Reboot

by Alan Mulak

  “Who’s playing?"

  Lucy shrugged. "The Rockies and the Cardinals I think. My boys love baseball."

  “Who’s playing?"

  Lucy shrugged. "The Rockies and the Cardinals I think. My boys love baseball."

  He sipped his beer. There was a time when the Red Sox were his passion. Even though the team was abysmal back then, it didn’t matter. He and Anna used to pool their spare change, buy bleacher seats, share watery beer and devour lukewarm hot dogs. It was great.

  “Hey! Anybody home?” Lucy asked.

  Alex blinked. “Sorry. I drifted back to my days when baseball ruled the summer evenings. What were you saying?”

  “I was asking…what brings you all the way from New Jersey to beautiful downtown Dolores Colorado?”

  His stomach clenched. It was fortunate that it was dark so that Lucy did not see the wave of panic sweep across his face. He had known the day was coming when he would have to do some explaining, and now apparently it was on hand. Further, for simplicity sake, he decided to keep the lies as close as possible to the truth.

  “Well,” Alex began, “the short answers are quiet, slow, and trout.”

  Lucy raised her eyebrows. “No trout in New Jersey?”

  “Maybe, but certainly neither quiet nor slow.”

  They sat in silence, listening to the Upper Dolores flowing by.

  Alex took a deep breath, here goes. “My life came apart back home. Then, some people who help people like me thought a change in scenery might do the trick.”

  After another wordless minute, Lucy reached in the cooler and pulled out a second growler. “Shall we crack it?”

  Alex chuckled. “Another? Sure, what the hell.”

  As Lucy refilled both their glasses, she said, “I’m an RN at Cortez Hospital. When someone all banged up comes in, we ask lots of questions. We need to know what happened so maybe we can fix the problem."

  The words hung in the air.

  Alex sipped his beer. So much for keeping close to the truth. “Iraq.”

  “Thought so,” Lucy replied.

  “Thought so?”

  “We see guys like you from time to time. PTSD.”

  Alex breathed a sigh of relief. That was precisely the ruse he was hoping to establish. “In one week, I went from being totally oblivious, to being routed.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Depression came calling – big time.”

  “I see.”

  “I like to think of it as being invaded by Dementors from the Harry Potter series. You familiar with them?”

  “I have two teenage boys.”

  And I have two teenage girls, Alex thought with a sharp pang, but they are gone forever. That fact can never be spoken. "Well, they came calling, and I couldn't remember the…the…whatever that spell was."

  “I believe it was expecto patronum.”

  “Yeah, that’s the one.”

  “If only it were that simple.”

  They again fell silent, listening to the icy waters of the river flowing by.

  “So,” Alex said, “That’s my tale of woe. How about you?”

  “Divorce,” Lucy said. "It was a mercy killing. We hadn’t been in love for the last ten years we were married. Then one day, he came home, packed his bags, and headed back home to Texas. Our relationship was finally put out of its misery. I really do owe him a debt of gratitude. Unfortunately, when you’re married to a loser, there’s not much in the way of child support or alimony. A big fat zero in fact. But no complaints. Life is definitely looking up.”

  “Fair enough. I can relate to that. So, you had a loveless marriage for ten years. How long were you married?”

  “Eleven years.”

  They both laughed.

  Again they fell silent, putting a significant dent in the contents of the growler.

  Lucy refilled their glasses. “And how about you? How long were you married?”

  “Who said I was married?”

  "Well, you were either married, or you're gay. You are way too good-looking, and please forgive my candor…it's the beer speaking…to not have had at least one woman in your life. And I don't think you're gay. Call it gay-dar but I’d bet on that. So, by process of elimination, there was a missus Alex sometime in the past. Correct?”

  Alex stared at the beer in his glass. Now what? Go with the truth! "I made a horrible decision and married the boss's daughter. Huge mistake. Numero uno. Then one day, right out of the blue, this guy comes up to me on the street and says my wife and his boyfriend, well, they’re lovers. And have been for quite some time. So I check it out and the son-of-a-bitch was right. That’s when the dementors came calling.”

  More silence. The river kept flowing by.

  Lucy poured the last of the (second) growler into their glasses and said, “Let’s play a game.”

  Alex shook his head slightly, trying to come back to the present. “A game?”

  “Sure, since we’re neighbors, let’s be friends. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “And since we’re friends, let’s get to know each other a little better. You know, like friends do.”

  “Okay.”

  “Let’s play Three Question Truth.”

  “What’s that?”

  Lucy moved from the stoop, where she had been sitting with her back against the railing, and slid down on the top step next to Alex. "Here's how it works: I ask you a question. You have to answer truthfully or pass. If I think you are lying, I say bullshit. Once we sort it out, it's your turn. We each get three questions and one pass."

  Alex sipped his beer. “I don’t know. Even with a belly full of beer, I’ve got a bad feeling about this.”

  "Let's give it a try. If either of us strays into a really painful place, we back off. What do you think?

  “All right. Let’s give it a try.”

  “Okay,” Lucy said, “Tell me about your emotional health. What I mean is; are you at a point where you could trust again?”

  “Hmm,” Alex replied. “Great question. I’m not sure.” He paused and thought about the question. Where’s she going with this? Is this an invitation? Tell the truth! “Honestly, no. I don’t think so. Not yet.”

  He tried to gauge her reaction, but it was too dark. “Okay,” she said, “your turn.”

  “Well, let’s see. Hmm. This is harder than I thought. Okay. How about this? Are you ready to trust again?”

  “Throw it right back at me. Safe. Well then, yes I am. It's been a while but I'm there. Yes, I think I can trust again.” Another pause. “Okay, here’s number two; why don’t you ask Donna out for a date?”

  “What? Who?”

  “Oh, come on. Donna. The woman at the grocery store. I see you chatting her up. She’s attractive…and available. Why don’t you ask her out?”

  “How do you know that?”

  “This is a very small town.”

  “Which part?”

  “All of it! Don’t you think everybody knows everybody else’s business?”

  Alex sat for a second, mouth open. Christ, I hope that's not true. “I think my answer to number two is the same as number one. Not yet.”

  “Your turn.”

  “How about you? Are you seeing anyone?”

  Lucy drained her glass. “There’s a doctor at the hospital. We’ve been having lunch together. So, I think that means a definite maybe.” Then she added, “Are you disappointed?”

  “Is that your third question?”

  She smiled, her teeth white in the darkness. “No. I withdraw that question. That was off base. I’m sorry.”

  They once again sat in silence. This time, it was a bit awkward. Then Lucy said, “Okay, here’s my number three. Did you ever really love someone? I mean with all your heart?”

  Alex was stunned. Without a moment’s hesitation, Anna Becker popped into his head. Where are you now? What has become of you? Are you okay?

  Suddenly, Alex was staring into Anna’s blue eyes, his arms wra
pped around her waist. The heat of the moment was growing. Her hands were on his face, pulling his mouth to hers. He could smell the faint perfume she wore.

  He listened to his heart pounding and in a twinkling, the beer no longer had any effect.

  Lucy was staring at him, mouth agape. "Wow. Clearly, you've been visited by some wickedly powerful memories. I didn't mean…"

  "Pass. I pass." Abruptly, he stood up and said, "I can't do this anymore. Thanks for the beer." Then he turned and walked away.

  That had been May, two months ago. It was now July.

  “No more what?” Lucy asked again, with a touch of tenaciousness in her voice.

  Alex stared at her, embarrassed to silence.

  “Hey, sorry. I just heard you…”

  Alex held up his hand and smiled. "No worries. It's a bad habit I've picked up. Living alone has taken its toll."

  Neither knew what to say next.

  Alex looked down and kicked some gravel, then said as much to himself as to Lucy. “You know what, that’s bullshit.”

  “Pardon?”

  “My answer, it’s bullshit. Remember that game we played?”

  “Oh, yeah. I get it.”

  Alex took a steadying breath and said, “The truthful answer is; no more existing like a God damn hermit. I’m done. It’s time for me to start living again.”

  Lucy stared at Alex for a long time, and he stared back. Finally, she said with a warm smile, “That’s good. That’s really good.”

  4

  Amulet

  It was well after midnight and Alex couldn't sleep. He lay in bed, staring up at the ceiling; reliving the recent past. So much had happened. So much had changed. Nothing from his previous life remained. Many of the details were fading. Then his eyes flew open wide. Tossing the covers aside, he jumped out of bed and dashed across the room to the closet. Therein were a hodgepodge of boxes, bags, and haphazardly tossed clothing. Like a dog digging a hole for a bone, Alex threw the contents over his shoulder; excavating down to the canvas bag he'd purchased from Cabela's while crossing the country. He felt around inside until his hand closed upon an object about the size of a baseball. His eyes welled up with tears as he gingerly carried it back to his bed. He flipped on the battered bedside lamp with the faded yellow, brittle shade – which he had bought at the local thrift shop for a dollar – and stared at the object. It was wrapped in a woolen sock for safe keeping.

  Alex blew into his hands. Even in July, at 6,900 feet above sea level, nights were somewhere between cool and teeth-chattering cold. The window by his bed was open, and the Colorado chill streamed in.

  He got up, closed the window, and pulled on a sweatshirt and fleece pants. Then he went back to his bed and stared down and the woolen sock. Alex paused. To continue was to violate the strict directive from Houdini: never look back. He had said, “When you leave here next week, you will take nothing with you. Nothing. No phone, computer, jump drive with files, wallet, car keys, nothing. This is important. Dead people generally do not plan to die.”

  Yet Alex had taken something: and it was there on his bed. On his way out of the house to the waiting UPS truck, Alex had grabbed his father’s old fishing reel from the mantle over the fireplace. It was an antique, manufactured sometime in the 1920’s: a Hardy Perfect fly fishing reel for six weight line.

  Alex sat down and removed the reel from its protective sock. For a long time, he held it with both hands, running his fingers over the smooth aluminum casing.

  He closed his eyes and slipped back to the days of newspaper routes and his childhood dog, Freckles. It was pouring outside, a summer thunderstorm, and he and Freckles had ducked into the garage to wait out the deluge. The bundle of evening newspapers had been dropped off, and as soon as the rain let up, he and Freckles would attend to the daily routine of delivering the latest news to some fifty-odd neighbors.

  It was then he took note of his dad’s fly rod and reel, perched upon a couple of pegs sticking out of the garage wall, ready for the next outing. That was the first time he actually saw the reel. It was beautiful, sporting a gray finish with black trim, worm smooth and in parts, shiny, by years of use. He gently touched it. Unlike his own abused, barely serviceable reel, this Hardy was a work of art. It was then, on that day so long ago, he fell in love with this reel.

  He lived for those times with his dad. Every Saturday from spring through fall, they’d go fishing. They went to rivers with names such as Swift, Deerfield, and Quaboag. Flashy warblers would flit along the shore. Dad would bring coffee in a thermos. It was black and vile but hot; vitally important on cold New England mornings. When they went fishing together, the authoritarian father would be replaced by a fishing pal. They’d speak of nothing but fishing talk. Somehow, through the years, this reel became the symbol or amulet of these heady, glorious times together.

  It was on one of these outings, while they rested in the shade of a majestic oak that his dad spoke of his mother. It was the only time he did.

  “Your mother and I are getting a divorce.”

  “Wha…divorce?...why?”

  “The pastor at the church.”

  Alex – or Rob as he was known back then – was speechless. Finally, after many beats, he asked, “The pastor?”

  “Yep,” his father said, unsuccessfully hiding his anger and pain. “Your Mom has fallen for his bullshit charms, and I’ve been tossed away.”

  “But…”

  “For a time,” his father continued. “I thought she was bored with being a housewife and her do-gooder nature was taking over, but now I know. Pastor Franklin is a man of independent means and can offer a lavish lifestyle. Something I cannot. He’s exciting and dashing and …”

  “But…”

  He held up his hand, putting a halt to his stammering. In retrospect, this must have been agonizing to him, but back then, Rob was unable to see past his own shock.

  His father continued. “Rob, remember this: there’s a saying; money can’t buy happiness. Have you ever heard that?”

  Rob shrugged. “I guess so.”

  “I used to believe that was true but not anymore. No sir. Wherever your feet take you, remember this; money may not be able to buy happiness but busting your ass as a mechanic, fixing rich people’s toys, is neither classy nor lucrative. And the pay is slave wages.” He shook his head. “Happiness? Shit. I thought love would conquer all. It’s bullshit.”

  Rob stared, mouth agape.

  “I trusted her. Now, I’m the classic fool.”

  For quite some time, all that could be heard was the breeze rustling the leaves overhead. Then his father broke the silence.

  “Rob, you’re good with numbers. Study hard at school and when the time comes, go to college and get a degree. Don’t settle as I did, for a job working with your hands.” He scoffed. “A noble trade they said. What a pile of horse shit." He paused again and then continued. "Women want to be treated well. Oh sure, love is all well and good, but it doesn't buy fancy clothes or shiny cars and don't you ever forget," he paused and looked hard at Rob, “that’s what women want.”

  But before they could get a divorce, he died. One day he went to work and never came back. He had a massive heart attack and was dead before he hit the garage floor.

  His mom was never right after that. In all likelihood, the dementia which eventually ensnared her brain was growing even before his father's death, but she certainly went downhill fast after that. Ironically, she never did run off with the pastor, and in fact, the amorous wealthy pastor had already found someone younger and less wrinkled.

  A few years later, the Hardy Reel made another sudden appearance in the life of Rob.

  Money was tight and his older brother, Antonio, had taken to pawning off family valuables to maintain his Joe College persona.

  One day, he barged into Rob’s bedroom and demanded, “Give me Dad’s reel.”

  Rob was stretched out on his bed, working on his algebra homework. “Why?”

  “Just gi
ve me the reel.”

  Ron tossed aside his book and jumped to his feet. “What is it this time? Do you need another button down shirt to go with your tennis sweater?”

  Antonio was three years older, but their size difference had closed. All their lives, their relationship had been the abuser and abused – both verbal and physical. Their mom had turned a blind eye to the constant mistreatment, chalking it up to ‘boys being boys.' Only in the presence of their dad did it cease. But now, Dad was gone. The time had come.

  Antoni sneered. “Just give me the fucking reel before I kick your ass again.”

  Rob clenched his fists. Once, years before, he had come home from school with a black eye and bloody nose, courtesy of his big brother. His father had met him at the door, and together they went out back and sat on the bench near the garden.

  “I’ll have a word with your brother,” he said. “But I suspect he’ll make you pay first chance he gets.”

  Rob sat quietly, fighting back tears.

  "Someday," his father continued. "The time will come when you're grown up a bit, that you'll be able to hold your ground. When that day comes, and a fight is unavoidable, strike first and strike hard. Do as much as you can, as fast as you can, for as long as you can. Bullies don't like that. You may take a few lumps, but it'll likely be the last time you'll have to deal with him."

  The day had arrived.

  As sudden as a lightning bolt shooting from a gathering summer raincloud, Rob launched a two-fisted attack. Many of the blows missed their mark, but a few landed – hard. Antoni recovered from the initial assault and stuck back. Tactically, it was a bloody draw. The brothers separated to get their breath: eyeing and snarling at each other like two rival dogs, ready to resume.

  Rob picked up a baseball bat which happened to be standing in the corner and brandished it with both hands, ready to strike.

  “I swear to God, if you ever touch me again or take that reel, I’ll bust your fucking head open.”

  And that was that between Rob and his brother Antonio.