It was close to the end of the shift, and the bar was closed. Everything was quiet except for the jukebox, which was playing a Johnette Napolitano song (Lane’s choice). Jamal, the cook, having already cleaned up the kitchen, had left. Phil was back in his office, counting the cash today’s business had brought in. Business this evening had been good. Lane had his own nice wad of cash in his pocket from tips. Quite a bit of the cash had come from Brendan. Lane was caught between hoping he would make another appearance and hoping he wouldn’t.

After he was finished with everything, he dumped the dirty mop water and told Phil he was leaving. Phil didn’t even look up as he mumbled, “Go on, get out of here,” he said, eyes scanning the paperwork before him. Lane wonders if the man had a partner at home or if he owned a cat. A cat would be the only one capable of putting up with his shit. Lane thought as he stepped out into the night.

The parking lot was mostly empty except for Phil’s red Toyota, an outdated Honda Civic, and Lane’s 1969 Mustang that he’d watched Charlie put back together with his own two hands. It was the only physical thing Lane had left of Charlie. He went to the car, pulled out his car keys, opened the door, and popped the trunk. He shoved aside trash bags full of clothes and grabbed the Ziplock bag of pot. He tucked it carefully in his pocket, looking cautiously over his shoulder, even though marajuana was legal in the state of Colorado. Just a habit of caution he hadn’t yet shaken. He was still used to the Bible-Belt way of things which werestill ass backwards. This is my treat for surviving another day of work, he thought. He tried to treat each day in which he was alive as something to celebrate.

He unlocked the door to his hotel room and stripped down to his underwear. There was another tattoo that covered his whole back: The Grim Reaper with a shit-eating grin on his skeletal face, scythe in one hand, giving the finger with the other. He showered, dried off, and sat at the cheap little desk, completely naked, and rolled himself a doobie. The kush was good stuff and soon he found himself laying back in bed, staring up at the ceiling, with the sensation he was floating.

For a little while at least he could forget the pain he was in.

...

The next night he made a phone call. He called the only person there was left to call. He sat on the edge of the bed, phone pressed to his ear, facing the door of the hotel room.

“Hello?” the voice of a woman said hesitantly, cautiously. Hearing that voice filled him with relief and pangs of misery and guilt.

“Hey, Mom,” Lane said. He prayed he sounded more cheerful than he felt.

The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

“Lane?” She sounded just as relieved to hear from him. Hearing such relief brought tears to his eyes. He’d been spending too much time in the company of strangers, a man living on the very edge of the world where no one had names or cared about the well-being of anyone but themselves. “Oh, thank God! It’s been...months since I’ve heard from you. I’ve been worried sick, wondering if something happened to you, wondering if you were still...”

She didn’t say the last word. She didn’t have to.

...wondering if you were still alive.

He remembered the last time they’d spoken to each other. It’d been a year. She’d come to the cabin in Michigan from Indianapolis to meet Charlie. But something had happened...the weekend hadn’t ended well. The only thing he could remember was coming to in the armchair and Charlie standing beside him in a T-shirt and boxers, screaming at Momma, enraged. The memory was fuzzy. Dreamlike.

“Where are you? Or can you tell me?”

“Not far from Denver.”

“You’re in Colorado.”

“Yep.”

“You’re up in the mountains.”

“Yep.”

“Are you working?”

“For the moment.”

“Where at?”

“A bar.”

She groaned as if this was the last job she wanted him to be doing, but reserved comment. “Are you staying somewhere?”

“A hotel.”

“Do you need money?”

“Even if I did, you know I won’t take it.”

Her voice was on the edge of tears. He knew what was coming next: She was going to plead. She was going to plead just like always; but he wouldn’t let her tears sway him even though it hurt like hell. “Lane, I’m sorry about what happened with Charlie...I’m so sorry about him...Come home. We can figure it out, we can figure out how to stop it, together, you and I. You shouldn’t be out there dealing with all this on your own.”

I don’t think there is anyway of stopping it, he thought. “You know I can’t...even though I want to.”

There was something inside of him, trying to break free, a memory perhaps, or a dream. Powerful hands forcing his head under cold water. Trying to break free, but being unable to do so. That hadn’t happened with Charlie, so who had it happened with? His mother’s voice calling his name in the dark, a pendant swinging in her hand.

Now she was really crying. “Oh Lane.”

“Sorry I made you cry.” He hated it when she cried.

“Oh no, it’s not you. It’s just...a mother worries over her child.”

“Even when he’s been adopted.”

She chuckled wetly, making the phone crackle in his ear with static. “Especially then. Thanks for calling and letting me know where you are. You’ve made my day.”

“Yeah, sure. Listen I have to go.”

“I love you, honey.”

“Love you too. Bye.”

Lane hung up. He stared at the phone for a long time. He felt as though he might cry. But he knew he wouldn’t because tears didn’t change anything. They were only wasted.