RUN

DOM#67B

LOSTON, COLORADO

AD 1999

4:10 PM FRIDAY



Casey’s was a place that reflected its owner: small, mostly quiet, and comfortable.

At the age of twelve, Casey ran away from home. He had lived in New York, in an apartment with his mother and two other women. All three were hookers, a fact that no one in Loston knew about. The only things that they knew about him were the things that they had seen after his arrival in the small town at the age of eighteen.

After seeing his mother beaten mercilessly for the third time in as many weeks, Casey had resolved to fix the situation. The assailant was Tray, his mother’s pimp, and a man who gave dirt something to feel superior to. A squat, fat man with a cartoonish overbite, Tray held sway over the three women in Casey’s apartment, and, by default, over Casey himself.

Casey took the slaps, the taunts, the invitations to participate in "grownup games" that Tray extended on a regular basis. He took them for years, until that cold day in mid-December when Tray began beating Casey’s mother again.

Nothing snapped in Casey, not exactly. He always thought of "snapping" as something that happened right before the people in the movies lost control and killed several of their friends in a frenetic rage.

Casey didn’t snap. He was calm. He was controlled. And there was certainly no way that he consider Tray a friend. So the only way Casey might have fit into the category of people who have "snapped" was that he did in fact kill someone.

Tray stood over Casey’s mother, who was bleeding copiously from several wounds. He’d used his belt on her, the metal buckle slapping harshly against her body, actually ripping a chunk of skin the size of a golf ball off her back. And since his belt was off anyway, the pimp apparently decided that now was a good time to assert his authority in a few other areas, as well.

He dropped his pants and pushed Casey’s mother onto her back, ignoring her scream as the floor abraded her wounds. She was kicking feebly, trying pitifully to dissuade him, but Tray wasn’t listening. He lay on her with a grunt, forcing her legs apart.

That was when Casey buried the knife in Tray’s back.

Casey was a small kid, a source of never ending shame to himself and those around him. A thin boy, often sick, unable to get heavy work at the docks or in a warehouse somewhere, too small to be intimidating.

Yet when he stabbed Tray, the knife went all the way in. Casey remembered being surprised at how easy it was, like the pimp was made of Spam or something. He missed the bones of Tray’s back, his ribs and scapulae, sending the knife on a virtually unimpeded trip that ended in Tray’s heart.

The man died almost instantly.

Casey stuck around long enough to get his mother into bed, dress her wounds, and give her a kiss. Then he left, with nothing but his clothes, seventy five dollars he found in Tray’s pockets, and a heavy winter coat.

Seven years later, he straggled into Loston. A bit of a frightening face, ringed by an ever-present halo of scruff, but his diminutive size mitigated the threatening aspect of his features. Somewhat. He got work as a night janitor at the small bar on Main Street - Mick’s, it was called back then - and worked hard enough that no one asked him more than minimal questions about his past.

Just as well, because the past wasn’t something Casey was prepared to discuss.

He worked at the bar for ten years, gradually assuming more and more responsibilities, and by the time Mick died at the tender age of sixty two, Casey was more a son to the man than an employee.

No one was surprised that Mick willed Casey his bar, but what did surprise some was Casey’s immediate remodeling. He got rid of the hunting trophies and stuffed heads that adorned the walls, replacing them with corn shucks and hay on the floor. He brought in a brand-new juke, and the kids started coming in.

He didn’t mean disrespect to his unofficially adopted father. Quite the opposite. He wanted to remember Mick’s bar with Mick in it, and each day without him there would be a tear in the fabric of that memory.

So Casey’s bar was born, and though Casey got a little more of the profit, not much else changed. Not much ever changed in Loston, and he liked that. It was a nice place, and no one ever showed interest in his formative years. They minded their business, and the secrets stayed put.

Casey might have been surprised how many people in Loston felt the same way about their pasts and the secrets they didn’t want to share.

But whether that would have surprised him or not, the sight of John Trent coming into the bar most definitely was a shock. Casey had known John for nearly twenty years, since the young man had started frequenting the place. John didn’t drink much, but Casey’s had a pool table, and John loved that game. "It’s all about certainty, Case," John had told him during a moment when they were the only two in the place. "You hit the balls, and they have to go somewhere that makes sense. Maybe you miss, and maybe you miscalculate, but the game has to make sense. It’s kind of a nice feeling."

Never in all twenty years as acquaintances and friends had Casey seen John wild-eyed and dusty like he was now. His order, a shot of whisky, straight up, surprised Casey even more.

He poured the drink though, glancing at Coach Harding, who was playing pool in the back room, waiting for his friend. "Coach is here," he said to John as the younger man belted back the glass.

"What?" John’s gaze seemed to swim about in front of Casey before making successful contact with the bartender’s hazel eyes. "Oh, yeah."

He put the glass down and headed to the bathroom, almost going into the ladies room before entering the correct door.

Casey shook his head and went back to dusting the glasses, the chore he’d been doing when John came in. He wondered what it was that could have put his friend in such a state, but knew he wouldn’t ask.

The past - even recent past - usually felt best when left alone.

***

John splashed water across his face. He noted his hands trembling, and concentrated on them for a moment, trying to stop the shivers that gripped his extremities. It didn’t work, so he grabbed the sides of the sink. He took a deep breath, then let it out. Again. Another.

In a few seconds he was calm once more. He could even look at himself in the mirror and laugh about what had just happened. He decided not to tell Gabe about it, because the coach’s only reaction would be to chortle and do some friendly mocking, most likely bringing up the story every time a friend or acquaintance of John was anywhere near.

"Stupid," said John. No way it could be the same man. No way.

Then why did he run from me?

The question stumped John for a moment, but he knew - knew - there must be some logical answer. So he pushed it back to the posterior regions of his brain, surrendering it to his subconscious for further analysis.

He left the bathroom, going back to the bar. He ordered a beer this time. It was early in the day, but John relaxed his personal rules for once. Besides, it was Friday. A hell of a Friday. Casey handed him the drink, and asked, "How ya doin’?"

"Fine, Casey," he answered. He didn’t feel fine. In spite of the decision he’d just made not to say anything to Gabe, he knew he would. He had to talk to someone about what had just happened. It was his way. Annie used to call herself "John’s Mind Massager" because of his need to talk about things. His mind worked better when he could bounce his thoughts off someone else.

John went through the small doorway behind the bar, entering the room that housed the pool table. Gabe was there already, shooting a solitary practice game. Two others sat in the room, old men watching Gabe play, quietly nursing drinks that would last them most of the evening. John had been introduced to both, but couldn’t remember their names. He always got the impression they weren’t happy with him, as though his relative youth was an automatic sin that could be neither denied nor absolved.

He nodded to them. They nodded back, reluctantly. John usually smiled when they did that, hearing a Pa Kettle chorus of voices hollering "Whippersnapper" at him in his mind, which always struck him as amusing. But this time he didn’t smile, just went to the pool table.

As always, John’s stocky friend didn’t look up or make eye contact as he started conversation. He also had a habit of beginning his conversations with sentences that sounded as though he was already in the middle of the story, as though the listener hadn’t paid attention and was guilty of missing the first half of the action.

Gabe held true to form today.

"So I’m wrestling this kid," he said, simultaneously smacking the cue ball into the two and sending it on a sharp bank that ended in dead center of the side pocket, "and I nailed him. Really got him locked up."

"Gabe, John said, "I –"

"And then you know what he did?"

"I want to ask you something, Gabe."

Gabe sent another ball to pool heaven, pausing not a moment in his speech or his playing.

"He called me a butthole. Now, that never bothered me before, but in a sudden flash of insight I realized that 'butthole' is probably the worst thing you can call someone."

Gabe sent another ball into the corner pocket and rounded the table to set up his next shot. John put a little more force in his voice as he said, "I need to ask you –"

Gabe held up a beefy hand, stifling John’s reluctant query. "Think about it, John. ‘Butthole.’ You are a piece of void surrounded on all sides by stinking flesh. You are so low a piece of nothing that not even your butt wants to be a part of you."

Gabe grinned widely, proud of his personal epiphany. No doubt the movie rights were already sold: I Was a Teenage Butthole.

"Did you have a new kid in any of your classes today?"

Gabe appeared astonished by John’s apparent lack of awe at the invaluable insight being lavished upon him. "Did you hear what I just said?" he asked, finally pausing in his game.

John surprised himself by slamming his beer down on the end of the pool table. Liquid splashed out of the open neck, sending a few drops onto the green velvet of the table.

"This is important, Gabe!"

Gabe jerked at the noise, surprised at John’s sudden action. "Sorry. No, no new kids at all. Why?"

John released his death grip on the beer. He took a few more deep breaths, concentrating on all the reasons why he shouldn’t be so upset, not doing a good job convincing himself.

"It’s just that...forget it."

The two men locked eyes for a moment, and John expected Gabe to pry, to ask what happened? why did you go rocketing off like a QB whose girlfriend has said he’ll get laid if he makes a touchdown? how come you almost creamed me in the parking lot? and a million other questions.

For a moment it looked like he would, too. Would ask all the questions that John couldn’t answer.

Then John saw Gabe’s eyes drop back to the table, as though dismissing the day from his thoughts. He put the last two balls away in a pair of straight shots, then began drawing the balls from the pockets and racking them for the next game. He handed John a cue stick, motioning for him to break. John did, after selecting a better stick. Gabe was probably his best friend in the whole world, but John knew that he’d more than happily give his buddy a crappy stick for that little advantage in the game.

The cue ball shattered the tight triangle of ivory spheres, sending them out in a nova explosion of color. Two of the balls fell into pockets, a solid and a stripe. John surveyed the lay of the table and called stripes, then set for his next shot.

"So I have this second cousin once removed. From California," said Gabe.

John smiled, the familiar regularity of the game calming his nerves. "Congratulations. The government finally allowed your family to reproduce?"

He missed his shot and Gabe lined up, chuckling. "Only the distant relatives. But seriously, this gal is hot. I mean, if I was from the South, I’d be all over her, and two-headed kids be damned."

"Thanks for the secret and disgusting insight into your life."

"But wait, there’s more," said Gabe.

"Really?"

"Oh, yeah. See, her husband died a year ago, and she decided to move recently. Got a job teaching at a school. Guess where."

"Hmmm...."

"Here!" Gabriel was so excited at the prospect that he was no longer shooting. John didn’t mind. The game was half for playing and half just an excuse to jaw for an hour. Besides, he always lost. The football coach was a surprisingly methodical and canny player.

"So she’s coming on Sunday," Gabe continued, "and she doesn’t know anyone but me, so I figured –"

"No. Forget it. Absolutely not."

"Come on, John. It’s been two years."

"I know how long it’s been."

"What, do you want to spend the rest of your weekends doing nothing but playing pool with a dried up coach whose teams are never big enough to even qualify for league play? Who hasn’t ever seen one of his teams go on a road trip? Ever?"

"Sounds good to me."

"Well, I don’t like it."

"This isn’t about you."

"It sure as hell is about me. You know how long it’s been since I’ve been able to go on a date? I’m always stuck playing with you. You’re cute and all, but I’d like to go out with someone I could perhaps have sex with at the end of the date."

"You saying I’m not pretty enough to have sex with?"

Gabe stifled a grin. "Serious, John. You’ve gotta –"

"No. I mean it." John leaned across the table, doing his best to wilt Gabe. "I will tell you when I’m ready."

"No you won’t. You’ll just sit there and mope and be a lonely piece of crap. And that’s definitely not what Annie would have wanted for you."

John closed his eyes. He didn’t want to talk about it, but he knew his friend wouldn’t let up. What was worse, he knew his friend was right. But over the last two years grief had become a comfort, a safe and secure place. He had lost himself in the fact that when you grieve over something, it’s impossible to be hurt by anything new. He didn’t have the capacity for two heartbreaks at once. Especially not when he mourned something as important as his wife.

Gabriel’s tone softened. He came around the table and spoke in a low tone, laying a comforting hand on John’s shoulder. "Look, John, I love you, you know that? I don’t want you to miss your whole life. It’s too damn short." He took a deep breath. "She’s a good girl, and she really does need to meet some people. And she lost her husband. You’re kinda in the same boat, you know?"

John waited a moment, but the decision was already made. Gabe had been right: this wasn’t the way Annie would have wanted him to remember her. "When does she come in?"

"Sunday morning."

"I’ll show her around Sunday night. If she’s interested."

Gabe let out a whoop, forgetting in his excitement that the two old timers would frown on such an interruption of their treasured silence.

John looked at them as Gabe threw his hands in the air and did a mini-war dance around the table. Sure enough, their eyebrows were bunched so close around their eyes that it seemed their heads were imploding. Disdain practically oozed from them.

John seized the moment. He knew what he was about to do might get him killed, but it was worth the risk. Gabe passed by him, and as he did, John grabbed him in a massive hug. "It’s all right," he yelled at the two old men, who almost fell off their chairs at what was to them no doubt verged on a sign of the Apocalypse: two men hugging. "It’s all right," John reiterated. "The test turned out negative!"

He turned to Gabe then, who stared at him in complete mystification, and did the most daring and dangerous thing he’d ever done.

He kissed Coach Gabe Harding right square on the lips. Gabe stiffened, and John thought he saw one of the old-timers clutch his chest. He separated and looked at Gabe tenderly. "My friend is going to be all right. I love you, Gabe."

The old-timers hurried out, no doubt anxious to escape before they too were infected by contagious homosexuality. John didn’t know what was funnier: their reaction or Gabe’s. John didn’t know how a man could be so completely homophobic, but Gabe had probably never even shaken his father’s hand.

After a moment, Gabe came partway back from whatever place his psyche ran to during the brief contact. Looking like he was unsure whether to laugh, cry, or just go comatose, he said, "That was a crappy thing to do, John. I don’t care if you were a Ranger way back when. Do that again and I’ll kick your butt."

"Green Beret."

"Whatever."

Gabe went back to the game.

"Just one thing, Gabe. If things don’t work out Sunday night...."

"Yeah?"

"What are you doing next weekend? You’re a great kisser."

The coach framed his response with Shakespearean elocution and delivery: "Butthole."

John laughed. Gabe missed his shot, and John took a turn, somehow forgetting how odd it was that his best friend hadn’t asked more questions about John’s radically altered behavior earlier in the afternoon.

He didn’t dwell on it, though. Not even for a moment. Not until much later, and by then, of course, it was too late, and his friend was already dead.