Page 7

The sky’s still dark.

I tighten my shoes, check the clock, then slip out of the house through the back. At the curb, I choose left, and go jogging.

There’s not a soul in the world but me this morning. No one’s breaths but mine. No footsteps but mine, and they’re so soft on the pavement, they’re barely there. The air is still, perfect for my morning jog. I pick a direction thoughtfully at each intersection and build a mental map of the whole town, taking me through the subdivision and down a street lined with little shops, all closed. I jog past a baseball and soccer field enclosed by a tall chain link fence, beyond which the wide, flat silhouette of a school looms.

At several intersections, I stop for a moment, jogging in place, as I try to imagine the community of Spruce. People waking up for work, both the ones in town and the farmers and ranchers living out on the perimeters of town. Kids getting ready for another day at school—when it isn’t the weekend. The churchgoers putting on their Sunday finest in a few hours. Someone sweeping off a porch.

The world makes more sense to me in the morning before the day starts. It’s like gazing at a fresh slate, untouched, no surprises, no dangers, no movement—a freeze frame of peace. For some guys on leave, the quiet can be unsettling. For me, it’s what I crave. The absence of action. No friction in the world. No people.

Early morning removes all the variables of the world.

Leaves me with just myself and the soft as cotton candy air.

These morning jogs center my brain like nothing else can.

I’m coming down Main Street when the sky starts to light up, and after passing a park, a clinic, and a movie theater, I stop in front of the bar we were at last night—Tumbleweeds. It looks a lot different in the blooming morning than it did last night.

And there goes my mind.

Right back to Anthony.

The one jagged-as-all-hell puzzle piece I can’t fit anywhere in this sweet, welcoming, peaceful picture of a town in my mind.

I stare at the window of that bar, not even jogging in place, all my steam and peace of mind lost as I gaze at my own reflection in the glass, more and more visible as the sun slowly rises. I hear the distant rumbling of vehicles. Someone pops into existence from a restaurant further down the street. Someone else at a shop, taking a box to the curb. The town is quickly waking up around me.

As if just the thought of Anthony introduced the commotion. Cutting into my peace like a knife into cake. Ripping off as big a slice as that guy wants. And not even a nicely-cut slice—it’s crude and off-centered, a square carved out of a circular cake, smooth frosting shattered, wrinkled at the edges with crumbs and lumps all over the place where they don’t belong.

Anthony, the peace breaker. His shit-eating grin, his malicious sneer. Throwing his arm around his girlfriend, sauntering off like a victor, messy hair and sweaty neck and stink.

By the time I get back to the house, I feel like I haven’t jogged at all. I slip in where I left through the back door and help myself to a banana per Trey’s insistence last night that I eat what I like. I’m chomping on a bite when my eyes zero in on something I stuck to the side of my luggage—that red smiley sticker with its tongue out that fell off Anthony’s ass at the gas station—and wonder what could possibly happen in a sweet and harmonious town like this to turn up such a rough piece of work like that guy.

“Enjoyed your jog?” Pete asks me in the lobby of the church.

I’m busy reading all these postings on a bulletin board. “There are so many things going on in this town,” I mutter. “Bake sales … piano and guitar lessons … karate … crocheting classes … PFLAG?” I glance at Pete. “This town has PFLAG meetings?”

“Cody wasn’t kidding,” says Pete through a chuckle. “I mean, I guess when you got a gay reverend, and both the mayor’s sons are in relationships with men … one of them with kids …”

“No shit? Guess I can see why they swore I’d fit in this place,” I mumble, referencing our chat last night. The four of us hung out on the cozy back patio when we got home from Tumbleweeds and chatted late into the night. Trey usually tries to get all the z’s he can so he’s at his best every Sunday morning, but figured a nice exception with the present company was worth it. Cody told him to relax, that he can do his sermon blindfolded, to which Trey said, “Well, obviously, I don’t need my eyes to speak .” We laughed.

But what was more obvious to me was the tension between the two of them, even while we hung out at Tumbleweeds, then at the house on the patio. Trey and Cody have unresolved business, and now that Pete and I crashed their cozy living space, they may be putting their personal issues on the back burner until we leave. I expected to hear hushed arguing when everyone finally went to bed, but everyone just fell asleep, and my spot on the couch was as quiet and peaceful as I could have wanted. After my jog, everyone woke up, we quickly gobbled a light breakfast, and here we are.

“It’s a wonderland, this town,” murmurs Pete in awe. Then he nudges me. “You didn’t answer my question.”

I shrug. “Jog was alright.”

“Nah, don’t go bullshitting a bullshitter. Something’s been off with you all morning.” I look at him. “Usually you’re all zenned out after your jog. But this morning, you seem … off.”

“I’m all on. Nothing’s off. Maybe your eyes are off.”

“Wait a sec.” Pete grabs my arm. “Are those their parents?”

I follow his line of sight through the archway leading into the chapel, where Trey is near one of the back pews, and standing in front of him are a man and woman. The man is obviously Trey’s father, practically looking like his older brother considering how handsome and youthful his face is with just a sprinkle of salt and pepper at his temples for any indication of his age. The woman is next to him, a smidge close, short and sweet-faced with a curvy body, big hair, and bigger glasses. And from where I’m standing, neither Trey’s dad nor Cody’s mom seem to indicate they’re a couple. Not holding hands. No sidelong lovebird glances. It is as casual and relaxed between them as can be. Despite that, I see Trey’s eyes flick back and forth suspiciously between the two as he appears to hold a calm dialogue with them, likely about the week, the weather, totally banal and inconsequential stuff, yet secretly playing the role of detective to sniff out the truth.

I think that’s a role he’s gonna be playing for a while.

My attention is pulled away when the church doors fly open. It’s a wonder why my eyes go straight to them at this particular moment, because people have been entering the whole past hour, one by one, sometimes groups, families, people and more people, none of whom I’ve bothered to glance at the doors for. But this time, maybe because I’m distracted by Trey and Cody’s parents, or the fates have gotten a hold of my head and twisted it around at this exact moment, my full attention is on the front doors as they swing open, and through the near-blinding veil of fiery morning sunlight someone stumbles in.

Honestly, I don’t recognize him at first.

Generic white dress shirt, baggy in places but fitting where it counts at the shoulders, blue tie with black diagonal stripes, and khaki pants. His hair is parted, surprisingly combed, with a few strands splitting from the rest and cutting down his forehead, the wind likely having gotten to them. His eyes are sunken like he didn’t sleep more than five minutes last night, dim raccoon circles around them, which I hate to admit deepen the whites of his eyes and make his blue irises shine like the mesmerizing heart of a sea-blue crystal geode.

It’s Anthony, yet nothing like the Anthony from yesterday.

That is, until the bastard looks my way.

He recognizes me at once. But other than a flicker of sourness, he doesn’t give me a second of his attention—I guess too tired for his usual antagonistic antics—as he looks away, marches straight through the wide archway leading into the chapel, and that’s the beginning, middle, and end of it.

I didn’t take the guy to be much of a churchgoer.

Also, he cleans up more than I expected. I mean, sure, he can tuck in his shirt better, particularly in the back where it sticks out like a duck tail. Maybe with a good night’s sleep, his face wouldn’t look so much like pretty-blue-eyed roadkill. But he still looks a lot better than I would have bet money on him looking so early in the morning, especially after how hard he went last night.

Not that I’m admiring him or anything.

He’s still a little shit.

And probably still drunk, too .

It’s not much longer before Cody, Pete, and myself are seated in the pews, Trey and Cody’s parents one row behind us. I’m at the end by the windows, second row, which I prefer. I hate aisles for a neurotic reason I can’t pinpoint, something to do with how open they are, feeling like my back and side are exposed. Front row is too close to the stage. Back row, I feel detached from everything. In the center, I’m too attached, stuck in a crowd, too many noises and distractions to make my ears prick up every few seconds.

After a lively song from the Spruce choir, which seems to be entirely composed of young handsome men with just two lonely women sprinkled in there as if by accident, Trey comes up to the pulpit and begins his sermon.

Despite our late night, Trey looks perfectly calm and alert. His zinging remarks and clever commentary warm up the whole congregation, all his jokes landing. I already had the impression that Trey was a kind, patient man, but I didn’t realize how charismatic he could be in front of a room full of his fellow residents of this town. He has everyone in the palm of his hand as he delivers inspiring words, wishes for a stronger community, a more aware and empathetic world, regards for others less fortunate than ourselves, a personal sense of duty to goodness, and a purposefulness in our day-to-day encounters.

A personal sense of duty to goodness. Purposefulness.

In our day-to-day encounters.

I wonder if it’s that exact sentiment that makes me look over my shoulder, glancing into the rest of the crowd behind me during this beautiful sermon, as if to find the only person I’ve had such unfortunate chances to encounter on more than one occasion.

And my eyes find him immediately. Near the back, Anthony is leaning forward, his chin practically on the shoulder of the man sitting in front of him. His eyes are open, but only barely. He is struggling to stay awake. He doesn’t appear bored exactly, but it’s clear he’s absorbing less than one percent of the wisdom Trey is imparting on us.

So much for any sense of duty to goodness or purposefulness in that loser’s encounters. I can’t begin to describe how annoyed that makes me, watching him falling asleep in slow motion, like a brat sitting in class daydreaming of the school bell, bare minimum everything, skirting by in life, no care for any duty to anything.

Why is he even here? Why did he bother getting dressed?

Also, maybe unrelated, where’s his girlfriend?

I keep my eyes trained ahead, determined to stay focused on Trey and the sermon. Pete next to me is glued to every word like they’re nectar from the gods pouring from the reverend’s mouth into his ears. Cody, arms crossed tightly over his chest, watches his hubby with a proud, lopsided smile spilling off his face.

And beyond both of them, my eyes yank me right back to the sight of Anthony—just as he yawns. A big, breathy, boastful yawn. This guy. In the middle of church, of Trey’s soul-igniting sermon, having the audacity to yawn. Sure, it isn’t really an audible yawn, but it sure as hell’s a visible one, even if maybe I’m the only one who saw it or cares. He didn’t even cover his mouth.

He quickly wipes his eyes, blinks fast, and resumes listening.

It’s probably kind of me, to assume he’s listening at all. Or has the brain capacity to understand the depth of any of the words Trey is gifting him on this generous Sunday morning.

Is it just me? Am I the only one in this room, in this town, who sees right through that guy?

Suddenly that becomes my only thought as I peel my eyes, yet again, from the sight of Anthony. I stare ahead at Trey, and now it’s me who isn’t listening, whose mind is far away—if across the aisle and several rows back can be considered far away.

And as Trey goes on about duty this and goodness that and about others in the world less fortunate than ourselves, I’m struck by an uncomfortable thought.

Do I have this all wrong about Anthony?

Did I, in fact, start this with how I acted at that gas station?

If I’d moved out of the way at the counter, encouraged him to make a shot into that mop bucket, cheered him on, lightened up, could he have become my first friend in this place?

Am I the problem?

I glance one last time over my shoulder.

Anthony’s face is smashed against the pew in front of him like he just face-planted, one eye half open, lips twisted, a second away from drooling.

No.

I’m not the problem.

“Ready to have your taste buds blown?” asks Cody when we gather outside the church afterwards. The sun is blazing hot, so like a herd of cattle, we’re under the shade of an enormous oak tree, its thick roots cutting up out of the earth a few times on its way toward the street. Despite the shade, we’re sweating through our shirts, ties, polos, plaid button-ups, and whatever else passes for Sunday church attire here. “As soon as Trey’s out, we’re gonna take you fellas to the tastiest small-town ma-and-pa burger joint you’ve ever been to in your lives.”

“Make that the only small-town ma-and-pa joint,” says Pete.

All around us are clusters of people chatting and catching up, the ones who didn’t head home or off to brunch somewhere in town. A bearded man nearby excitedly describes to his friends a barbecue he’s throwing next weekend. Someone else, a lady with an abundance of jewelry on her fingers, is saddened by the news of a math teacher retiring this year from Spruce High. Three girls and a boy are chasing each other around the parking lot while the mother chides her husband about being too lax with the children, then resorting to wrangling them in herself, arms flapping and hands clapping madly, while the dad complains that “kid needs to be kids, let them have fun” before giving in and helping.

But I don’t see Anthony anywhere. I didn’t notice him leave, either. Did he slip out before everyone else did? It’s possible, since he was near the back, though it’s not like me to miss something. I pride myself in being as observant as a hawk no matter what.

Maybe Pete’s right and I’m having a totally off day.

I’ll give myself a single guess as to who’s responsible for that.

By the time Trey comes out, most of the others have left, and the parents decide to join us for our trip to the burger joint. It’s just down Main Street, and the path is mostly shaded by store awnings and trees, so we end up walking there together. Trey’s dad, while a bit reserved in demeanor, is warm and invested in me and Pete, asking us questions and delighting in our answers as we walk down the street. Cody’s mom is bubbly, clinging to her son’s arm the whole way, now and then throwing in a funny comment and giggling too much. Trey’s suspicious eyes keep landing on her, likely wondering why she’s so giddy, though he always maintains a polite smile on his face, even if it’s not always convincing.

“Look, they brought out the Tackler Monster!” shouts Cody.

We’ve arrived at the burger joint—Biggie’s Bites is the name—and standing out front is one seriously unfortunate soul wearing a costume that looks like the rejected mascot to some sports team no one’s heard of. He’s big, orange, and furry, with a head that looks like the Cookie Monster with yellow alien eyes and two tall antennae sticking out through holes in an oversized baseball cap worn backwards. Around its furry neck hangs a sign that reads in funny letters: “TRY MY HOT & TASTY TACKLE BURGER TODAY!”

As people pass by, the monster does some funny poses, gives a thumbs-up, or cheerily waves with its big hairy hands. Its motions are slowed by the heavy costume, and sometimes it stumbles left or right, as if dizzy, then rights itself with a silly dance as a person passes by, never speaking, like a silent bundle of monstrous joy.

I can only imagine how badly the poor soul trapped in that big costume is steam-cooking in their own sweat.

“Let’s get a picture with it before we go in!” shouts Pete. “Hey, Tackle Monster! Can we snap a shot with you?”

The monster turns its giant head our way. It just stands there, unresponsive, staring us down like we’re about to become the big burgers it wants to eat next, all its cheer from a second ago, gone.

Is it about to jump at us? Wave? Suddenly break into another silly dance?

Pete rushes up to its side, apparently not waiting for the furry monster to respond, and flags over the rest of us. “Cody, you and your ma get on this side. Trey, you’ll stand on the other side with your pops. And Bridge, you can stand right up here with me.”

“Then who’ll take the pic, Einstein?” I ask, getting my phone out. “Go ahead and get into position, everyone. I’ll take the shot.”

The Tackle Monster puts its arms around the others, its dead, alien, cartoon eyes staring at me. I lift the phone and fit everyone into the frame, then snap a few shots.

“Your turn!” announces Pete, snatching the phone from me. “Go get in there, cowboy!”

I hesitate, but when Cody and Trey flag me over, I give in and approach the monster, taking Pete’s place nestled in its left arm. It doesn’t feel as nice and cuddly when it puts its huge, hairy arm at my waist, making me feel like its awkward date to some school dance. I try to work the grimace currently on my face into a smile when Pete shouts, “Cheesy cheese!” at us.

That’s when I feel the monster’s big furry hand slowly slide down, squeeze my butt cheek, then return to my waist.

I turn, startled, and stare at the side of its blank, furry face.

Did that just happen? Or did I imagine it?

“One more!” shouts Pete. “Cody, you were blinking! Keep your eyes open, them pretty eyes your mama gave you! C’mon!”

“You just take bad pics!” Cody laughs back at him.

We pose once again, and this time, I’m not smiling. I swear I can hear breathing inside that giant, furry head—heavy breathing. Or is it a snicker? Is the monster some kind of ass-grabbing perv? I can’t even tell if it’s a man or woman inside there. The body of the monster removes any obvious tells.

“Three … two … one …” counts down Pete.

And just as he snaps the shot, the monster grabs my ass again.

I flinch away. “Did you just—?” I start to ask.

But the monster turns away at once, and the enormous bill of its oversized baseball cap whacks me in the face.

It hits me with such force, I do half a dance maneuver trying to keep my balance, lose my footing, then crash face-first onto the patch of grass by the road. I blink stars out of my eyes as I clamber clumsily back to my feet, head spinning, before Pete appears at my side to help me up. “Bridge, buddy, what the hell? You alright?”

I’m still blinking and wiping grass and dirt off my clothes as I wheel around to stare accusatorily at the Tackle Monster, but its full attention is already elsewhere, doing another silly dance for a crowd of kids who just arrived, all of them laughing and clapping to a tune I don’t know.

I stare at that monster, wholeheartedly confused, hand on my face where the back of that huge hat struck me.

“Yeah,” I finally answer Pete as I distractedly take my phone back from him. “I just … I just got clumsy … tripped … that’s all.”

Pete laughs and shakes his head. “You’re having an off day all around, man, I’m telling you, something’s up.”

“You two have got to try those Tacklers!” shouts Cody from the door, beckoning us with a wave of his hand into Biggie’s Bites. I follow behind Pete, Trey, and the parents, still holding my face, my dazed eyes on the monster. Just before entering the building, I watch it spin around to do another funny dance for the children, its furry fingers wiggling, and it might just be my imagination, but I swear it looks like that wicked monster’s flipping me off.