Running on Empty

by Don Aker

  A few days after Allie broke up with Ethan, Pete had called him and asked if they could talk. They’d gone down to the Arm and stared at the water for a while, stood shivering, shot the shit until Ethan couldn’t stand it anymore and finally forced Pete to say what was on his mind. Although Ethan knew what was coming, he hadn’t reacted well. Had, in fact, torn into Pete, asking how he could be such an asshole after everything Ethan had just gone through, then shouted, Sure, you’re welcome to my sloppy seconds! On and on. That was the kind of friend he was.

  Pete had let him rant, and when Ethan had finally run out of steam, could think of nothing else cruel to say, Pete had apologized, told Ethan he had every right to be upset, that he was a jerk for asking if he could date Allie. He’d never mention it again.

  It had taken Ethan two days before he could give Pete his blessing. Seeing what Allie was going through changed his mind. All that stuff with her father, her parents’ separation, needing to sell the house to pay their debts. At least her dad hadn’t gotten his hands on the girls’ education funds, which were in their own names. Small comfort, though, when everything else had fallen apart. No. Been ripped apart.

  All of it had taken a heavy toll on Allie. When Ethan had finally come out of his own fog, he could see it. She seldom smiled, had stopped laughing altogether, even stopped dancing when she walked, her feet earthbound like everyone else’s. And although they were no longer a couple, it killed Ethan to know there was nothing he could do for her.

  But of course there was. She deserved the support of someone who cared for her. Someone who didn’t have the same baggage that had dragged down her dad. Someone like Pete.

  “You sure, man?” Pete had asked when Ethan called him. Ethan couldn’t tell him in person. Couldn’t handle seeing the expression on Pete’s face that he’d seen in his own mirror the night he’d taken Allie to Irene’s Ice Cream Emporium for the first time. Could that really have been over seven months ago?

  “Yeah, I’m sure,” Ethan had said.

  It was natural that he and Pete would stop hanging out after that. It would have been too weird. But he missed his buddy almost as much as he missed Allie.

  When it came to her, Pete took nothing for granted. He understood that she was vulnerable, that more than anything else she needed a friend she could count on. And he was definitely that. In return, she offered to help him with his physics, and pretty soon they were spending every afternoon and evening together. She was as surprised as he was when her feelings for him changed, when she stopped thinking of him as just a friend.

  Before revealing to everyone that they were now a couple, Allie had taken Ethan aside to tell him first, wanted to be sure he was okay with it. Ethan had lied, even hugged her and wished her the best, but in the week since, he had found excuses to avoid them when he could. Like the evening they came over to interview his father for their video profile. He offered to work Lil’s shift for her that night just so he had a reason not to be in the house.

  Returning to The Chow Down had, surprisingly, been the easiest of all the getting-back-to-normal things he’d done after that terrible night that still haunted his dreams when he slept at all, jolted him to cold-sweat consciousness shouting Raye’s name. He hadn’t thought he could ever go back there after how he’d behaved that last time, even to pick up his cheque for the final hours he’d worked, but the phone rang one afternoon and it was Ike calling to see if he was okay. Ike had heard about what went down at Anwar’s Convenience—had heard some of it from Mr. Anwar himself when the owner stopped by to tell them he had no intention of selling The Chow Down. Ike wanted Ethan to know how sorry he was, that he knew how easy it could be for a young person to fall under the influence of someone like Link Hornsby. He didn’t mention his son, Mike, but he didn’t have to—those were two more dots Ethan had connected on his own. And before Ike hung up, he’d told Ethan that he still had a job if he wanted it.

  Ethan did want it. He had a lot of money to pay back and the pool wasn’t hiring. Plus he still owed Boots McLaughlin his half of that lottery win, and he intended to make good on his promise to Allie. He could do that much at least.

  “Found one!” Ms. Moore said, brandishing a bulb as she returned to the classroom. Ethan thought he noticed colour in her cheeks, even more than usual, and he remembered there was a connecting door between the AV equipment room and Beaker’s science lab. Ordinarily, he might have groaned at that thought, but today he grinned. It felt good to smile again. It had been a long time since his face had formed that expression without his having to force it.

  Replacing the bulb in the data projector, Ms. Moore said to the class, “I want to thank those students who volunteered to share their video profiles with us. I thought we could spend this last class together before Christmas break viewing some of the excellent work that was turned in. I previewed all four of the profiles you’ll be seeing today, and I have to say they’re remarkable. Pete and Allie, your piece on Jack Palmer is outstanding, especially the segment where he talks about withdrawing from politics. I hope you don’t mind, but I showed it to a friend who produces a television news program, and she’d like to talk to you about airing it. I have her card here if you’re interested. Discuss it with your parents first, okay?”

  Ethan watched Allie turn wide eyes toward Pete, and he gave them both a thumbs-up. Ethan wasn’t at all surprised by the teacher’s praise. His father had told him afterwards how impressed he’d been by all the research the two had done, how he’d opened up to them on camera, talked honestly about how his childhood had influenced both his work and his personal life. He hadn’t intended to, and probably should have cleared everything with his media consultant first, but since he’d already decided not to run for office, that was all water under the bridge. There were far more important things in his life that required his attention now.

  The teacher continued to talk, commenting on two other video assignments the class would be seeing. Neung Minh had profiled her grandmother, one of the many refugees who escaped Communist-controlled Vietnam in the 1970s using makeshift boats. Jakob Singer had chosen as his subject his great-uncle, who had survived the anti-Semitic pogroms in Poland after World War II. “Both of these are extremely compelling,” said Ms. Moore, “not only because of the important historical nature of the events they depict but also because we hear those events described by people who actually experienced them.”

  The teacher touched a key on her laptop and the image of a video player leaped onto the projection screen. “To begin, though,” she said, “you’ll be seeing the profile by the first student who volunteered to share.” She smiled warmly in Ethan’s direction. “What impresses me about this one,” she explained, “isn’t its political or historical significance but rather its heart. I admire the very personal way Ethan has chosen to honour his subject. Matt,” she said, nodding to the person sitting near the door. Matt Cushing reached up and flicked the light switch, throwing the curtained room into semi-darkness.

  The teacher moved her cursor to the controls at the bottom and clicked Play. Opening credits crawled onto the black screen, revealing Ethan’s name and the name of the course, both dissolving to a shot of Ethan standing on the Angus L. Macdonald Bridge staring intently at the grey undulating surface below as if looking for something he had lost. The Ethan on the screen turned to face the camera and spoke: “In recent years, Halifax’s municipal government has spent millions of dollars trying to improve the quality of the water in our harbour. Despite the cost, most people appreciate the importance of this project. Like so many First Nations cultures tell us, we don’t inherit this world from our parents—we borrow it from our children.” As the camera slowly panned the harbour and the islands beyond, Ethan continued to speak: “It’s ironic, and more than a little sad, that some people are quick to recognize significance on a global scale yet fail miserably to see what’s important in their own lives. I’m one of those people.”

  The scene changed, the screen now filled wit
h a large dot on a green background. Slowly, the camera pulled back and other dots entered the frame. “Maybe,” came Ethan’s off-screen voice, “it’s because we’re just too close to be able to see it clearly.” The camera zoomed out to reveal the bench in front of John C. Miles High School; from afar, the dots on the painted wood coalesced into a remarkably realistic portrait of Lady Gaga. “It’s only when we have distance, a different perspective, that we see what we’ve been missing all along.”

  The scene shifted to an interior shot of the Halifax Shopping Centre, Ethan standing amid a sea of consumers darting from one store to another, holiday music playing in the background. “Christmas shopping. Everyone racing around trying to find the perfect gift. It’s pretty much impossible unless you know what’s important to the people you’re buying for.” The camera panned the shoppers, then zoomed in for a close-up on Ethan’s face. “Not long ago,” he said, “someone suggested that I spend some time finding out what’s important to me. At that moment, I already knew. Or I thought I did.”

  When the camera pulled back this time, the onscreen Ethan was no longer in the shopping centre—he was standing in a driveway beside a black 1996 Cobra SVT. The camera circled it, showing rusted rocker panels, front and rear fenders covered with nicks and dents, tires that had parted with most of their tread, a starburst crack in the windshield under the rearview mirror, before returning to Ethan’s face. “Now, though,” Ethan continued, “I know differently.”

  His face dissolved into a still photo of a laughing, blue-haired Raye, the words Rayelene Constance Palmer appearing beneath it. What followed was a visual montage of moments captured in photographs: Raye as a baby, her tiny hand gripping the much larger finger of an adult; Raye as a toddler, her face aglow with both fear and delight at having navigated her first steps alone; Raye as an eight-year-old in an ugly dark uniform, the sash across her shoulder covered with Brownie badges. The next image fluttered into action, a video Ethan had taken with his cell a couple months ago: thirteen-year-old Raye reverently holding a battered bass guitar in her arms as she coaxed tentative notes from it. These notes morphed into professionally recorded music, the original “Smoke on the Water” from Deep Purple’s 1972 album Machine Head, which Ethan had recently discovered in Winnipeg Joe’s music store.

  When he’d decided to embed a portion of the song into the profile he was creating, Ethan had listened to the words for the first time. Of course, the song wasn’t new to him—Raye had played it more times than he could remember—but because he’d never before paid attention to the lyrics, he was surprised to learn about the real-life event it recounted, a 1971 fire in Montreux, Switzerland. Deep Purple had gone there to record Machine Head in one of Montreux’s casinos. On the fourth of December, a concert-goer foolishly shot a flare into the casino’s ceiling, starting a fire that razed the building. Hearing the band sing about the burning of a gambling house on that long-ago December evening, Ethan had felt a chill shudder through him. He felt that same chill now. It was on the fourth of December that Raye had followed him into the longest night of his life.

  Deep Purple’s song melted incrementally into the background, becoming something else, something muted and indistinguishable, as images of Raye at various ages layered the screen. “It’s amazing,” Ethan’s off-screen voice resumed, “how a person can share the same house with you nearly your whole life yet not once do you tell her how much she means to you. Not once do you even consider what it might be like never to have the opportunity again to make her understand how remarkable she is. To tell her how weird and absolutely wonderful a human being she’s become.” The background music grew louder, swelling into the refrain of “Running on Empty,” Jackson Browne singing of aimlessness and loss before fading away. “And then,” said Ethan, his voice catching momentarily before continuing, “something happens that makes you regret all those opportunities you let slip by.”

  The room suddenly echoed with the sound of a single gunshot as newspaper clippings cartwheeled onto the screen, their headlines screaming the events of that night:

  Teen Gambling Leads to Tragedy.

  Daughter of Prominent Lawyer Shot.

  Girl Takes Bullet Meant for Brother.

  “What do I think is important now?” asked the onscreen Ethan back on the Macdonald Bridge. “What do I know is important?” He glanced away, swallowing hard before turning back to the camera. “Only one thing: moments when you can tell the people you love how much you care for them. I’ve wasted too many of those, and that’s a mistake I’ll never make again. For anyone watching this now who may not know her, I’d like to introduce my sister, Raye. She saved my life.”

  The onscreen Ethan dissolved once more as a final image of Raye appeared. Her face pale and thin, she stood supported on one side by a crutch and on the other by a lanky Brad Clahane. Above them hung an arch made of silver balloons and a tinsel-covered sign bearing the words Lakewood Junior High Christmas Dance. Even behind brand-new eyeglasses—the colour of which matched her blue hair and dress perfectly—the twinkle in Raye’s eyes was unmistakable. She’d been smiling at Ethan as he took the picture, beaming as he’d told her yet again how beautiful she was.

  Author’s Note

  I’ve never been big on conspiracy theories, the elaborate connections people make to prove that individuals and organizations have been working together to commit outrageous acts. I once had a sociology professor who was convinced—and who attempted to persuade his students—that personal electronic devices were invented by governments intent on keeping citizens isolated, insulated from each other, so they’d be more compliant, less likely to rebel and join forces against political corruption. I recall laughing at his claim, but I recently had occasion to remember it. I was riding a subway when a power failure on a section of track ahead stranded our train between two stations during rush hour, which meant that many of the people jammed into our car (mostly twenty- and thirty-somethings) were forced to stand wedged together for nearly an hour. Increasingly annoyed by the likelihood that I’d be late for a meeting, I expected to grumble about the delay with the people around me. But I was surprised by the silence that descended on the occupants of that car. Although many of the passengers were wedged beside people who were clearly their companions, very few of them spoke, most choosing instead to text on iPhones, listen to iPods, or surf on iPads—isolated, insulated from each other despite extremely close quarters. It was a sobering moment.

  I experienced a number of equally sobering moments while conducting research for Running on Empty. I was stunned by the percentage of high school students who gamble—some sources indicate that as many as one in three wager money on a regular basis—and by the early age at which many of them turned to gambling, some as young as seven. And I was dumbfounded to learn of the number of teenagers who struggle with gambling addiction—one source suggested that number in the United States alone is in the hundreds of thousands. During an interview with an addictions counsellor, I learned that for every teenager who seeks help for a gambling problem, there are many more who elude discovery. While they may be up to their ears in debts owed to friends, family members, and bookies, most continue to have a roof over their heads and food in their stomachs because they have parents who provide these essentials. Teens don’t default on mortgages like adults do, so they avoid detection more easily.

  Of all the things I learned while researching teen gambling, the most disturbing was the way our society encourages it. Film after film honours risk-takers, revering those who live on the edge while subliminally sneering at those who choose not to take chances. Reality TV programs not only make gambling a form of entertainment but glorify the individuals whose lives are governed by it. And people in the media aren’t the only ones guilty of creating this culture of betting and bookmaking. Few adults would even consider giving a pack of cigarettes to a child, but an alarming number think nothing of including lottery tickets in children’s birthday and holiday gifts. And what student hasn’t
brought home from school at least one handful of tickets to sell on a draw of some sort? And what adult hasn’t said to a child, “I bet you …”?

  What does all this have to do with conspiracy theories? During my research, I encountered an individual who claimed that some Internet sites for young children—like those in which youngsters earn points to support virtual pets—have been created by branches of organized crime. Their intent, this person claims, is to groom a whole new generation of risk-takers who will more readily accept gambling in their lives. Do I believe this? I didn’t at first. Now, after everything I’ve read and viewed, I don’t know. If nothing else, it’s at least worth thinking about, keeping us all mindful of how easily—and insidiously—attitudes can be shaped. The more important question is how to cope with the tremendous toll that gambling takes on individuals, their families, and society as a whole. If you or someone close to you struggles with a gambling addiction, there are people who can help. A simple Internet search will identify those in your area. Call them. Today.

  As always when I finish writing a novel, there are people whose support I would like to acknowledge. Among them is my agent, Marie Campbell, who willingly represented a novel about a serious issue despite working in a market that’s increasingly driven by fantasy and dystopian literature. As well, I’d like to thank the incredible team of professionals at HarperCollins, who continually demonstrate how committed they are to their craft. I especially want to thank my editor, Hadley Dyer, whose vision of the story kept me on track when I seemed all but determined to derail. In particular, I’m grateful for her editorial exacto knife, which slivered ten thousand unnecessary words from an early draft. William Faulkner is among the people said to have advised writers, “Kill your darlings.” I’m indebted to Hadley for killing mine.