Everything, Somewhere

by David Kummer

  I grinned and propped an arm against the door frame, leaning on it. “He’s a contractor in Indy or some shit.”

  “That’s right.” Henry sat up again and extended a hand. “Just gotta wonder what we’d be like if we’d… gone with the herd, you might say.”

  I helped him to his feet, groaning, and we stood in the dark room for a moment, almost uncomfortably long. Henry looking into my eyes, his own so full of confusion and hopelessness that again I wanted to hug him. Instead, I stepped into the hallway, and he followed.

  As we were about to descend the stairs, Lucy called from just below us, “Heading out, Jed. See you later.”

  I held out an arm to stop Henry and called back, “Love you.”

  “Love you too,” she replied.

  Our never ending game of Marco Polo. Nothing but forced replies.

  When the front door shut behind her, I took the first step and ran my hand along the railing. Moving down the stairs, I felt the pull of gravity stronger than ever, my own weight threatening to drag me down. These old knees weren’t holding up well, not with so many days spent behind a desk. There was a reason I never visited the second floor.

  “I’m glad you two are doing well,” Henry commented as we reached the base.

  I choked on my laughter. “Us? Doing well? Oh, Henry.” I reached out and clasped him on the back. “For a while there, I thought I’d be the one sleeping at your house.”

  His eyebrows rose. “Really?”

  I led the way into the kitchen where I gestured for him to take a seat at the table. With Lucy gone and Mason off with his girlfriend somewhere, we had the house to ourselves. I dug around in the fridge for a moment, extracting two cans of beer, and passed one to him.

  Then I elaborated. “Just stress, you know. She kinda wants to move on from Little Rush. Even as a teenager she did. I just can’t seem to let go.” I popped the tab on mine, and a crisp snap echoed from his side of the kitchen. With my elbows propped on the countertop, I took a long drink and observed him. “We aren’t so different, you and me. I do think about the guys from high school.”

  “Figured.” Henry pulled out another chair from the table, scraping it against the tile floor. I wondered if this was an invitation to sit, but then he plopped both feet on it. “I love Little Rush, honest. Just have to wonder… what else’s out there.”

  “I know what you mean. It’s not like either of us got to see, huh?”

  Henry grinned in a sly manner. “I took a honeymoon to Florida and all, but I didn’t see much outside the room.”

  I rolled my eyes and took another sip. “So, are we getting drunk tonight or just hanging out? It’s your decision. You’re the guest.”

  “You know what?” Henry again smiled in a way that suggested a kind of mischief. “I think we should call up the guys. Maybe… maybe hang out in a week or two. What d'ya think?”

  “I think that’s the only good idea you’ve had in a while. And you know what else I think?”

  Henry sighed and leaned his head back against the chair. “Yeah, I can imagine.”

  “I think you should call your wife and apologize for being such a goddamn asshole.”

  We made eye contact, mouths curved, and took a sip from our drinks in unison. Henry had a twinkle in his expression and nodded, acknowledging the truth in my statement.

  For a few hours, we reclined around the house. The kitchen for a while, and then the more comfortable living room, with a baseball game playing. We ordered a pizza just before nine o’clock and ate the entire thing. It was, in essence, the closest we’d ever gotten to being college-aged bachelors again. And for just a while, we forgot about the debts, the pressure, the marital strife. We were men again, tough, drunk, and carefree. When the baseball game had given way to a late-night comedy show, we even dialed Gary and made an arrangement to go out for drinks that next weekend.

  With the pizza box and numerous beers in the trash can, Henry and I stood by the staircase. My bedroom was down the hallway, not up there. He would make this journey alone.

  “Thank you again, Jed,” he said, a satisfied expression now plastered on his face. His words were slurred, but the emotions were genuine. “For this. For the loan. All of it. You’re a real great guy, and I hope you know that.”

  “If I’m honest…” I paused, steadied my words. And then from an untapped vein of honesty, I went on, “I’ve always looked up to you, Henry. And hearing you say that is… is really something.”

  Then he wrapped both meaty arms around me and squeezed. It was a tighter hug than any I could remember. When he pulled away, I could’ve sworn there were tears in the corner of his eyes.

  “Call your wife,” I reminded him, as he started to ascend the staircase.

  He glanced over his shoulder at me and said, “You, too, old man.”

  For a while, I sat in front of the television, paying no mind to the cheap jokes or the laugh tracks. Lucy would be home early the next morning to grab some clothes. Then she’d leave again, this time for the whole weekend. I intended to stay up all night, just waiting for her. I had no idea if it would really help. Our issues felt deeper than something this simple, the kind of emotional baggage that not even conversations and late-night tears would heal. But if nothing else, I wanted to make an effort. She deserved that much and so much more from me.

  Though she wasn’t the only person I’d been letting down. I also owed him better, so much better. Mason.

  But how do you fix a relationship when you don’t know why or how it’s broken?

  5

  Hudson

  My truck idled in the parking lot for about ten minutes before Bruce’s car pulled next to me. His unspectacular Hyundai nearly brushed against my mirror as he parked beside me. Bruce’s expression was focused, and the car jerked a few times before he shut off the engine and made to exit.

  I got out of my own, taking a moment to glance at the restaurant. This was one of the nicer dining establishments in Little Rush. It was the kind of steakhouse that served fresh bread before meals and had silverware wrapped in dark blue cloth. I’d suggested it to Bruce when he called, assuming he wanted something less greasy than Allen’s and more indicative of the region than Chinese or Mexican food.

  That phone call itself was odd. The house phone rarely ever rang. When my mom picked up, her eyes darted immediately to me. For a second, I wondered if the cops had seen me drinking or smoking somewhere. That would’ve been just wonderful. But no, she’d merely said “it’s for you,” and handed me the phone. Then, with an inquisitive glance, Mom left the room.

  The house phone didn’t fit my palm quite right and the corners were odd. Much bulkier than any cell phone. Almost ancient. I held it to my ear and asked meekly, “Hello?”

  “Hey there, kid. Sorry to call like this, but I never got your cell.” Bruce’s voice. I chuckled in relief and forgot to answer him. “You there?”

  “Yeah, I am. What’s up?”

  “Dinner tonight, yeah? Just calling to see where at.”

  At that point, we smoothed out all the details. Time, place, what sort of food they served. Bruce, I knew, would pay for the meal, but I brought my wallet anyway. At least I would try to, and then eventually give in. Right before he hung up, I interrupted his goodbye.

  “Wait, how’d you get this number?”

  He laughed loudly, and I could tell he moved the phone away from his face. Once his heartiness died down, he said simply, “Phone book, kid. Heard of it?”

  I ignored this slight. Thinking back on it as Bruce maneuvered his way out of the car, parked way too close to me, I couldn’t help but crack a smile. He sidled awkwardly because the door couldn’t open all the way without bumping into my passenger side. I waited for him. Once we’d merged next to my car, I gestured at the restaurant ahead of us.

  He eyed it, stroking at his chin. I noticed that he’d shaved, at least partially. There were a few rough patches. In all honesty, his appearance didn’t seem quite right. Rather tha
n his typical homeless-man attire, he wore the tailored-jacket-over-t-shirt look, with slacks and deep brown shoes filling out his lower half. Bruce, to his credit, had clearly given his outfit some thought, even tried, you might say. But the haphazard shaving, almost paranoid eyes, and shaggy hairstyle all maintained that out-of-place, LA-old-man type.

  “They’ve got a great twenty-dollar steak,” I suggested as we approached the main doors. I stepped in front to hold it open for him, aware that my own clothing didn’t match up to his. I donned an Arctic Monkeys shirt and jeans, although both were clean and void of wrinkles, so I guess I had tried in my own way.

  After exchanging words and more than one ogle at Bruce, the hostess led us to a booth near the back of the restaurant. She bustled away, forgetting to take our drinks. Bruce simply slid into one side and chuckled good-naturedly. I moved into the other, set my phone on the seat beside me, and glanced up.

  “Good people,” he murmured, more to himself than me. He grabbed a menu and scanned it. “Good people here. That’s what I like about it.”

  The restaurant had a slightly muted atmosphere as I glanced around. It was a spacious place, all the tables spread out and the lights dim. There were deer heads perched on the walls, as well as a few more exotic animals, like a bear and a fox. Whether or not they were real, I didn’t care to wonder. Dust clung to the animals, to the decor in general. This was the kind of place you’d expect in Little Rush. The nicest dining we could conjure, but nothing amazing to Bruce, I felt confident.

  In a minute, the blonde-haired girl returned, apologizing profusely for missing the drinks. She took Bruce’s order for a beer and turned to me.

  “Oh, Hudson! I didn’t see it was you.” Her mouth dropped open a fraction, looking back at Bruce, then to me. “Um… sorry, your… what to drink?”

  “Dr. Pepper.”

  She scribbled it down and moved away, back toward the kitchen. As she went, fumes of baking bread and sizzling grills filled her place. I watched her go and noticed other patrons peeking in our direction from their own unfinished meals. Even though it was nearly eight o’clock on a weekday, the restaurant had a dozen or so seats occupied. It felt like each one had focused their conversation and eyes on us.

  “You know her?” Bruce asked me absent-mindedly as he mulled over food options. I guess the extra attention didn’t unnerve him like it did me.

  I swiveled my head to face him again. “Yeah… graduated two years ago.” I focused on my own menu, if only to avoid those beady eyes from every direction. “I actually didn’t know she stuck around. Thought she… went to college.”

  “Oh, neat.” He chuckled at something he read and then flipped the page, as if pouring over an amusing cartoon section. “These prices, I tell you. Wouldn’t buy a hamburger in LA, I swear.”

  I found it hard to focus on my menu. My mind kept drifting away. Thinking about all the other patrons, with their gawking and whispers. About our waitress, that vaguely familiar face. I’d seen her roaming the hallways so many times, back when she was an intimidating senior. Back when she’d had dreams. And now… stuck here. Just like so many, she never got out of the cage we were born in.

  “That girl…” Deep breath. Composing my thoughts. “That’s kinda what I mean about this town.” I lowered my voice and menu. I tried to catch Bruce’s eye, but he focused only on potential meals, apparently. “Nobody gets out. Even if you plan to, you end up… end up working a job like this for years. You should see the older ones. Fifties, maybe. I bet they… bet they planned to go to college, too. They just settled for… this trash.” I straightened up once I realized I’d been leaning over the table.

  Bruce dropped his menu a fraction so I could see him peering over the top. The corners of his lips crinkled at some joke I couldn’t spot. “My grandpa never got out, either. Died on that very couch I have.”

  “Oh…” I caught my breath, tapped my foot under the table. “I’m… sorry, I didn’t mean—”

  “You’re right about one thing. People don’t get out.” He went back to searching for a suitable meal, lowering his eyes. “But maybe that’s okay.”

  I considered this for a while, as the drinks arrived and she took our dinner orders. I stuttered over mine, lost in thought, and ordered the wrong side to go with my steak. It didn’t really matter. Pretty much any combination here would make for a good meal.

  Bruce watched me for a while. I felt him staring into my forehead as I scrolled on my phone. I didn’t have anybody to text. Mason and Willow were probably fucking at his house now that they were alone. So instead, I explored Twitter and tried not to see myself in the reflection.

  “I came here, you might say, to chase a ghost.” Bruce planted an elbow on the table. I didn’t raise my head. Chin against my chest, I waited for him to go on. “I’ll tell you something, Hudson. This isn’t my first time in Little Rush.”

  At this, I looked up. My expression must have shown confusion because he smiled, shrugged, and then nodded his head. I tried for some eloquent response but instead spat out a “Really?”

  “One summer. Feels like forever ago.” Bruce closed his eyes and rubbed them with two fingers. “I lived in that house with my grandpa. That was… the best summer of my life. Not long after, I started down this road… toward acting, toward Hollywood. Did you know he played guitar, my grandpa?” At this, a wistful expression touched his features, and Bruce ran a hand through his slicked-back hair. Individual strands flew out in wild directions. “Played it real good, I remember. Back then, I only ever wanted to be a musician. Hell, I wanna be now. But I can’t play an instrument, never could. Can’t sing, not a lick. I only ever wanted to be that, not an actor.”

  “But you’re… good at acting,” I offered. A dull kindness but no answers.

  “I don’t create anything,” he went on. He pressed both palms against the table like any moment he would push through it, destroy the wood with just his hands. His muscles tensed. “I’m a fake. I just pretend to… to be more interesting people, and I hate it. Making music… goddamn it, Hudson, that’s real. That’s what I want.” His arms relaxed, forearms dropping to his lap. As if a crushing blow struck his head, he folded. When he spoke again, it was with a weaker voice. “It’s still sitting there, you know, in the corner of the bedroom. That guitar. The guitar I’ll never… play.”

  It took me a minute to think of anything worth saying. I thought about changing the subject, but that might come off as rude. I figured the next best thing was to ask a question. “Do you… do you think you’re similar to him? Your grandpa, I mean.”

  Bruce chuckled at this and picked at his silverware, not meeting my eyes. “If only you knew, kid.” He let this phrase drift away, before raising his head and continuing. “I’ll tell you one thing. I don’t look like him one bit. I got a photograph back at the house. Maybe I’ll… show you sometime.” And this time he smiled wide, genuine.

  Restaurants have a tendency to serve food right at the climax of conversation. This one proved no different. The meals arrived, aromas of warmth and cooked meat and seasoned potatoes. I could feel heat spreading from the dishes as she set them down. I thanked the waitress, now an older lady I didn’t recognize. I wondered if they’d drawn straws to choose who would deliver food to the great Bruce Michaels, sitting in their very building. At any moment, I thought a photographer would crawl out onto the floor and snap a photo of Bruce with his heavy steak. Great for advertising.

  For a few minutes, we cut into the meat as a silence fell like dense fog. I realized that my accidental side order resulted in Bruce and I sharing identical meals. Same sized steak, identical potato wedges and tiny bowl of chili. Only he drank a beer and I resigned myself to soda.

  “Hudson, can you promise me one thing?”

  I’d been slicing my steak and stopped at this question. While chewing a mouthful, I nodded and motioned for him to continue.

  “Don’t ever…” He dropped his fork. It clanged against the plate, and he scratched
at his chin. A jerky movement that gave the impression of desperation, a constipated thought. He groaned, picked up the silverware again, but then set it down. “Don’t ever believe that… you’re meaningless.” His hand, now hovering above the table, curled into a fist. “Nobody knows better than me how fragile life is, how easy it is to just… die one day. Be gone. And it’s terrifying.”

  I smirked. “This isn’t very comforting,” I pointed out with a wave of my knife.

  “I know, I know, just…” The emotion in his voice silenced any snide comments I’d been thinking. His expression had turned intense, and his throat constricted with every word, like he pushed each one out in a painful process. “Just don’t forget that, to some people, you’re important. And they’re not… they’re not somewhere out there. They’re here.” He stabbed the table with an extended finger and then settled back in his seat, bashful. “I’m sorry. That’s just… something I wish my grandpa would’ve told me. Back then.”

  After this brutal honesty, the meal turned more lighthearted. Bruce told me a few stories about his time in Little Rush, talked about how things had changed. It was some of the same material that my father liked to parse through but spoken in a different way. Bruce even mentioned one of the closed-down factories, but rather than focus on the melancholy aspect, he explained how he and another boy would throw stones through the window. They used the factory as a place to impress girls, a solitary place to smoke, even an arena where they beat up one of the older kids. A nostalgic joy spread as he went on, and I couldn’t help but feel it myself.

  By the time we left dinner that night and said goodbye to the comfortable atmosphere, I had the visceral sensation that I’d never been happier. Bruce Michaels, the actor, an honest-to-god friend of mine. Living just down the road. We’d enjoyed a night of great conversation, of friendship, of maturity. I drove home, not worrying about my parents or even my frayed relations with Mason. Instead, I just savored my heart swelling. Felt it pumping harder against my chest cavity. And music soared in my head.