Kit slugged me with a fist to my chest as soon as she was over the high. “That’s the second time you did that. What are you going to do if I’m pregnant now? You stupid idiot.”
“Build another room. You leaked.”
Kit punched me again after glancing down to her shirt. “That’s because you don’t listen. I told you to stop squeezing them.”
I laughed and pulled her to her feet. “I love you so much. I’m glad you picked me. Go let my mom in. I’m going to shower.”
“I’m going to shower. You let your mom in.”
Whether I believed it or not, that’s what my life had turned into. I was that guy. The one who loved his family with his whole heart, the one who did the right thing for once in his life, the one who forgave his mom, finally understanding it was her lesson to live and not mine, the one who loved Kit Berry with every beat of his heart and knew there would never, ever be another. Guys like me.
Kit made a quick lunch and had to peel Bix away from my mother to feed him before we made our way to my next chapter. My story with Kit and our babies.
“Hey, Daddy. How you doing?” Bridgett asked, bumping my arm and hitting me in the chest with a rolled up magazine while my mom dressed Bay, and Kit fed the human garbage disposal one more time. Definitely my boy.
“I’m great. You keeping this guy? I sort of like him.” I asked, my arm dropping over her shoulder and my head darting to her new boyfriend, working on the wires of Bay’s battery powered car. It stopped working after she used grape juice for gas.
“Really? Hell, yeah! It’s about damn time.”
“Hey, you didn’t expect me to just let you settle, did you?”
“I’m glad you didn’t. Here, I thought you might like this.”
I looked down, holding the magazine as she walked away. My eyes saw her first, and the smile followed. I stepped out to the back deck and dropped to the top step.
An, I Told You First, exclusive.
I read through the article about Rydell’s success, and making it all the way to the top two before getting beat by a farm boy from Iowa, but that’s where her luck changed. Rydell might not have gotten a recording contract, but she got something just as exciting. She was a backup singer for an upcoming new girl band. I hadn’t heard the name before, but I hoped someday I would. I moved on to the interview questions, pleased with where her life had gone.
I Told You First reporter- You were an elementary school teacher before this. What made you leave that for this?
Rydell Brinkley- Life is a funny, funny thing. You’re given the tools to mold it how you want, but somewhere along the way you lose your own tools, and you start building your life by settling. I’m here because someone cared enough not to let me settle and I hope by the grace of God, he reads your magazine.
I Told You First reporter- Who is this mystery man?
Rydell Brinkley- He’s not a mystery. He’s just someone I needed to pass through my life at the time. Someone who taught me dreams can be changed, and nothing is set in stone. There’s always another option. You can push a bird out of a nest, but you can’t make it fly. Let’s just say I needed a push.
I Told You First reporter- Sounds like a broken heart.
Rydell Brinkley- Devastating, but it’s okay. In a different time we would have been perfect together. I wasn’t ready for where his life was taking him. I guess that’s me being selfish, but honest with myself. We had different ambitions. His was being a daddy, and I wasn’t quite ready for that. Don’t get me wrong, I loved her to Mars and back, and most of the time I was cool hanging out with her, except the weekends. I needed to be sowing wild oats and singing in a honkytonk. That’s were my heart was.
I Told You First reporter- Is it true that, Florida Cowgirl, is your song? You wrote that for the band you’re with, right?”
Rydell Brinkley- Yes, but it may be in the process of being sold to a very famous country music singer right here in Nashville. Maybe. Shhhh.
I Told You First reporter- You’re a very talented young lady, and we wish you the best. Remember us when you’re big.
Rydell Brinkley- Ha, ha, you got it, babe.
I stared at the photo of Rydell sitting on the tailgate of her old pickup truck, guitar in hand.
“Hey, you ready?” Kit asked over my shoulder.
“Yeah, did you see this? How cool is that?”
Kit took the magazine from my hand, glancing to Rydell with a distasteful glare. “Fuck her. Can I burn it now? Are you ready?”
I laughed as I came to my feet, wrapping her in my arms, and spinning her in a circle. “I love you more than butter.”
Kit broke the contact on our lips with a puzzled expression. “Butter? What the hell?”
“Bay told me that this morning. I figured that was a lot coming from her.”
Kit agreed with a sincere laugh. “I love you more than butter, too. Now can we go?”
“Yes, dear. Let’s go break a leg.”
“Don’t say that. We can’t afford a broken leg.”
Even the outside of the theater looked brand new and refreshing with new lights and neon letters. The entrance had a line, and Kit’s nursing home friends met them at the door, each one showing the patrons to their table.
I retrieved the car seat, and Kit helped Bay, both of us beaming with pride.
“You look so pretty, Bay Berry Jandt,” Kit said, with a smile down to Bay as we made our way to the door and to our own table.
“Uh-huh, me am.”
Kit smiled back at me and worried some more. “I don’t think we should have been guests tonight. I feel like we should be overseeing things.”
“That’s why we hired a manager. You’re a guest tonight. Enjoy it. It probably won’t last long.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“I mean you’re not going to be happy without putting your fingers in the dirt, but not this night. Not tonight. Look,” I nodded toward the stage as we followed a tuxedoed man to our table with my mom, Bridgett, and her new guy friend.
Kit looked around, realizing we were the last ones seated, and a lot of familiar faces stood on the stage in front of the screen. “This is my team. These are my people. Mr. Nussbaum? What are you doing here? Brantley? What did you do?”
I pulled her chair out, trying to keep my grin from looking ridiculously stupid while the light dimmed and her friends from her trip exited the stage.
“Hey everyone. My name is Kit Berry from KLMB. Finally made it. I’m sure my cameras can’t do it justice, but the landscapes here are magnificent. I’ll try to get you some shots of the beaches here later on, but right now is a little tough for me. I’m so grateful to be here, to be a part of something so special, but my heart’s a little achy right now. I had to leave my baby girl behind while I did this, but it’s okay. She’s in good hands.”
Our salads were served while we watched Kit’s documentary in our brand new restaurant. Thanks to the director that got her there, I was able to put this all together without her knowing. Kit was amazing. She was funny when she needed to be, and sometimes when she shouldn’t have been. Like one scene that had the entire place rolling. Mr. Nussbaum himself was walking right beside her and disappeared. The expression on Kit’s face and the way the camera showed her eyes shift to the ground and then Mr. Nussbaum laying on his belly was priceless. Kit said cut, and the camera went black, but not before you heard her busting a gut. It wasn’t all fun and games, and she also got a roomful of tears when she showed shacks, and makeshift beds, the filth, and lack of food. And then there were the celebrations. The first pump from the well. A resource so many take for granted, and then an almost erect school. Thanks to me trying to bake our daughter like a cupcake, Kit had to leave before it was finished. That’s when someone else took over for her.
It was during the credits when I really saw the impact she had over there. The little boy Beno was proof my Kit made a difference. There was no comparison from the sickly little boys with sad eyes at the beginning, to the
clean little boy, happy and laughing by the end. Kit was a kindred soul and I was the lucky one.
And then I took over the screen with Bay.
“Say, hi Mommy.”
“Mommy not here.”
“She’s in the camera, silly.”
Just like her mom, Bay had the entire room laughing when her bright green eyes moved closer to the lens.
“Sit up here like a big girl. Are you going to help me out or not?”
“Yes, I will hammer a nail.”
“I don’t want your help building a deck. I tried that. That was horrible. I need you to help me with something else, okay?”
“Okay.”
“Okay, listen up. I need you to look in the camera and say this.”
“This.”
“Not that. Can you just look over there and ask your mommy if she’ll marry your daddy?”
“My mommy not there.”
My hands went into the air and the screen went black.
Kit turned to me, kneeling beside her, tears in her eyes.
“I’m gonna screw up, Kit. I guarantee I will piss you off. A lot, but I swear to God I plan on loving you until the day I die.”
“And me.”
Bridgett covered Bay’s mouth, but I assured her she was part of the plan. “You, too, and Bix.”
And Mavis was muffled behind Bridgett’s hand, but I only answered with a wink, turning my attention back to her mom.
“I love you, Kit. I pick you. Will you marry me?”
“Yes, but can I tell you something? It’s kind of a confession.”
I nodded, thinking the worse.
“I forgot Bay at Walmart once. She wasn’t much older than Bix. I was sick. The lady at the pharmacy had to yell after me, telling me I forgot my baby..”
“I love you. Want to sing a song with me?”
“Yes.”
Really important meetings are planned by the souls long before the bodies see each other.
Paulo Coelho
THE END!
Jaqued Up
Sneak Peek
Jaq
Fear is worse than reality
Why can’t I just stay at the center? I don’t want to do this.”
“You’re not a minor anymore. You know this. You can’t live in mental hospital your entire life. What kind of life would that be?”
“Safe.”
Her words softened, but her pace never slowed, and the calming words tossed over her shoulder did little to still my jumpy nerves. “Let’s go, Jaq. Nothing is going to happen to you. You’re ready for this. The last thing to do is face your fears and you can do it.”
I felt it brewing, the most prevalent and persistent symptom I was taught to recognize as an onset warning sign. Long deep breaths of air filled my lungs while I talked myself calm, following her to 119 Dressler Street. First, the tingling in my fingers started and then the lack of air. Shallow breathing shadowed the icy water that had swiftly taken the place of warm blood running through my veins while the sights in my vision intensified. The familiarity of the streets- the resemblance of the neighborhood I had grown up in became the trigger causing me to want to throw-up.
“Mrs. Bacon,” I called from a few feet behind, sucking in unavailable air while lunging toward a wobbly sign. An arrow warning drivers of the one-way street gave other directions with a red sharpie pen: This way for hot black pussy.
Stupid Mrs. Bacon stopped, cocked her hip, and gave me the stern look she had been using on me for the past six months, preparing me for this day. I wasn’t being silly. This was real and she didn’t care. She presumed I was bringing it all on myself. That’s what she said, but I wasn’t. I couldn’t help it. This was real life and she was about to leave me here. For real this time.
“Jaq, you’re bringing this all on yourself.”
“Told ya,” taunted the voice in my head.
“No, I told you,” I said, attitude blending with my words.
Mrs. Bacon narrowed her eyes into a frown, talking to me like I was the worst case in the whole world. Her actions and the way she spoke down to me solidified her exasperation with me.
“Told me what, Jaq?”
My arrogance dissipated when I realized I didn’t have a comeback because I had no clue what she was even talking about. I routinely played a habitual role and turned the table on her. Reverse psychology worked on coldhearted people with fancy degrees, too, not just me.
“Forget it. You don’t care anyway.”
“I care, Jaq. Why do you think I got you a place with a code? You know what to do. You have your phone. Hell, I even gave you my old laptop. We’ve done this over and over and over and over. What do you want me to do?”
I desperately pleaded, feeling scared out of my mind as my eyes followed a blue car, long with dark windows. The entire car shook from the loud base, slowly passing us by. They had to be looking at me. I just knew it. No doubt they were staring at me. I jumped, startled by a young kid, flying by on a bike, remembering my plea to Mrs. Bacon—again.
“But, I’m on disability. I can’t live alone. I shouldn’t. Something bad is going to happen. I can feel it.”
“Come on, Jaq. You’re fine.”
“My chest hurts. I can’t breathe.”
Mrs. Bacon walked toward me, becoming a blur as my life slowly ended for the second time that day. Her strong hold on my shoulders pulled me away from the sign that had been keeping me from hitting the sidewalk, her eyes holding mine.
“We’re not doing this again, Jaq. Now stop this nonsense. Your apartment is right in front the bus stop, nobody can get in unless you let them get in, and the grocery store is right across the street.”
“Yeah, right beside the meth lab.”
Irritation was heard loud and clear in her words. “What do you want me to do, Jaq? Huh? Do you want me to get you a penthouse over on 5th Avenue? Your checks are seven-hundred dollars a month. This was the best I could do.”
It was hopeless. This was my new short life. I would be the ‘one’ out seven statistic, a victim of a violent crime, probably raped and tossed into a dumpster.
“I hope you fry to death and drown in hot grease.”
“I’m going to miss your bacon jokes. Come on.”
“It wasn’t a joke.”
Oliver
Everything is energy
“We are not going to hit water. You do not need your lifejackets. Please stay calm and follow the instructions. I promise to do all I can to keep everyone safe. Please brace for impact.”
I sat straight up, my chest tight and my body soaked with sweat, heaving and gagging on the smoke filled nightmare I had on a regular basis. The smoke wasn’t even there, yet I could taste it, it burned my eyes, and choked me, setting fire to my throat. Physical proof pumped through my veins at an alarming speed while quick thumps beat hard in my chest, pounding loud in my ears.
Hot water and a mental lesson in particle accelerators, breaking up molecules into their elements kept my mind from drifting back there. I animatedly used one finger to calculate the numbers running through my mind, figuring the typical energy binding the weak molecules together to be about 0.25 electron Volt (eV). I continued the everyday routine, deciding on a conclusion I had probably figured out at the age of eight or nine. A molecule with a fast moving particle could indeed be split, but the damage was more likely to be localized. The live scenario spilled into my mind while I entered the kitchen, an analogy of how the normal mind could come up with the exact same answer. A twenty-two caliber rifle bullet soared through the air in my mind, to a block of cheese, leaving a predictable hole rather than splitting it in half. Knowing why was the mathematical part that kept my brain from getting lost, keeping me focused on my uneventful life ahead.
My breath blew lightly on my cup of hot tea, steaming my glasses while my eyes shifted out to the murky city. A thick haze hovered above the Empire State Building while the sun kissed the Chrysler Building. Beefed up four cylinders, deliberately muffler
-less, and delivery trucks filled the street below while my breath exhausted a heavy sigh, dread for needing to get out there myself. Start a new day. The same day I already had yesterday.
I stepped off the train in downtown Manhattan, letting some idiot who had practically knocked me down trying get on the three-train, get off in front of me. He was obviously in more of a hurry than I was. What did I have to be in a hurry for? My day was the same as it was yesterday, and the day before that, and the day before that, mundane and predictable. All of my degrees, my years of education, and the time, all for this. The fact is: I should have never gone into particle physics and high energy astro because they're surprisingly unemployable. There aren't many jobs where you get to do actual physics for a living, far less than there are qualified physicists.
Unless you were Sheldon Cooper from The Big Bang Theory, physics is a field where you attain no money and zero glory, hence the reason for my following the same crowd of people to the same politically correct jobs. Feast or famine. I wasn’t creating Nobel-prize-winning algorithms for anything. Those positions were fable, farfetched dreams, few and far between, and they made me hate Professor Harrison. Asking a physics’ professor if a physicist’s degree is a good idea is like asking a rock star if it’s a good idea to drop out of high school to start a band.
I ignored an unidentified number on my phone as I entered the building for my eight-hour shift of another day of dull and boring work. Maybe I would I kick up the source code and spend a few hours finding the bug just to get away from the primary responsibility of performing data management and analysis of health outcomes and research studies all day. Someone else’s research.
“Good morning, Oliver.”
I nodded toward my new boss, feigning a genuine smile. I didn’t like him anymore than my new career, but I greeted him just the same. “Hello, sir. Good morning.”
My computer station had been cleaned again, my desk neat and organized. That only made my day longer. Now I could look forward to finding needed information a lot quicker than before. I thought about saying something to personnel as I shook my head at the voicemail. I hit nine to opt out of telemarketer calls on a daily basis, and it irked me to no end when they left a message. My OCD had to go get rid of the little icon right away, alerting me of the useless message awaiting my deletion, but not before the voice caught my attention.
I Pick You Page 36