures and haggled enough so the customer got the "best deal". The final figure, was one, John would have gladly accepted from the start. But, a good deal is in the eye of the customer. It didn't matter what the actual numbers said. It was always the customer who determined if they got a good deal or got screwed. This was now, a good deal. A handshake clinched it.
He passed this customer over to a more than willing salesman. Eager for a commission, he would finalize the details, complete the paperwork and arrange delivery.
Normally, John would have handed the customer over after a cup of coffee and some small talk.
Today was not normal. He had needed the distraction.
Now, left with his own thoughts, John walked to the receptionist's desk. He asked her to let Wiley know he was headed out for a bit. He would have his cell phone.
Unimpeded, he made it to his Tahoe. Turning off his phone; he pulled out of the sales lot.
The dealership, a third generation operation, had always been a big part of his life. Even as a boy his spare time was spent bouncing between the ranch and the dealership. John loved the dealership. People here were like extended family. Like him, some were third generation.
Now, his love was waning. The dealership was fast losing it's charm. Not for the first time, he considered the idea that it was a trap. A trap into which, he had been born.
Eyes squinting into the morning sun, John got on the expressway headed east, toward Dallas. He wasn't going to Dallas. He'd be on a ranch to market road before long, and wind up as he always did, at the boathouse. That's where he went to, escape? At least there he could relax. He didn't have to be a rancher/farmer/businessman/his father's son. There; he could just be.
Uninvited; tears streamed down his face. His first reaction was to turn on the wipers. He caught himself short. John Grant was not familiar nor was he comfortable, with tears. He had not cried since his father's passing.
He had not cried when he heard the news. Even after drinking until he passed out. he didn't cry. Did he?
Pressure, between his temples, caused him to blink and wipe at his eyes.
His left hand steered while his right thumb and index finger massaged his temples. Pain now joined the pressure. Tears, trickled down his cheeks. A spasm racked his ribcage as a gut wrenching sob escaped. With disdain, he thought, "Where'd all this shit come from"?
He fought; the pressure, the pain, the sobs and the tears.
In spite of his best efforts, the pressure built and the pain raged, like a windblown prairie fire, until it was all consuming.
His head was now throbbing with each pulse. The pressure melded with the pain becoming sharp, stabbing assaults. They surged and ebbed with each beat of his heart.
His pulse quickened and with it the pain.
His eyes flooded with tears. He only saw watery shadows.
Roughly, he pulled the Tahoe out of the flow of traffic and stopped.
In park, with the flashers on, he wiped his eyes. He rubbed his head and prayed to get to the boathouse. Once there he could, he could, could. He couldn't remember what.
The pressure continued to build.
Furious with himself for having failed once again. Was there any "good thing"? About him, about his life?
Tears flowed, mucus leaked from his nostrils. Slack jawed, spittle rolled from the corners of his mouth.
He beat the steering wheel with his fists.
He had to get control!
His hands wiped at tears, snot and spit.
It was too much! Blindly he struck out like a desperate prize fighter. His fist now, repeatedly, punched the roof liner. He jerked his frame against the seatbelt, trying to break his own body. Excruciating physical pain would give him respite.
He kicked and screamed and cussed God and the heavens, for what he was feeling. No man should be forced to endure this much pain. No man should be allowed to live with this much guilt.
He was aware of an overpass, less than a half mile ahead. Part of his brain imagined the release a concrete support would provide, at ninety miles-an-hour. His right foot was already pressing the accelerator to the floor. He was taunted with the promise of peace. He wanted to reach for the gear shift and
JUST DO IT!
His brain refused. The same brain that had teased him with a solution, refused to let him take it.
The hollow, high pitched whine of the over-revved engine was muted by a sudden, deafening, roar!
His own guttural cacophony. Wordless noises. Primeval sounds made by man, before language limited verbal expression.
Drowning in waves of pain. Each bringing a "Kodak Moment". Images flaring to brilliant clarity, as the wave crested then faded only to be replaced by another. Bringing yet another painful image. Each image laid bare an opportunity, a chance to make things right.
The images showed each opportunity had been greeted with fear and denial. More pain.
He pleaded for oblivion. If he could find it, he would run to it, let it embrace him, hide him within it's nothingness.
Finally; battered and denuded by the wave borne images, he surrendered all hope of hiding from the pain; from the truth.
He saw the man he was.
A coward. Fearful of whispers and rumors. Afraid that he might be judged, somehow lacking. Afraid of the derision of friends and acquaintances. Afraid that his family would love him less. Afraid most of all of being seen as "different".
Cowardice had cost him the one thing he'd thought he valued most.
Now he knew. What he really valued, had cost him: Everything.
The flood of pain receded. Waves calmed before the next image could be seen. He was left with himself.
Scrooge; a miser, had been visited by ghosts and granted redemption. John's only visitations were demons of truth. The coward he was; would find no redemption.
Oblivion took him.