by John Oakes
"You're just gonna run off like that?"
"Yeah sorry. I really don't feel well."
"You don't look that good in truth. Go on with you." Monica flicked a hand. "Get some rest and then text me if you feel better. I'm in the mood to go out tonight."
Once in the elevator he had to put a hand on the wall to steady himself. He took deep and considered breaths to calm himself.
She couldn't know for certain that there would be more of an inheritance coming her way if he failed in Grampa's challenge. But maybe her uncertainty was precisely the motivation for keeping him close. She would be positioned to benefit as much as possible from whatever was going on with Bruce's will. He couldn't know what Monica's exact motives were. But they were bad, and that was all he needed to know.
He sensed a golden opportunity to strike back. But he had to move while the cement was still wet. But how?
Cody drove aimlessly, trying to clear his head. After nearly an hour, he pulled over on a dirt road looking out on Medina Lake west of town. It was a beautifully sunlit December day with clear skies and fair temperatures. The sun was still up so he cracked the windows. He pulled a leg up past the steering wheel, put his foot on his seat and bent an elbow over his knee. He gazed out over the water for a minute, before remembering that there were some pipe tobacco cigars in his glove box. He reached over and popped it open.
Out fell a small white envelope. Cody reached down to pick it up off the floor beneath the passenger seat. The outside read "Cody," and the number "2" was penciled in the upper right corner. Cody reached into the glove box again and dug around until he came back with the larger white envelope inscribed with the number "1" in the corner.
They were the letters from his grandfather that Kelly had given him the day of the wedding.
He hadn't known what to do with them, and after a while, they had found their way into the glove box. They were probably related to the challenge. Cody had been afraid they might only complicate matters when things were tenuous already. His curiosity might have won out if they hadn't been, quite simply, the last messages he would ever receive from his grandfather. Once read, he would never hear from him again. It had been a comfort to know there was still something his grampa could say to him. It was like keeping half an inch of water in your canteen on a hot day, just for the mental ease of knowing you have the option to quench your thirst – to fool yourself you aren't in as desperate a situation as you are.
Cody pondered all these things, weighing the envelopes in his hands.
With the wide-eyed focus of a man extracting his own molar with a pair of pliers, he opened number one and took it out of the envelope carefully. He unfolded two sheets of printer paper that had been typed on a typewriter.
Cody,
If you are reading this, then you have accepted my challenge. Good.
I want to tell you a story. I was saving it for a day that never came.
You know that I made most of my money from reopening old wells. And as I'm sure you know Cody, everyone always talks about how I was some genius for figuring out this or that well wasn't dry. Well, it ain't so neat as that.
I was a man who knew his way around a bar. And in my younger years I sat at the knees of many a grizzled roughneck who'd worked up and down the oilfields. I wasn't no genius to figure out there was still oil in many of these wells. Those old coots just darn told it to me. I could have been darn happy with my geology degree and gone to do fine work in the industry. But those stories I heard nagged at me. So I decided I needed more education and that's why I went to A&M to get my masters in engineering. Every time I let a professor in on my scheme to reopen one of those old wells, all I got was head shaking and explanations why it couldn't be done. We didn't have the technology they said.
I did in hindsight have some things wrong, both in my understanding of geology and some of my calculations. At best, I was ever an engineer with a lower case "e" as I used to say. But I had this hair up my ass about this well and just would not be swayed in my conviction.
I worked the next couple years to get investors to back a small reopening effort. But even a small effort had big bucks riding on it.
I failed to find the reserve I had been promising to investors and partners. Imagine how Columbus would have felt if he really had fallen off the edge of the earth. Yeah, when folks talk about Bruce Latour, no one tells that part of the story.
So there I sat, hat in hand, stomping and hollering, thinking what a pickle I was in. I was thinking I'd be in Mexico running tin mines for the rest of my life. Worse, I had angry investors and partners breathing down my neck, a kid and a wife at home who was already one foot out the door. Worst of all, it seemed like everyone of em was going to be thrilled to see me fail, to get their I-told-you-sos.
I was pretty frustrated, with nowhere to go and a drilling crew that was going to walk off the site the next day because the investors were ceasing payments. So naturally I went and got slattered. Your gran kicked my sorry ass out of the trailer and I went tearing around just angry at the world, shaking my fists at the sky. I eventually slammed my Chevy into a light pole. I wanted to get right outta there, but nope, truck was busted. Then here comes Johnny Law driving down the road in his police cruiser, right on time like he was arriving for a prescheduled appointment. I might of talked him out of arresting me, but then I hear an awful banshee screech as the pole gives up the fight, tips to one side and slams to the ground.
I spent the next four days in jail. Your Gran, she didn't even come bail me out and I only got the one phone call. I couldn't hire a lawyer I was so broke. But I tell you, those four days in lock up were the most important four days of my life. I sat lying there on that bunk, thinking all about how I needed to just go to Mexico where no one knew me and just start over again. Bruce Latour, failure extraordinaire, imbecile what wasted his whole savings, his three partners' savings that he was crafty enough to trick into getting in this whole mess. To boot, my largest investor whose dealings was of a primarily criminal nature would probably like to break my legs.
And I kept seeing that streetlight careening over. I heard the sound as clear as day at first. The sound would send me in to fits. My dreams would be harassed by that terrible scream of metal and I would turn around in my dream and see the lit end of that twisted pole arcing sadly down to smash into the ground. I could not shake that image. It haunted me day and night.
On that fourth night, before I went to see the Judge, I saw that vision again as I layed on my cot. Only this time, there was no sound, no screech, no bang, no crash, nothing. The pole moved slow. So slow. Everything was real close up. And as it slowly crashed to the ground, I saw I was wrong. It's too hard to explain, and it isn't really important to the story, but that pole weren't trying to tell me how lost I was. That pole was the answer. I knew where the oil was now and I knew how to get to it. Next morning, judge saw me, I confessed, apologized, swore on my mother Id never be reckless again and got my sentence. I got released on 200 hours community service and a 650-dollar fine. This was the old days. It was 50 dollars for the drunk driving and 600 for the streetlight. Like I said it was a nice metal one. I couldn't of cared less about that community service. I had a well to dig.
A year later, I was a millionaire with patents on a new drill head, new gear assembly, and new angular drilling techniques.
I might of made more bad decisions than good. I didn't always consider all the facts. I got too heated sometimes. I wouldn't always listen to sense as much as I should have. I did things my way until they went haywire from my ignorance and my mistakes.
But in the end it was me who found that oil, wasn't it? And all the smart, calm, normal people? They were so good at telling everybody how it couldn't be done. Well, well.
Cody, you don't have to be the smartest or the best or even the hardest working. Sometimes you just have to be the right kind of stupid.
Your Grampa,
Bruce Latour
Cody read the letter over
three times.
He opened the second letter. It read,
Cody,
Don't fuck this up.
Grampa
Part Two: The Way Back Down
Chapter Twenty-Five
The Abstinence Yacht
"I'm so glad you were feeling well enough to take me out," Monica said. She placed her key card in the lock, a light turned green and she pushed the door open. "And you've been in such fine spirits too. That nap must have done you wonders."
Cody came through the door, jumped on Monica's hotel bed and did a few snow angels. He popped off as quickly as he'd popped on and went to the mini-fridge under the small wet bar. He pulled out a Toblerone and said, "I bet this is like 500 bucks." He tore open one end and began to gnaw on the triangular stick of chocolate. "I'm sorry," Cody said with a brown mouthful, "excuse my bad manners." He turned the mangled stick in Monica's direction.
"Want a chunk?"
Monica held up a hand, not fully able to hide her distaste. She came over to the bar and poured them each a drink.
They had been drinking steadily through the night since Cody had picked her up around 8pm, wearing the spiffiest outfit they had bought that day. Cody had made a show of drinking a lot this evening, downing at least two drinks for every one she did. And Monica was no lightweight.
"Make mine a double!" he said.
Cody walked to the sofa, kicked his shoes off and propped his feet up on the coffee table. After a night of dancing in nice new shoes, and doing so enthusiastically, his feet were aching.
Monica walked to the sofa and handed Cody his drink.
"You sure are right. I should stop being such a Jew." He groaned with pleasure as he bit another chunk off the chocolate bar. "Man that's good stuff. Spending the day with you has been very illuminating, Monica. I gotta start getting out more, enjoying the finer things in life."
Monica smiled slyly at him. "Are you gonna start buying microbrew to drink by the pool?"
Cody laughed and nodded. "Maybe I'll start with better beer. But also finer booze and nicer duds." Cody pulled at the front of his new dress shirt with the funny logo on the chest.
"Well...good for you," Monica said with earnest praise in her voice. "Glad to see I'm rubbing off on you." She said stuff like that with an extra silky voice, Cody now noticed. It was on purpose. It was all on purpose.
"I should get a boat. I love boats!"
"So, you can go fishing with your little buddies?"
"Aww, I ain't so buddy-buddy with them anymore," Cody said.
"Is that so?" Monica asked, showing surprise.
"You know I been thinking a lot lately. And my life is gonna be different. I'm tired of sitting around playing video games. I'm done slumming it."
That was what Jason called it when rich people hung out with the poor. Monica would like that.
"I wanna start living, really living it up."
Cody saw Monica's face rise out of the corner of his eye. But he let his gaze remain on the ornate ceiling lamp.
"Yeah a boat...a real big one. What do they call them ones that Puff Daddy has?"
"A yacht?" Monica asked.
"Oh duh," Cody said. He hit his forehead with the palm of his hand. "I knew that," he said, chastising his own stupidity.
"A Yacht! Yeah, with those guys in the white get-ups running around polishing railings and getting me drinks!" Cody laughed out loud, slapped the sofa and hooted, doing his best impression of his excitable grampa.
"Cody you know those things cost millions of dollars," Monica said with mock concern and only half a breath.
"Ah, yeah I suppose so."
Cody hopped up, drained his drink and went to fetch another little bottle out of the fridge. "But maybe I'll just live on it all the time and then not have to buy a big old house like my dad's." He used his best thoughtful voice. "Yeah the boat seems simpler," he said nodding to himself. "...Yacht, I mean."
"What do you mean, instead of buying a big house?" Monica asked.
Cody turned from the assortment of bottles in the refrigerator to gaze over at Monica.
"Oh," Cody shrugged, "I was just thinking about stepping things up a notch. You know, finally living the life I was born into."
Cody pulled out a pint bottle of Grey Goose Vodka.
"I didn't think you were that flush, living on an allowance," Monica ventured.
Cody pretended he hadn't heard her.
"Can you shoot guns on a yacht?"
"Well, probably best if you point them seaward. But if it's your yacht, you can do whatever you want. In fact, if you get a few miles out, you're in international waters, almost lawless out there."
Cody spun around and did a little dance while he hooted and laughed. It was vintage Bruce Latour, who had been a man of celebration. "Well that seals it! Where do you even go to buy a yacht?" he asked, pouring vodka in his glass over ice. "It's not like they have yacht dealerships! Ha! They'd only be able to fit one on the lot at a time. They'd need that thing that moves the space shuttle."
Cody slammed back his drink and began chewing on a piece of ice.
"Well, they have agents in Houston." Monica stood up and began walking toward him. "But Cody, I doubt selling your Grampa's ranch is gonna cover a yacht."
"Oh, I ain't selling that." He looked off. "It's far too valuable to me." He held up his drink and saluted an imaginary object in the distance. "...emotionally."
He went for the bottle again and made sure to shift his weight a little clumsily, as he pulled the low refrigerator door open.
He poured himself another dram of vodka, spilling carelessly onto the counter.
He could almost audibly hear the gears in Monica's head turning.
"Well, then Cody, how on earth are you going to afford a yacht?" Her voice was unnatural, like she knew she was on thin ice and in danger of betraying her motivations.
"Well, it's a funny thing," Cody said. "You remember that day when you tripped and kneed me in the hachi machis?"
Monica nodded along, like a person who senses the punch line coming. "Well, that lawyer gal, you know the one with the stick up her ass? Well, she was there to explain the rest of the will to me."
Cody slammed his drink back and tipped the vodka bottle over in his glass again. He swayed and spilled a little more on the counter.
"What did she have to say?" Monica asked after a short pause.
Cody suddenly looked up at her and frowned, considering her as he took a drink. "She told me not to say anything, especially not to other people in the family."
"Well, Cody," she said sidling up to him. "We aren't family anymore. Not really." She put her hands on his waist. He could see every speck in her beautiful hazel-green eyes. "I'd like to think we are friends, though, maybe more." She stroked his cheek, gently. Her painted nails danced along three days of stubble.
Cody gave her his cheekiest grin.
Earlier that day, in the car by the lake, reading those letters, Cody had realized something. He didn't lack his grampa's imagination. He didn't lack his drive. He didn't even lack his cojones. What he lacked was his grampa's sense of permission. He decided that whenever he came up against something he didn't know how to handle, instead of over-thinking things and confusing himself, then folding like a lounge chair for fear of doing something wrong, he was going to ask himself one simple question:
What would Bruce do?
He put a hand around Monica's waist.
"Maybe so," he said. "I'd like to think that too." He looked down almost shyly and then back up at her.
She kissed him, and he kissed her back.
He pulled away suddenly and turned around.
"Whewee!"
He laughed nervously and blew air out of his mouth. "You almost stopped my heart there."
She stepped up to him again. "There's more where that came from."
Cody put his drink down on the bar and grabbed her up in his arms. Instead of kissing her, he started dancing with her in jerky motio
ns.
"Well, I guess you seem trustable."
He kissed her again and pulled away. He smiled at her for a moment, then went back to the couch and sat down. Monica brought his drink over and snuggled up next to him, before handing him the glass.
"So, what did she say?" she asked again. She began stroking his hair.
"Well, that lawyer gal and I, we talked the next day. She was there to tell me that a whole bunch of Grampa's liquid assets were being held for me. 'Liquid assets' sounded a bit like bags of piss or something at first. But turns out that means cash more or less."
Monica had stopped breathing. Her hand had stopped in his hair, and he could feel that her body had gone rigid against his. Cody pretended not to notice and took a drink.
"But he had all these crazy rules about how he wanted things done, she said. So she tells me about these bonds and stocks and gold and whatnot. They're all locked away for me, but there is a catch."
"A catch?" Monica asked quietly.
"Yeah. It seemed impossible at first, but it's been almost two months since I signed the paperwork, and everything seems to be going well."
"With your business?" Monica offered up her suspicion, feeling freer by the moment to reveal her cards, as Cody revealed his.
"In a manner of speaking," Cody said with a hesitant nod and small chuckle. "It seemed damn near impossible at first, but after the first week or two, things leveled off a little."
Cody drank again.
"Now it's going a bit easier. Hard to say, but I think I might manage it."
"Manage to do something with your business?"
"No. Quite the opposite!"
Monica was now thoroughly confused. Cody wanted to take a picture of the expression on her face.
"The opposite?" she asked. "You mean you don't want to make money? Isn't that the object of a business?"