Dad, again, has answered, and Mom must be at work, as I smell no eggs or French toast or anything inviting from the kitchen and fail to hear the chug chug of the washing machine chugging. Dad appears from behind the curtain hung to separate the living room from the kitchen, letting out a bit of the cool air. The phone is for me. He looks intrigued, like it’s a call I should probably take. Expecting absolutely nobody, this takes me by surprise.
“Huh?” I somewhat question my dad, but he has a serious look to his face and says he thinks it’s important.
Okay, then. “Hello,” I say into the receiver, trying to wake myself up.
“Good morning. Sorry to wake you, Mr. Cooper, but well, I guess our day starts pretty early around here, and I wanted to catch you.” A quick, strong voice, right to the point. “I’m Steve Jones, from The Daily Times. We are planning to run a nice remembrance article on your cousin, nicknamed Spud Cooper, tomorrow. I know from his friends and family, whom I’ve already had a chance to talk to, that you and Spud were very close. So, I was hoping I could ask you a few questions.” A pause.
“Um, well,” I begin, but he continues.
“I’d like the piece to kind of reflect on the type of person he was, things he enjoyed, how he’ll be missed. It’s really been a huge deal around the area, and I know his accident is hard for you, but I was hoping that maybe you’d like to share a few tidbits about him? Would you mind? It won’t take long.”
“Um,” I say again. Boy am I articulate this morning. I must sound pretty doofy. Wow. I had not expected this. Talk about Spud? To the newspaper? I, we, would be in the paper? Spud would love to be in the paper. Just not for this really, too bad he can’t see a whole article about him. They are going to remember Spud.
Yes. Yes, I have to. Absolutely. He deserves more than this, but it’s the least I can do. “Sure,” I say, fully awake now. “Yeah. I mean, yes, sir. I’d be honored. I think it’s a great idea, and Spud would love this.”
“Great. Great,” Mr. Jones says. “Is now a good time, then? Are you in a comfortable spot where we can chat for a bit?”
“Um,” Looking around I realize it’s just me in the cooled living room, the TV turned low since I had been sleeping. I don’t see why I can’t talk now, and it’s not like I have any plans to be anywhere at the moment, especially in no shirt and my boxers. “Now is fine. Yeah, let’s chat.”
“All right, then. Great. Let’s see…” and he begins his short interview.
After a series of questions about Spud’s activities and hobbies, his personality, our favorite memories, and giving a few stories, Mr. Jones thanks me and gives me his condolences and says the story should appear tomorrow. We wish each other a nice day and hang up. Well, that was different. Kind of gives me a little spring to my step, like caffeine. But without the nasty coffee taste. I wonder how this little article is going to appear. This was something I needed, to talk about Spud, but for some reason, what made it better, or easier, was that I was able to talk to someone who wasn’t Mom or Dad or Zoë. How great it feels to be able to recall our laughs, our memories, to think about Spud’s personality, charm, and friendship. I so needed this, and my insides are fluttering with anticipation to see what Mr. Jones puts together.
In fact, the next morning, I’m up early again, of my own doing, anxious to see what was written to remember Spud. Instead of waiting for the paperboy to deliver in the afternoon, I take a stroll, in the unrelenting heat, again, to the local gas station to purchase a copy of The Daily Times available in the early morning.
Catching my eye, as I walk through the door, is a nice change of headline. Instead of big, bold letters spelling out the latest heat wave crisis, it reads: “Remembering Spud Cooper.” Picking up the paper from the stack, I see that the article covers the entire front page, and continues on pages two and three. Wow, Spud, what ya think of that? Cover story! When he died, obviously the accident made front page news, but it wasn’t good news stuff, like this one is. Then it was that tragic, breaking news type that makes you cringe, and I don’t even want to think about that headline again.
A quick glance through this morning’s paper, though, shows lots of pictures from the years with friends and family, and quotes that have been given about Spud Cooper, and I can’t wait to get home to read it.
So, I don’t wait. Instead, I pay Miss Candi (who, even at this early hour, munches her Doritos) for the paper and quickly exit the store before I’m forced to talk to someone, and I saunter across the parking lot to an old abandoned picnic table in the grass between Casey’s and the I and M Canal, and have myself a seat. A hot seat. This table is so blazing it feels like it’s been drug out of Hell. It looks it, too, but that’s not important.
I’m roasting, for sure, but there’s more crucial stuff on my mind right now. Reading through the wonderfully written article, I learn that this Mr. Jones dude talked to Spud’s mom and dad, his sister, and friends, like me. His sister said he was a “terrific and fun big brother. It’s not fair what happened to him. But he’ll always be a part of my life. Always. I learned so much from him.”
Steve was quoted as saying that Spud was a true friend, always there for you, and could make any day fun. Tyson, also with us on that horrid day, said he’d miss Spud forever. Was hoping Spud would teach him the guitar, and maybe he’d try to learn anyway in memory of him. Mike had said he knew Spud a few years and wished he’d had time to get to know him longer. That Spud always made him laugh with that fake southern accent Spud seemed to use around him.
My own claim to fame read:
“It was well-known that Spud had a very best friend, who also happened to be his close cousin, Jackson Cooper. Jack has been having a hard time, obviously, trying to cope with the tragic loss, but jumped at the chance to say a few words about his best buddy.
“ ‘Spud and I spent all sorts of time together. Man, he was the greatest, always cracking jokes, always helping out. He was like a member of my at-home family, and my parents looked at him like their own.
“ ‘Spud and I were supposed to join the school baseball team together next month, and we were looking forward to driving for the first time together next year as sophomores, too. We had lots we wanted to do in life, and it’s so hard that it was taken from him.
“ ‘But, let’s remember all the greatness he had. He was a fantastic guitar player and singer, his best piece being John Michael Montgomery’s Life’s a Dance, and he was always wearing these old cowboy boots, pretty much regardless of the weather. He was fun, took risks. I guess his adventurous part kind of let him down in the end, but it’s not his fault. He always said that you had to “sink or swim” not give up, not be chicken.
“ ‘And the girls! My gosh, they all adored him. He was, is, a great person, a best friend. The best you could have. I love and miss him. Always will.’ ”
I can’t believe they gave me so much news space. Wow. I talked longer to Mr. Jones, for about half an hour, and I did say more than that. Some of my memories were more specific, but I’m sure, being the writer of the article, he only had so much space to work with, and he also had several people to quote, along with more information, so all in all he did a decent job here. The nice guy probably talked longer to me, too, to be nice, and let me get my thoughts and memories out. Just to listen to me, you know, le
nd an ear. It sure helped.
The article also mentioned the dangers of the bridge and how the city was looking into ways to prevent more jumping. Personally, I think it should have mentioned that too many teens drink and are bullied by peers into doing things they shouldn’t. But I didn’t write it. In any case, it was meant to be a tribute to Spud, not as a topic to be covered in some health or self-esteem class. So, as a tribute to Spud, I would say, “goal accomplished.” I’ll keep this forever.
Then I do what I haven’t let myself do properly yet. As I sit at that wooden table, staring at the dried out creek across the brown grass, several hundred feet from the road and hearing the traffic, mostly semi-trucks heading to various stores to deliver goods, on the nearby street, nobody outside in this heat but me, I cry. I’ve cried some tears before, but have not just let it all out, think about everything, and cry until I’m cried out. I haven’t done that yet. I’ve pushed too much of this off, spent much time pissed, tried to be in denial, all that. So now…
I cry and cry. Letting the tears just fall, heavily, I’m bawling, heaving and looking from the sky to the ground to the sky. Just let it all keep coming, like a faucet that won’t shut off. My mind is racing from the different things we had done together. Monopoly games. Super Mario on the Nintendo. Taco eating contests at my house. Cold milk and Oreos. Family Christmas parties. Sneaking Miller Lites. Studying for a history test. That trip to Great America. All of it. I mean, we had a few squabbles here and there, about who to hang with or where to go or who was right or wrong about a sports game or something, but never a big serious fight.
I loved him and can’t believe I’ll never see him again. Well, I guess I can believe it. It’s the truth, right? We’ll never tease each other again. Never play the rotten egg game. Never look at sexy magazine pictures. Well, I might, though. But, I keep crying, and I know it’s going to give me a massive headache, as crying always does, but I don’t care. How finally freeing it feels to sit here and think about my best friend and let out what tears I can. My dead best friend. So, I sit here and cry. For two hours, but only spurts after a while. Just when I start to think I’m okay and can stop, I think some more and more water falls from my eyes. I must look a mess, but I don’t care.
I had to get it out. It was time.
Head fully pounding, tears exhausted, eyes a bit blurry, and very likely red, I finally think I can go home. I fold up the paper, wipe my eyes, again, on the tee shirt I’ve taken off, stretch my legs, and get up. My stomach is growling like mad, and my legs are stiff, my throat thirsty, and my body exhausted. Oh, and very hot. I want to eat, shower, and sleep, and maybe then I can move on a little bit more.
Glancing at the paper again. “Remembering Spud Cooper.” Yes, that’s what we all need to do.
Chapter 12
It’s been two weeks since Spud died. Yeah, I guess I finally get it. Died. But this summer is just gonna pass in a blurry blah. I mean, what can I do now? There’s no fun to be had now. Nothing still feels right. Not really. Since Spud died, nothing has much appeal, and before I know it, school will be here, and my summer will have been just a blob of heat and death. Maybe, I just need school to start to get my mind off of things. A new start. Maybe, I’ll still join that ball team. That could be what I need. Something to distract me. Put my energy into.
The heat wave is still on, but not quite as bad, but there are still deaths, drought, and uncomfortable humidity. It’s been record-breaking this year. The amount of old folks keeling over has been remarkable and is always the top story. I can’t imagine that it could last much longer. Everything’s been so surreal. I wish there was something new. Different news. It’s like we’re in this little world where all that happens is hot weather and death. While it’s not still in the 120 degree range, as we’ve had days that dipped back into the eighties, actually, we haven’t quite had the relief we really need around here, which would be a nice cool down and some rain.
“Jack?”
The sweet voice brings me from my reverie, as I’m sitting on a couch at the cool library, somewhat looking through a magazine, when gorgeous Deena plops down beside me. Oh, she’s so pretty. Short jean skirt, a white tank top, and her blond locks in a high ponytail. Tanned beautifully, she should be a model.
“Deena,” I sit up straight, clearing my throat and running a hand through my hair, hoping I look decent. “Hi, what are you doing here?” She so gives me those butterflies in the tummy.
“To be honest, I tried your place, but your mom said you might be here. Can we talk?” Her short skirt shows off her gorgeous legs, strong and lady-like, and her beautiful hair is so shiny. Plus, she smells like some tropical fruit. What a welcoming distraction!
She was actually looking for me? “Sure, sure. What’s up?” Was Mike hiding in the background, ready to jump me? Was this a set-up?
“Jack, you just haven’t been around, like anywhere, and when you are, you’re in a funk. I’m so sorry about Spud, but you need to face things, to get out, hang out, try to be yourself again. I think you should come to my barbecue tomorrow night, a summer tradition in my family, with my relatives and friends and stuff. It’ll be fun. We have a volleyball net, a pool for swimming, horseshoes, and more. My dad’s a real guru on the grill. So there’s going to be music and a bonfire and burgers and hotdogs and chips and pop. Am I convincing you yet? What do ya say?” Her cute, hopeful smile and gorgeous eyes glancing at me. She even has her hand on my leg. She’s good.
“I don’t know…” Like I want to celebrate when Spud is dead. I’m supposed to party with Deena and her boyfriend, Spud’s worst enemy? Right.
“In case you wondered,” she continues, practically reading my mind, “Mike won’t be there. We broke up.” She says this so matter-of-fact like. Then cringes.
What? They did what? “I’m sorry. What happened? I thought you two would get married. Be together forever.”
She laughs lightly, “Hardly. Mike’s been, well, not acting like one would expect, especially since what happened. At first, I thought he was changing, turning a new leaf or whatever, but then he just got odd. Worse than before, even.” She looks sad now. “He has upped the notch on his drinking, acts like an ass more than before, and keeps using his Dad’s position on the force to get his way. I wanted to split with him for quite some time, actually, but then when Spud…when Spud had the accident, I thought for sure Mike would change, and like I said, for a day or two, yeah, but then he’s just right back to himself. Still conceited, still immature. Worse.”
She sighs and it breaks my heart to see her even the least bit upset. I’m looking right into her eyes, giving her my complete attention, wishing I could hold her and ease this pain.
“When I mention Spud,” she goes on, “he says whatever and rolls his eyes or tells me to move on and get over it and makes fun of him. It’s odd, but I can’t deal with it anymore. I mean there he was, all concerned, crazy after the drowning, then he goes right back to jerk mode. That’s just low. I don’t know what his problem is, but I can’t believe it took me this long to really get it. I’m over him and wish I’d have done this long ago.” She sighs again, “I guess we all learn lessons, sometimes.”
My look is a little less intense now, but I’m still trying to give my attention. “Oh, wow. I’m sorry. I hope that you’re all right with that. Honestly, I’ve ne
ver cared for the guy, so I can’t be too sorry.”
She grins. “Well, Mike’s just making things harder, and I had to tell you about our being done, broken up, and you know, you’re one of many, Jack. Not too many people can stand Mike. Most hang out with him for the perks of getting off the hook if they get in trouble. I don’t think it’s worth it. Even my parents were doubting the relationship. I’m glad. I feel better now that I can be myself more. For a while, I put up with his crap, and it made me feel like I was just as mean. But no more. I deserve better, my own mom says, and I believe her. I deserve, I think, someone who is kind and funny and honest and caring. Like… well, anyway. Let’s not talk about him anymore. Not now. We need some good stuff to talk about so… the party? What do you say?” She shakes her head and picks up a girly magazine from the table, pretending to glance through it, but grinning.
“Good, that’s good, about you and well, you know what I mean. Yeah, I don’t get Mike either. So out of the picture. Good, you know, for you. He should have treated you better. Um, the party, well…” I really don’t know what else to say, and the librarian is giving a cold stare all of a sudden, like talking is illegal in this place. Maybe it is. It is the library.
“Will you come out tomorrow? Please? My parents really want to meet you. Um, I guess I’ve mentioned quite a bit about you, especially with this whole ‘thing’ with well you know, and I said I’d invite you out. Please?” She’s now looking into my eyes again, so hard to resist, and she just smells so sweet, looks so lovely. Oh man!
“Um, I’ll try,” I say, because I might try. Maybe it’s what I need.
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