Everything, Somewhere

by David Kummer

  These thoughts are what I wanted to dwell on. I wanted to ponder these, sit for hours and dream. But instead, work called, as always, and I was never one to refuse. If my prosperity bound me to this town, then the mundane activities of my day-to-day life bound me to my home office. The door shut. Desk covered.

  They were strewn everywhere on my desk. Project folders, restaurant receipts, phone numbers to call, tenants to chew out. A calculator, a calendar. A to-do list that I would never escape, that grew each hour. This tunnel had no light at the end, yet I didn’t mind the darkness. It calmed me. I reclined in the chair for a moment and let my gaze wander to the ceiling. A pale lightbulb and a black fan spinning overhead. The closed door acted like a barrier against the tide outside, one that rose each day and threatened to spill over.

  I glanced at my cell phone where it lay on top of my desk. I could hear the faint static of an ongoing phone call over the speakers, the only noise apart from that overhead fan. I tried to control my breathing. There was silence on the other end. It’d been sitting on my desk for nearly half an hour, the call on speaker mode. A pressure building just behind my eyes, a throbbing drumbeat against my skull that would soon turn into a sharp, blinding pain. Dealing with people frustrated me to no end. I much preferred numbers.

  “What about Campaign Two?” a voice said at last. One of my many advisors. We were supposed to have a meeting today in person, but I’d canceled it. Switched to a phone call. Maybe that explained her irritation.

  “I told you. I don’t like it.” I squeezed my hands tighter together. My eyes shifted to the desk, the flood of paperwork and tasks that could comfort me. Planning ad campaigns was the worst part of this whole ordeal. Promotional discounts, changes to the menu, anything to get a burst of revenue. Summertime was our key season, the time we raked in the most. Years ago, when I only had to worry about managing the pizza restaurant, I quite enjoyed these meetings. I could be creative with the campaigns, invest myself in them, really set the mood for the whole Little Rush season. But now, with six restaurants in total, a general store, and over a hundred rental properties, each meeting took a greater toll than the one before.

  “Jed, listen. It’s mid-June and we—”

  “No.” I smacked the desk loud enough that she’d hear it and shut up. Understand my frustration. “I’m not gonna run some half-assed ad or change the prices unless I know that it’s profitable. Nothing you’ve suggested is!”

  There was silence again. I took a deep breath and prepared my half-apology. We'd reach a decision, of course, but I had to vent some of this anger first. That’s the way it went. My employees understood. I never imagined myself as an excellent boss, but every so often, I realized I’d become a total ass.

  Then the door to my office opened, slowly. I glanced in that direction and found Mason standing, a hand still on the doorknob. His eyes scanned the room, the messy desk, my bookshelves. He didn’t leave right away. My eyebrows rose.

  “Kate, we’ll talk tomorrow.” I hung up the call right away, flipped over my phone so that I couldn’t see her text when it came. Without hesitation, I directed my attention to Mason who still waited, still hadn’t said anything. I guessed he needed a push. “Sorry. Business… stuff.” I tried to form a different expression, one more endearing and less serious. “What’s up?”

  “Um…” He cleared his throat and gestured at me. “Henry’s at the door. Says you’re going with him?”

  “Oh, right.” I stood from my desk, hurrying out from the office. “Completely forgot.” I thought I should probably change, put on something more comfortable. Mason stepped aside as I passed, a bit reluctant. Odd. I didn’t have time to think, though. I was rushing toward my bedroom when he spoke up.

  “I was gonna ask…”

  I stopped on a dime and turned, still uncomfortably conscious of my expression. He was standing by my office door still. The hallway and living room behind him were empty. No sounds of Lucy. For the first time in what felt like weeks, Mason’s eyes were directly on me.

  “Yeah. Sure… What’s up?”

  “I need…” He smiled a little, the way you do when things get awkward. “You know, you’re in a rush.” He waved a hand, and the smile grew but it was different now. It was something not quite genuine. Maybe disappointed. “Never mind.”

  “No, no, it’s—”

  “Nah. Nevermind.”

  He turned his back to me then and marched into the depths of the house. I didn’t feel comfortable calling after him. I was in a rush. Each step he took was another punch to my chest. I wondered what he would’ve asked. If it was important. If it would’ve… helped us.

  I dressed quickly with that widening gulf in my mind. Mason and I stood on different sides of a chasm that neither wanted to jump across. There were no bridges. There were no ropes. Just a deadly descent.

  I wished I could be like Henry. Him and his son, that was an honest relationship. They were hard workers. They were tan, dirty, farmer-guys. I wanted that. I wanted all of it. I wanted to feel soil on my hands and instinctively know what each farm instrument did. That guy, he didn’t sit through meetings. He just did stuff. A great family, beautiful land, just a few miles away. Here I was, stuck in a neighborhood where all the mailboxes were the same, all the cars were nice. Not as nice as mine, sure, and the houses weren’t as big. But sometimes I wished, I dreamed, that mine could be smaller. That it had a garden in the backyard. That I mowed my own grass.

  If I was the typical businessman, owner of many properties and obsessed with the town’s economics, then Henry was a typical farmer on the surface. Sure, he worked his fields and owned a tractor he always tinkered with. Had chickens up until a few weeks ago. But he also worked at the power-plant, got along with all the factory guys. He held discussions better than most, retained a lot of the characteristics that had made us friends way back in middle school. He might’ve been a farmer by occupation, but I got the sense that we were more similar than different.

  I always envied him for his lifestyle. Henry had a real job, and he farmed his ass off on top of that. Hay, mostly, bundles and bundles of it. He once tried to explain the whole process to me, but it made as much sense as cash flow and organization design did to him. I enjoyed it, though, every chance I got to spend time around him. To feel that bit of country lifestyle rubbing off on me. It helped to get out of my preppy house, spend a while with a close friend, a hands-in-the-dirt kind of guy. An honest, true, honorable man. I couldn’t find many of those, not even in Little Rush. Certainly not in the mirror.

  I emerged onto the front porch five minutes later and Henry was there. He was chatting with Lucy, who had a wide smile. He had always been charismatic. Swear to god, he could take my wife if he wanted to. He just has that look about him. He attracts. He really does. Somehow.

  “I about thought you’d make me go alone!” he exclaimed as the door swung shut behind me. I offered him a shrug and kissed my wife. She disappeared into the house, saying quick goodbyes to us both, though I wished she would’ve stayed just a bit longer. Sometimes I missed her on busy days like these.

  Henry led the way over my step-stone path to his beat-up truck. He climbed into the driver’s seat after wrestling with the door handle for a minute. I felt a tinge of guilt. Compared to my cars, this thing was worthless. I really wished I could help him. Really wanted to give him a loan or something. He asked, occasionally, but only when things were really bad for him. It took some humility for a guy like him to ask, and I still couldn’t do it. They say loaning money to friends never works out well. And besides, I wasn’t in a great position at the moment. Most of my wealth was in properties, so it wasn’t like I had cash to spare.

  “Did I ever tell you this reminds me of your truck from high school?” I slid into the passenger’s seat. The fabric was ripped in places and had that distinct smell of old seats that’ve been rained and sweat on countless times. The dashboard wasn’t anything impressive. It didn’t have any of those buttons my new Je
ep did. I wasn’t sure his AC even functioned.

  “This rust-bucket’s about as old, innit?” He grinned at me and reversed into the road. “My tab’s on you tonight?”

  “Of course. Are you gonna pay for the cab?” I asked with a coy smile.

  “No cab, nah. I’ll drive us back no problem. Never got a DUI, never will.” He chuckled and took off down the road, the engine rattling and brakes squealing. But Henry didn’t seem to mind or even notice.

  “Jesus Christ, you have no idea how badly I need this.” I leaned back against the headrest and breathed in the old truck. Again, my mind was filled with that image. Henry on a tractor in his field, the sun setting behind him. I wanted that sensation. I wanted that ugly tan line he had mid-bicep and that uncompromising strength developed over so many summers. I wanted to worry about money, just a little, and have to drive a rickety truck.

  “Anytime, pal. That’s how it goes.” He reached for the dial, turned on some country song I didn’t know or care about.

  I hated country music, usually, but with Henry, it had a nice feel to it. Henry’s the kind of guy you want to be but know you aren’t strong enough. You know you couldn’t do it. But the idea is nice. One of those ideas that refused to leave, that dug into my brain the entire evening.

  So many stressors and worries. I wanted to talk about Mason with him. I wanted to ask about Hudson, how he was doing. But those weren’t things that grown men talked about. These weren’t farm-topics. Sure, we would be at a bar and not his farm, but I knew how Henry was. Those weren’t topics for us.

  I only knew one way to truly decompress, to forget. A dozen beers with Henry over the course of three hours. But even that didn’t help tonight. I couldn't quite forget. If anything, the alcohol just added more weight. One of these days, it would all crush me.

  11

  Hudson

  I crouched at the edge of the trees, peering into the evening half-light as the reporters started to file away. Back into their cars, back down the winding road to where distant hotel rooms waited. Mason lounged beside me, his back against a tree trunk, smoking a cigarette. I felt too nervous for that. We weren’t in any real danger, but this still wasn’t “legal” per se. Stalking somebody’s house, even Bruce Michaels.

  “Looks like rain tonight,” Mason said with the cigarette dangling from his lips. He typed something into his phone and then stuck it in his pocket. Probably texting Willow.

  I grunted in response. I didn’t care much about the weather. My eyes were straight ahead, on the house.

  “Remind me to put up my convertible roof, will ya?” I heard him rummaging for something. Probably the pack of cigarettes. “Do you want one of these?” he asked. “Willow showed me ‘em. I actually like this sort. Don’t give you that sticky feeling when you’re done with it.”

  “No.” My eyes caught on the water tower in the distance, peeking over the trees. Beyond it, I could just barely see plumes of smoke rising from the power-plant, though the towers themselves were covered by trees. That expansive setup was right next to the river, along one of the four winding roads that led to downtown Little Rush.

  That’s one thing interesting about the power-plant. A tunnel of smoke rose from it at all hours of the day and night. I’d guess that stuff rising was probably steam in reality, but it looked a lot like smoke. On the really overcast days, that stuff just drifted up forever. Mingled with the thick, gray clouds. It looked sometimes like the power-plant itself churned out the clouds. That’s what I used to think as a kid.

  The water tower, much closer, split the cloudy sky. It didn’t stick up far, but I usually managed to find it in the distance. I’d always wanted to climb it, honestly. Always thought about it. There was a little ladder built into the side and all. I wanted to get up there, touch those bold letters. Watch the entire town at once. See what that hill looked like, the one leading downtown. If you drove down it, your ears popped, but I wondered if it really looked so steep from a water tower. I’d always wanted to at least try. It’s just one of those things, I guess.

  “I’m glad those reporters left,” Mason commented. He shifted again, cracking a few sticks. He was always relaxed, didn’t matter where we were. I hardly ever saw him lose his cool or even act nervous. “Thought they might see us.” He paused for a moment to light a cigarette and wonder aloud, “Is this… illegal? What we’re doing.”

  “Dunno.” I shrugged and did so honestly. When the house still showed no movement, I settled back next to Mason and reclined against a different tree. It was nearing dark, and we were far enough into the trees that we were effectively invisible. Nobody came to a cemetery this late, anyway, especially not a tiny one on the outskirts of town. “Doubt he would report us, you know? I’m sure people… do this all the time.”

  Mason grinned and so did I. We both knew that was false. Normal people didn’t stalk somebody’s house. But then again, normal people didn’t get stalked. And Bruce Michaels was anything but normal.

  “This is a kinda nice spot.” Mason seemed to detest any form of silence. He was always the one to break it, to force conversation. “For sitting and smoking, you know?”

  “Whatever you say.” I picked up a fallen leaf and traced the veins running through it. “I just feel nervous, really.”

  “Eh, relax, man. You need a smoke.” Mason again extended the box to me, but I declined. He scowled, pocketed it. “That guy, he won’t do anything if he happens to see us. And how would he even? He’s probably watching TV or drinking himself to death.”

  “I mean, he didn’t seem depressed when I gave him the pizza.” I realized, as I spoke this thought, that first impressions meant nothing. I probably seemed fine on any given day. But of course, that wasn’t true. Maybe Bruce Michaels fit in the same boat. That gave me a little hope, a sliver of light.

  “Never know, though, do you?” Mason raised his eyebrows. I imagined him as some awful kind of philosopher, the drunk guy who sat at the edge of the bar and recited half-poems. That’d be an amusing role for him.

  It was after nine now. I felt pretty confident the storm would hit within an hour. I had no desire to be stuck out here with torrents of hard rain smacking us. Then again, I didn’t want to go home. My father and Mason’s were out drinking, as they put it. I don’t think they ever actually got drunk. I couldn’t imagine Dad or Jed hammered, but maybe a little tipsy. They would also make nice bar-philosophers, solving the world’s problems over a few beers. Maybe that’s what they did to relax. Adults were weird once they got to that age.

  When I thought about them, I remembered an important question that I kept forgetting to ask. I turned to Mason, trying to sound casual, but he probably heard the wobble in my voice. “Have you asked your dad about the… um, cabin for this weekend?”

  He wrinkled his nose, pointed at me with his glowing cigarette. “I said stop asking me that, man. I’ll deal with it. Just… haven’t yet.”

  “You better ask.” I shot him an irritated glare. “Don’t cancel again.”

  “We’re gonna have the party, okay? Don’t worry.” He sighed, threw his head back. “Geez. What’re you so caught up on it for?”

  “Just looking forward to having an actual party for once,” I said like no big deal. The wind picked up a little and threatened the coming storm. “I mean, people are actually coming to this one, right?”

  Mason grinned and rubbed at his chin. He did that sometimes, like he thought he had facial hair. He barely had anything, but I guess it made him feel hotter or something. He was already an annoying sort of handsome without the fake-beard mannerisms.

  “Oh, they’re coming. I got tons of girls to agree, and that’s all you need, Hudson. If the girls come, the guys follow.” He held up a hand with just his middle finger extended. “Party rule number one.”

  “Shut up.” I threw a tiny rock at him, missing by an inch.

  “That was probably a piece of someone’s gravestone, you idiot.” He shook his head and put out his cigarette o
n the base of a tree, a mischievous twinkle in his bright eyes. “I know why you’re actually excited for the party. You’re hoping to get laid.”

  “What? Not even… no.” I batted a hand through the air. “I just wanna get drunk.”

  “You just wanna get laid.” He wore a half-smile, that cockeyed expression. Hated that.

  I sat up abruptly and peered through the darkening cemetery toward the small house. “Hey, did you see something there?”

  “Don’t change the subject.”

  I settled back again, huffing, and crossed my arms. He’d called my bluff.

  “I get it, man.” Mason laid a hand on my shoulder and added a melancholy note to his tone. “You’re just a lonely, horny teenager. It’s okay.” Then his façade cracked and he chuckled. “You’re finally hitting puberty.”

  “Shut up!” I couldn’t help myself from laughing as I punched at his arm. “I hate you.”

  “Listen, man, you’ve just gotta find the right girl. You know, like me and Willow, she’s into some pretty wild—”

  “Shut. Up!” I grabbed a handful of leaves and threw them, but most drifted to the ground like bubbles. “You’re like… Jesus, stop. I don’t even know what to call you.” I rolled my eyes and turned away from him, holding back a smile.

  “I’m just saying. I mean, your bed is the most comfortable place I’ve ever—”

  “Oh god!” I closed my eyes and shook my head. “If you’re not kidding, I’m going to kill you. You son of a—”

  “I kid, I kid!” Mason threw his hands up in defense, chuckling. “Don’t be so gullible.”

  “Might kill you anyways,” I murmured. “If I ever had to talk about my sex life with you,” I fought back a yawn, “I’d just die right then. Just combust into flames immediately.”