Soul Mates

by Thomas Melo

  “You’re right. They do look like match-heads. Would you happen to know why there may be loose match-heads in the back of your car?”

  “The only reason I can think of is my friend Steve Tappler. He’s a smoker and I gave him a ride home from prom a couple of weeks ago. God forbid he waits before he gets out of my car before he lights up. But I guess he was jonesing for his nicotine. Anyway, he was smoking in my car. That’s the only thing I can think of.”

  “Match-heads? Come on son. I can see a whole match or two, but match-heads? I’ve never seen a kid carry anything to light cigarettes or something else than a cheap Bic or Zippo,” the officer thought out loud.

  “I don’t know what to tell you, officer. I’m just as stumped as you are,” and the finishing touch, “I do appreciate you pointing that out to me though; especially in the summer time. It gets awful hot in parked cars. With my luck, I would come out to nothing but a smoking car frame.”

  “Yeah, don’t mention it, son, but we’re not done yet. Where’d you say you were all headed?”

  “I said that we were coming from my friend’s house–” Tyler pointed his thumb behind him at Jayson.

  “And what address would that be?” the cop asked. Before Tyler could answer, Jayson decided to pull his share of the weight.

  “16 Centamore Ave., St. Anastasio.”

  “I.D. me, son,” the cop countered and looked at Lilith, “you too, miss.”

  Not sure if he should continue his story or not, Tyler decided he would. After all, he was doing great so far. “So, we came from Jayson’s house, and we were going to the bowling alley down the road. It’s pretty much the only thing open this late. They do the bowling with dark lights and lazers and crank the music late at night, like I said before.”

  “Alright, well, why don’t you walk on down to the bowling alley, I’ll hold on to your licenses and give them a once-over, and make sure everything is on the up and up and I’ll come back to get you.” The officer was not just suggesting this as the next part of the group’s night; he was insisting upon it.

  “Sounds like a plan. Let’s go, guys,” Tyler said to Lilith and Jayson. The officer got in his car and turned his interior light on, presumably going to work on their I.D.’s and seeing if there was anything he could do to ruin their night. The group began to walk to the two blocks down to the bowling alley.

  “What a real suck-dick that cop was,” Lilith said.

  “A what? Did you call him a ‘suck-dick’? That’s a new one,” Jayson chuckled.

  “Yes. That’s what I called him. He has nothing better to do than bother us because we’re teenagers. People are so prejudiced against teenagers,” Lilith discoursed.

  “Yeah, I know,” Jayson agreed, rubbing the back of his head.

  Tyler could not help feeling dumbfounded by what he was hearing. Prejudiced against teenagers? We are guilty of what he thinks we’re guilty of, and the only reason that we aren’t sitting in the back of his police car right now, is because he doesn’t absolutely, 100 percent KNOW we are guilty. Scratch that; he knows, he just has no proof!

  Tyler’s cell phone began to ring, and he saw that it was his parents. He knew that he needed to answer it otherwise his parents would be concerned and keep calling, or worse, they would start calling other parents, or worse still, they might send out an APB on him…not literally, but one never knows when you are dealing with strict and protective parents. However, that APB would be promptly answered given their current predicament.

  While Tyler made up an excuse about why he was late for his curfew, Lilith worked on calming Jayson down.

  “Jesus, do you think he’ll really let us go? I mean, he found match-heads. I’m so fucking stupid! I thought I was being careful,” Jayson squawked his self-deprecation to Lilith in hopes for some sympathy, although everyone hates the gee-I’m-ugly-wink-wink tactic.

  “Relax! He’s just trying to give us a good scare. Trust me, he knows we did it, but that whole line about identifying Tyler’s car was bullshit and he knows that we knew it was bullshit. So, now he is passive aggressively punishing us the only way he legally can and knows how,” Lilith explains.

  “And how’s that?”

  “He’s fucking with us, dummy. In a half hour, maybe even an hour, he’s gonna come to the bowling alley, give us our I.D.’s back, and then fuck-off back to his parking spot in the firehouse parking lot and nap for the rest of his shift.”

  “I hope so,” Jayson prayed.

  “I know so,” Lilith answered.

  Tyler rejoined the group after walking behind them a way so that his parents could not hear the incriminating commiseration between Lilith and Jayson. They reached the bowling alley and peered in through the glass doors of the entrance and saw a packed house of teens partaking in what the bowling alley dubbed, Rock n’ Bowl. Cheesy, but effective, and let’s face it…suiting.

  “We’re not really going fucking bowling, are we? I feel like in order to be a bowler you have to have a huge ass,” Lilith shared. They all laughed in the still, late night and enjoyed the transient levity.

  The group went in and rented their bowling shoes, along with a lane, while they waited for the police officer to return with their identification.

  “I fucking hate bowling. It’s the only sport where you can be a fat lump of shit and still be considered a professional athlete,” Lilith complained.

  “What about fishing?” Tyler chimed in for the sake of being argumentative. Why? The mood just struck him.

  “Fishing is not a sport. Jump in the water and engage a shark in hand-to-hand combat, and I’ll call it a sport. You’re tricking a dumb fish into biting into a hook. Anyone can do that. To me, a sport implies that some sort of physical exertion and some dexterity is needed,” Jayson argued.

  “Whatever you say. I don’t really consider you the authority on what constitutes a sport though; no offense,” Tyler answered, allowing foul mood to leach through. He was following a path in his life that would lead to a promising career in the local police department. What was he doing putting his future at risk like this? And for what? A few laughs on a slow night? He was sick of being talked into doing things that were not normally within the confines of his character make-up. How sick of it? Sick enough to think that maybe he had seen enough of his troublesome girlfriend. This thought had crossed his mind, however ephemeral. It remained on his mind no longer than a passing license plate number one sees while driving.

  It was what alcoholics refer to as his “moment of clarity.” It would have done Tyler a world of good, had he listened to this feeling; but then there would be no story to tell.

  Finally the police officer showed up, as hat-in-hand as he would allow himself to look. He walked over to the trio, tossed the three I.D.’s onto the table that was assigned to their lane, and hollered over Avenged Sevenfold’s hit, Bat Country, for the group to “make sure they stay out of trouble and have a better night.” The officer did not wait for any acknowledgement. He wanted to be rid of these little “punk-bastards” (as they would be referred to at roll call the next day) who got the better of him and move on with his shift. God help the next person he pulled over that night.

  “We were having a fine night!” Lilith spat at the officer.

  The officer stopped and turned to look at the group. “What did you say?” He heard all right. He was just wondering if one of them had the balls to say it one more time, while he was actually facing them this time. There was nothing he could pin on the group in terms of the fire, but he was sure he could find something wrong with Tyler’s car if pressed further. Paper work did not bother this officer. Especially when it came to settling a score, in which case, he would relish it.

  “Jesus…” Tyler muttered to himself under his breath. Haven’t they had enough trouble for one night? “She just said to ‘have a fine night’, officer.” The words “fine night” were, in fact, in her statement, so perhaps he bought it over the obnoxiously loud music, perhaps not. The police of
ficer got what he wanted though, and that was for three punk-bastard teens to shut their mouths and back down to his authority when pressed. After Tyler’s Oscar winning performance during the car-search, the police officer was a hair trigger just itching to go off.

  The officer and the group parted ways.

  “Thank God that’s over,” Jayson said.

  “Can we stop playing this queer game please, and go home now?” Lilith pleaded.

  The group paid for their time on the lane and left.

  Tyler had explained on the phone earlier about how he had haphazardly left his headlights on and drained his car battery and that they had spent a great deal of time waiting for a good Samaritan to stop and assist them, which in New York, to no surprise, took a little longer than one may anticipate...unless you are from there…not that you could blame people completely in this day and age. That is, of course, if what Tyler had told his parents had happened actually took place, rather than the fact that it was a concocted line of bullshit from a teen who was getting increasingly crafty out of necessity, thanks to his seditious girlfriend.

  Chapter 7

  The quiet, crisp morning lost none of its picturesque quality, even through the nuisance of the slight hangover that plagued Jim Colabza after his night of celebrating the finalization of his move by himself. He watched a Yankees game on TV with a never-ending (well, almost) glass of Captain Morgan’s Rum and Diet Coke.

  The mirrored brilliance of the lake (pond) out of his bay window, nestled between the ambitious rolling foothills, reminded him exactly of what he was doing here. It reminded him exactly why he chose to start over in this small bucolic community which was made up primarily of seasonal citizens. And then there was his Apollo Moon Tree.

  The Apollo Moon Tree was simply that…a tree…a Loblolly Pine to be exact. However, it was not only unique in its origin, but in the number still on the Earth, which is 400. The Apollo Moon Trees (or simply Moon Trees) got their name because of the fact that the seeds from which the trees grew were taken to the moon on Apollo 14 by astronaut, Stuart Roosa, the mission’s command module pilot, back in 1971…well, the seeds orbited the Moon.

  The seeds that were brought back from their orbit around the Moon were dispersed to different locations, for preservation, as gifts, and so on. Some were sent to world leaders, educational institutions, forests, other countries, and needless to say, the average Joe was not made a gift of these unique seeds.

  Although Jim’s Moon Tree came with the home he purchased up in Copake, New York, I’m sure I don’t need to tell you that what is now Jim Colabza’s backyard was not the intended location of that particular seedling. Follow this: the previous owner of Jim’s house was friends with a man back in St. Anastasio, coincidentally enough, who as a scientist in his working years, was involved in the space program to a small degree during the Moon-mission era of the space program and got his hands on one of the seeds. That man’s son was one of Jim Colabza’s old students–a brilliant one at that–in his former life, and was also valedictorian at Jim’s final graduation commencement. The student’s name? Spencer Mason.

  Jim, being a history teacher, was fascinated by the tree. When he got older and took an interest in buying the house, he was unaware that the backyard held a moon tree. When he found out that it did, wild horses couldn’t drag him away.

  Now, it is rumored by some that moon trees possess some mystical power. I am here to tell you that that is not just a rumor. As a matter of fact, many mystical talents that are claimed to exist in the world actually do exist. The trepidation which surround these forbidden talents stems from the fact that one does not know from where these messages from beyond are coming…who or what the source is. Messages invoked through some of these special talents are sometimes from friends and loved ones, free of deceit and false hope.

  But sometimes…

  Back to the tree: although Jim did not yet know this, the moon tree in his backyard, ten feet from his section of the pond, possesses such mystical qualities…the good kind.

  This dream house–albeit an emptydream house–in Copake was it for him now: an extra bedroom, a bathroom on the top floor of the house, connected to a large empty room with nautical-themed wallpaper, a finished basement, a dock right in the backyard, and a car-port that would never be full to capacity. The empty house would not take very much getting used to at all (as Jim was not a promiscuous old queen, no, no, no) but the little bit of getting used to that it would take, Jim reckoned, would be repressed by the view of the lake, the mountains and his newest friend, the hawk, that he had seen skimming the lake for food that morning. Perhaps even beyond all of those sight driven features was perhaps his favorite feature of all. Do you hear that? Yes…absolutely nothing. No car traffic to speak of, which meant no one slamming on their breaks or peeling-out at a green light. No jerk-offs driving down his block with the music so loud that their license plates shook. No contemptuous asshole taking the muffler off of his car to make it louder, which more times than not, is the same jerk-off with the music blasting.

  Just quiet. The type of quiet someone could easy fall in love with. Just a man in nature alone with his thoughts that he could actually hear, by God.

  Yes, he could get used to this.

  Perhaps he would keep his sexuality to himself in a place like this, as smaller towns where everyone grows to know each other tend to lean more to the conservative side. Not that all conservatives would be in the streets screaming “lynch the fag!” but better safe than sorry, he thought as a prudent man. You know what? Jim decided that he could live with that. Why not? If it got too overbearing for him, where he now lived in the Berkshires was about ten miles from the Massachusetts border. There he would find all of the like-minded people he could ever want and more.

  Another great perk about being located in “God’s Country,” as it is referred to by some people, is that the mail comes early. Since the previous night was his first night at his new address, he wasn’t getting some of the regular junk mail that he would grow to loathe yet. However, an “old friend” from St. Anastasio found him quickly. Jim had paid for The Coopersmither, an absolutely dreadful name for a local newspaper, to be sent up to his new residence, and it was there on time (well, before the end of the day) and almost 200 miles away from its usual zone of delivery. His former local paper was like an old friend whose reluctance to see Jim go was embarrassingly evident. This was an expensive hobby, if you could call it that, but it was important to Jim to stay in touch with his old town.

  Jim Colabza was ready for his new residence upstate, but he compromised with himself that he would keep in touch with his old residence in this way, and in this way only. Sure, if someone from his past called to see how he was fairing up in the boonies, he would be pleasant and cordial, but for the most part, when he meant to leave his past life in St. Anastasio behind, he meant to leave it behind. Lock stock and barrel.

  He sincerely hoped that no one phoned to check in on him though, especially Russ. He would be compelled to tell him that he now slept with a night light even though his ardel-um, meddling days were behind him.

  Jim walked to the end of his driveway where the local newspaper, as well as the latest edition of The Coopersmither, was waiting for him. He supposed that he could wait to hear about the tractor-pulls and open farmer’s markets and yard sales, so he moved the local newspaper behind The Coopersmither and knew what he was looking for right away.

  Every year since 1957, The Coopersmither would list, in alphabetical order, all of Alan B. Sheppard High School’s graduates for that year, as well as what their future plans were. There were a handful of names that he wanted to check on, but only two that are worth mentioning to you in this story.

  He opened to page three and four and saw the four columns that took up both pages and hunted for the names. There he was…

  Tyler Swanson.

  What were Mr. Swanson’s post-graduation plans? Ah, here he was…

  Swanson, Tyler: Tree
Grove Community College; with aspirations in law enforcement.

  “Way to go Ty,” Tyler’s teacher said to an empty kitchen 200 miles away from his from the newspaper’s origin. He was genuinely happy for his former student. He always thought that Tyler had the type of mind that was perfect for some type of scientific research, but that path is not for everyone. In fact, he commended Tyler on noticing that that was not the path for him.

  Still…

  Jim had checked the other students he cared to know the plans of, Lisa Fecteau, Jeremy Elise, Alex Thames, and all of them seemed to be heading in promising directions. But he was irrepressibly drawn to one more name, even though he wanted absolutely nothing to do with it. Something told him that with The Coopersmither subscription alive and well on special order in Copake, New York, he would need to get used to seeing this name in print. So he looked up Lilith’s name.

  “Pre-law at Bernard Hunter?” Jim spat out loud enough for some resting birds to take flight across the pond. The same reaction Jim would have when he read of the news that Tyler and Lilith had married almost two years later.

  Chapter 8

  Ray and Cindy Swanson had high hopes that the summer would breed a fresh start for their son, as in September Tyler would begin his abbreviated college career.

  High school was over, and as much as friends and acquaintances promise that they will keep in touch and get together often, just about everyone realizes sooner than later that it is just something that is said in the moment; an empty promise of mutual appeasement. If you polled a group of high school graduates who swore that they would keep in touch with old love interests, or “good” friends, or pleasant acquaintances, you would be hard pressed to find many (if any) who made good on their promise to keep their networking skills tip-top.

  This is what Ray and Cindy had counted on. Tyler was going to a local community college long enough to complete his sixty credits, something that the police departments then required for the job after certain crops of police recruits proved to be marginally moronic at best. That was their son’s plan, while his girlfriend had “big plans.” Surely that meant she was going to a four year school for a bachelor’s degree and with some hope and a prayer or two (or three even), some place far away.