by David Kummer
Two names I didn’t recognize had been married. Congratulations! sprawled just above them. And under that, the showtimes for this week’s movies.
In that instant, I didn’t think I could leave Little Rush. No matter how much I wanted to. No matter how much I loved myself. Something about that bridge appeared too daunting. Something about that theater too much like home.
“You alright, babe?” Mason asked.
I realized I’d been standing in place for at least twenty seconds, staring into the darkened lobby of the Ohio. A part of me wished someone in there would stare back. If only so I didn’t feel alone.
I nodded quickly and took his hand, following toward the car.
6
Hudson
I’d never experienced the impulse that sent me barreling toward Bruce Michael’s house. Something about seeing myself on Twitter in a viral picture… it shook the nerves. I didn’t know who had taken the picture, what their intentions were. I only knew that I hated it. Nobody knew my name or anything. It wasn’t like they’d found my Twitter account and started following me. No, my life had, thankfully, been pretty much unchanged by the photo. The only difference? I couldn’t scroll through the wasteland of internet anymore without staring at my own face.
It had been a simple image, taken from a crouched position, I think. One of the reporters, no doubt. It showed me, in my work outfit, standing on Bruce’s porch. The picture caught me handing him the pizza box, a shy expression on my face. Bruce, to his credit, wore the typical, irritated mask he put on for any public occasion these days.
Mason: Have you seen that pic? It’s everywhere man.
I didn’t care to respond to his text. Instead, I jumped into my battered truck and roared away from my house. It took about fifteen minutes to reach Bruce’s house. The entire time, my thoughts were churning. I felt a sort of dulled anger. Probably because I couldn’t confront the reporter himself. Instead, I’d chosen to lash out at Bruce. Only I didn’t know his number. So I would do it face-to-face.
That’s what I told myself, anyway. I texted Mason my plan, right before pulling out of my gravel driveway. When I arrived at Bruce’s house, parking behind his expensive Jeep, I checked my phone quickly and saw his response.
Mason: I think you just wanna see him again ;)
With this nagging thought in my head, I stepped out of my truck. I started to walk toward the house, eyes narrowed. Only then did I notice him in the cemetery.
Bruce knelt in front of a large gravestone, hands in his lap. His eyes were reading the words, I think, or maybe just staring at the rough surface. Either way, he hadn’t noticed me pull in, or didn’t react like it. I waited for a moment, thinking I might go ahead and leave. The scene felt intensely intimate, the kind of haunted peace I didn’t want to disturb. Then his head turned to me and a slight smile broke on the man’s weathered features.
His beard had grown even more haggard since I last saw him. He had dark shadows under his eyes. When he clambered to his feet, Bruce groaned, and I could hear his knees crackle even from across the yard. He didn’t move toward me, though, so I had to make the initial approach. Treading between headstones and stepping over an empty beer bottle that lay in the grass, I came face-to-face with my idol once again.
“Thought you’d show up,” he said with a rueful chuckle.
“I don’t wanna see myself all over Twitter. Not ever again. And especially not as your ‘pizza boy’ or whatever.” I crossed my arms and lifted my chin, trying to sound as defiant as possible. The truth was, my anger had dissipated. As soon as I lay eyes on his crumpled frame, kneeling next to that gravestone like a wounded animal, I couldn’t bring myself to fury.
“I don’t like to see myself either,” he pointed out. He rested a hand on the waist-high tombstone beside him and leaned against it.
“Well… Okay, then.” My voice faltered as I realized I had nothing else to say.
“Know what, kid?” He eyed me over and clicked his tongue. “You remind me of myself at your age.”
I couldn’t hold back a grin. I felt stupid when I thought it, but this might have been my proudest moment. The compliment meant more than anything, coming from the man himself.
“I hope to god you’re not,” he added.
I furrowed my eyebrows. When I didn’t answer right away, Bruce rummaged in his pocket and pulled out a cigarette. He lit it deftly and started to smoke, right there among the dozens of buried corpses. The moment struck me as odd, the entire situation really. Standing in a cemetery, shooting the shit. Not my preferred setting.
“Why do you smoke?” I asked it before I could stop myself. Feeling like this question was too open-ended, I added a potential response. “A friend of mine does a ton, and I just don’t get it. Never feel much. Does it help with stress?”
He chuckled, blew smoke from his nose, still leaning on that grave. I wanted to shift my position, read whose stone it was he’d been so interested in. His body managed to block it, though, intentionally or not.
“Is that what you think?”
“I’m…” I didn’t like having the question switched around on me. I hated when people did that. “Not sure.”
“To answer your question, no. Not really. Nowadays, I do it so I can die a bit sooner.” Bruce stepped closer to me, shooing me backward. The cigarette smell hit me. I thought how cool it would be to sit and smoke with Bruce freaking Michaels. That would be the peak of my life. It would’ve been… perfect. “Let’s get outta here,” he said, gesturing me back toward the house. “Don’t wanna get caught smoking on someone’s grave.”
“Get caught?” There were no cars out here, rarely ever were. He’d picked the most isolated spot in all of Little Rush.
“Paparazzi,” he said in a wise tone. “Never know when they might show up.”
Once we were both outside of the cemetery, standing a few yards from his back door, Bruce settled his attention on me again. The cigarette dangled from his lips as he stuck both hands in his pants pockets.
“You wanna… come inside? Chat or something?” he asked with slight hesitation. “I got nothing else to do.”
I mulled over the offer. Wondered what his actual motives could be. Surely, he didn’t enjoy my company. Maybe he had other questions about the town and wanted to grill me on them. Or maybe he was hoping the paparazzi would swing by for another unsolicited photo op. The headlines had all been fairly positive, after all, in regard to our picture. Stuff about “Bruce Michaels is just an average guy” or “Bruce Michaels returns to his roots and orders local.” Really sickening stuff, the way people could interpret one man ordering food. I guess the paparazzi were all dick-suckers for certain actors.
“I…” A deep breath. “I really can’t. Have to get back for dinner.” This was the truth, after all. Mom had nearly been finished cooking when I left the house and had probably completed the meal prep by now.
He nodded and shrugged one shoulder in a kind of “who cares” way. Bruce gestured at my truck. “Next time, then. Feel free to stop by anytime.”
I wandered to my truck and opened the door, feeling his eyes on my back. An offer like that, to come over whenever, had too much weight to process in the moment. A standing invitation to Bruce Michaels’ house in the middle of nowhere. If I hadn’t known better, I might think he had some creepy fascination with teenage boys. But I imagined the paparazzi would have some knowledge of that, if true.
“Sorry about the picture,” he called as I climbed into the driver’s seat.
I glanced over toward him. He stood at the corner of his house, cigarette between two fingers. His eyebrows were furrowed, as if he’d been wrestling with the decision to call out or not. His sympathy appeared genuine, much as I could tell. An honest-to-god apology.
Without words to really express what I felt, I shot him a cringey thumbs-up through my open window. His warm smile let me know that he understood. In return, he gave me a thumbs-up too, before ducking inside without another glance in
my direction.
I drove home without music, trying to think. To figure it out. Were Bruce Michaels and I… friends? Could I ever consider somebody that much older a “friend?” That didn’t feel like a natural step in any relationship between a sixty-something star and a high school senior. Again, the thought occurred to me that Bruce had some weird, perverted fascination with high school boys. Hadn’t Michael Jackson? It wouldn’t be unprecedented, then. On the drive home, I decided I would ask my parents over dinner, see what they thought. Surely, if there was any danger, my own mother would be the one to put her foot down and end things where they stood. I didn’t have to take her advice, but it’d be nice to hear it, nonetheless.
The water tower danced to the left of my vision as I drove into Little Rush, down the road with restaurants and billboards and stores on either side. Finally, I turned onto a country highway leading to my own house, and the water tower fell into my rearview mirror. I wondered if Bruce felt like a mortal man in its shadow.
As I pulled into my driveway, my phone lit up with a text. I parked and opened it.
Mason: how’d it go with bruce? when’s the adoption ceremony and everything?
I replied with something snarky and shoved the phone into my pocket. For a second, I sat in the driver’s seat, staring at my house. Through the window, I could see my mom setting the table for dinner, her shoulders hunched over and body moving as if in slow-motion. Dad was nowhere to be found. I imagined him sitting on the couch, worn out, muddy. I guess we had a lot in common, too. Both of us self-centered, oblivious to others, stuck in our own heads.
I didn’t want to be like these people. I had wanted to be like Bruce. But even he turned out too good to be true. Just another fake person I’d conjured in my mind. Behind that mask of fantasy, an old man with nothing but the weight of a full and costly life. I had overestimated him. All of them.
That nagged at me as I stepped out of the truck and approached my house. My initial anger at the viral Twitter picture returned. Bruce Michaels… A lonely guy on the run. I didn’t know what from, but maybe it didn't matter. He had nobody here, nobody in life. I almost felt bad for him. Even he didn’t have things figured out. Even he couldn’t escape pain and creeping depression. We really were similar in more ways than I thought. Only instead of comforting me, this fact ached. I didn’t want him to be like me. I wanted him to be superior, god-like, ascendent. And if Bruce Michaels didn’t have it together, I felt certain that I never would either.
One of these days, I would climb that damn tower. Just to prove I could, even if I didn’t have it all together. Just to see the world from such great heights. Maybe none of these fucking adults had the strength, but I did. I would.
* * *
My parents took long drinks from their water glasses, staring at each other in silence. I’d just finished my story, about Bruce’s apparent interest in me. While they had some sort of non-verbal, eyes-only conversation, I picked absentmindedly at the roast beef on my plate. An untouched ear of corn lay beside it, soaking in the juices. I always hated when meat had this much juice, but to complain about Mom’s cooking would be a death wish.
“I mean… you’re a real unique kid,” my father said. He glanced at my mom for some kind of support. I didn’t care much what he had to say anyway.
“Very true,” she agreed.
“So… what?” I set the fork down and scratched at my chin where my reluctance to shave resulted in straggly, irritable hairs. “You think he’s alright to… to talk with?”
Dad sipped again from his glass, a nervous habit I’d noticed a long time ago. Anytime we were having a conversation and he didn’t know exactly what to say, he would take a drink. This meant that, over the course of an average-length dinner, he would fill up his glass three or four times.
“I think there’s... some benefit, right?” He pointed this out in an annoyingly vague tone.
“Maybe you two could go out for coffee sometime?” Mom suggested. I had a feeling this would be her idea. She was a big proponent of “coffee with people” lately and had convinced her own friends to go multiple times a week. Between her coffee dates and Dad’s work, I often found our downstairs empty in the mornings.
“We don’t even have common interests.” I grabbed my own glass of water, about to take a drink, and then set it down again. I didn’t want a habit identical to my father.
“But think how much you could learn from ‘im,” Dad insisted, leaning forward just slightly in his seat. “From a man like that!”
“I can’t learn anything from him,” I mumbled, grabbing the corn from my plate and staring into the yellow kernels. “He doesn’t know anything.”
My parents both frowned. Mom said, “Be nice, now. He’s a very experienced, intelligent man.”
I deserted dinner soon after this remark. I said that Mason, Willow, and I were shooting off fireworks that night for Fourth of July. Probably out at his dad’s cabin or a field nearby. They obliged and told me to be careful, the way they always did. Funny how they imagined fireworks were more dangerous than an old man who lived alone in a cemetery. That’s the kind of stuff horror movies were derived from.
Just before dusk, I pulled out from the driveway once again, this time heading for Mason’s house. He, supposedly, had bought a hundred dollars of fireworks and had “another great story about the Blough kid” that he needed to tell me, but only in person.
I didn’t want to go. I wanted to be alone on a night like this. Or maybe talk to someone. But those two weren’t much good for conversation recently. They had fixated on each other, as I knew would happen eventually. And my parents… they weren’t worth a thing. They were no help. Not my peers, not adults, and so I had nobody.
An old, wandering actor as my closest thing to a confidant, and after only two conversations. I hated the idea of it. Hated what all my relationships had turned into. Completely one-sided. I got nothing from any of them, and that wouldn’t change any time soon. If only Bruce could be what I needed… but even he let me down. Just like the rest.
The fireworks around town had already started by the time I reached Mason’s neighborhood. I sat in his driveway for a moment, watching them in my mirror. Emotionless fireworks, in my opinion. I felt nothing. No excitement. No joy. I knew that I’d have to put on a mask for Mason and Willow, since Fourth of July fireworks at the cabin had become a tradition of ours in recent years. The ride out there with them would be gut wrenching. Not a single part of me wanted to exist.
Should’ve just said I felt sick, I chided myself as the door to his house opened and they exited, holding hands. Not a complete lie.
How many times would they make out tonight while I tirelessly set off the fireworks? How many moments would they spend locked in each other’s embrace while I hoped, against all odds, that one firework might light too quickly and explode right into my face? Killing me, perhaps, but at least granting me the gift of blindness.
It hadn’t happened, not yet. Maybe this would be my lucky year.
“Fucking Bruce Michaels,” I muttered, climbing out of my truck. Mason and Willow had already reached his convertible. I closed my eyes and tried to steady myself, flip a switch in my mind. But that old man refused to fade from memory. The crippling knowledge that he wouldn’t be enough for me, that nobody could pull me from this darkness, not even him. Maybe it was too late for both of us.
7
Bruce
I stumbled around the cemetery, the entire world darker than I could ever remember. Maybe it was the alcohol. I kept tripping over the gravestones, blindsided by each one. I would fall to the ground, dirt clinging to my knees and elbows. Stare intently at the name carved into each one, shake my head with disgust. And then I’d have to struggle to my feet once more.
Not this one. Not this one.
Overhead, there were fireworks. Off in the distance, to the left and the right, every direction. Most were those damn rednecks with money to spare. Some were the official city fireworks
, exploding over the Ohio River, sent up from some barge. These were the spectacle everybody gathered to watch. People lined the river downtown and crowded into clearer spaces on the hilltop. Many brought picnic blankets, waited around for hours, spending their time in conversation with friends and neighbors. In a few of the locations near the river, you might find live bands and free water stations. I remembered it all too well from that summer here, decades ago. I had no urge to relive the experience.
It had been fun as a young teenager. Exciting and new. The fireworks here weren’t that great, but the atmosphere couldn’t be topped. So many families all together. Love-drunk school kids locking lips in the excitable glow of the explosions. The air popping with each burst of color. Those ringed patterns, all different shades of the rainbow. Beautiful stuff, I guess.
“Fuck you!” I now yelled with each burst. Every time I heard them or felt the ground shake under my bare feet. They would go on for a few seconds and then a brief release from the noise. I took deep, painful breaths and tried to steady myself. But the explosions commenced anew, and I collapsed over another tombstone.
“Where are you?” I begged, touching each stone as I crawled past. None of them were right. None of them were the one.
I understood on some level that the sky had never been so beautiful. Fireworks were the closest we miserable humans could ever get to creating stars. In the cities, where you never saw the pure nighttime sky, the fireworks were the only stars. Out here, they were just add-ons to an already-gorgeous celestial dome. Little sparks of human joy shot into the ether. The closest we would ever come. But none of this comforted me.
I knelt on the ground for a moment, pressed my head against the wet grass. I could envision those country roads and some of the neighborhoods, smoke drifting over the thin streets. So many cheers and whoops and swigs of beer. Fireworks, hotdogs, patriotism. The smoke expanding and growing as more people started their own celebrations. Cookouts, bonfires, grills.