Page 57 of I Am the Messenger

I suck the air in deep.

It's been nice to forget about the Ace of Clubs and Audrey for a while, but now I'm back to the reality of it. The man's voice carried with it the memory of both.

"They're green now, buddy."

"Thanks."

Driving.

At home.

I drive into town as the sun edges up the sky. All roads are empty and I pull into the Vacant Taxis lot.

Like always, I walk back to the shack.

The Doorman's happy to see me.

We drink the obligatory coffee together, and I pull the card from the drawer. I watch it, trying to get new glimpses of it--trying to catch it off guard and have it reveal its secrets to me.

The night of driving could have gone either way, but I feel ready now. I want to throw my miserable, complaining, excuse-making mouth from my face and get on with it. I even corner myself in the widening light of the lounge room. I think, Don't blame it anymore, Ed. Take it. I even move out onto the front porch and see my own limited view of the world. I want to take that world, and for the first time ever, I feel like I can do it. I've survived everything I've had to so far. I'm still standing here. Okay, it's a crummy front porch I stand on, cracked to shithouse, and who am I to say that the world isn't the same? But God knows that the world takes enough of us. The Doorman sits at attention next to me, or at least as best he can. He even looks dependable and obedient. I look down at him and say, "It's time."

How many people get this chance?

And of those few, how many actually take it?

I crouch down and place my hand on the Doorman's shoulder (or the closest thing a dog has to one), and we go off to find the stones of home.

About halfway along the street, we stop.

We stop because we've got just the one problem.

We have no idea where to look.

The rest of the week trots by--a collection of card games, work, and hanging around with the Doorman. I kick a soccer ball around with Marv at the local grounds on Thursday night and watch him get drunk afterward at his place.

"Just over a month till the big game," he says. He sips his father's beer. He never buys his own. Never.

He still lives with his folks, Marv. The house is pretty nice inside, I must admit. Wooden floors. Clean windows. His ma and Marissa do all of it, of course. Marv, his lazy-arse brother, and their old man don't lift a finger. Marv pays a small boarding fee and throws the rest of his money into the bank. Sometimes I wonder what he's saving for. At last count, he said he was up to thirty grand.

"What position do you want, Ed? In the game."

"No idea."

"I want center," he confides in me, "though I'll probably get wing again. You'll get second row in spite of being lanky and weak."

"Thanks a lot."

"It's true, isn't it?"

He's got me there.

"But you can actually play when you pull your finger out," he continues.

This is where I should tell Marv that he's a good player, too, but I don't. I keep my mouth shut.

"Ed?"

Nothing.