A Pact For Life (40 page)

Later that night after the mushroom high had passed, Cale was at a packed dive bar trying to drink away his meeting with God. It didn't take long for the alcohol to do the trick. From the moment the bourbon
⁵¹
 went down his gullet, God was out of his mind.

Although God was gone, Cale's anger remained. Even worse, it was anger at nothing particular. Abstract anger. Anger at the world in general. The type of anger where you are stuck with clenched teeth, balled up fists, a constant heat, and it's directed on every person and everything.

It felt like the entire city was crammed into that bar. No room to walk. No room to breathe. The place was suffocating, and drowning in alcohol only made things worse.

He lifted his glass for another pull, but before the bourbon reached his lips, an orange, ring-laden hand clasped around his wrist while another came around his neck.

“Hey fagot,” A voice spit into Cale's ear. “Don't think I forgot about you. Gray shirt, brown hair...”

“That really narrows it down.” Cale responded sarcastically without looking back.

“You think I would forget your face? Kelly left me because of you, mother-fucker.”

Confused, Cale turned to find spiky hair, orange skin, lots of jewelry, and the kind of puffed out aggression typically found in small dogs. Upon remembering this man, Cale smiled wide, twisted his wrist free, finished his drink, and asked, “Outside?”

“I'm gonna kill you,” The guy barked.

Cale laughed at the threat, stood up, and walked out. He shuffled past the herd of smokers in front of the bar door, and bounded for an alleyway a block from the bar. Shortly thereafter, the orange man followed, and behind him, three of his friends.

Trusting that his opponent was behind him, Cale said out loud, “Thanks for showing up tonight. I've got some frust...”

Despite getting blindsided by the same man some nine months earlier, Cale didn't remember to watch out for cheap shots. The man's push made Cale stumble forward, and he turned around to find two of the orange man's friends charging. Quickly, he put up his fists, and wondered if anyone fought honorably anymore.

When the first man reached him, Cale put everything he had into one punch, dropping the guy while at the same time rebreaking a few bones in his right hand. There was no time to deflect the other man's charge as he grabbed Cale around the waist and brought him down. On the ground, Cale tried to break free from the man's grip with little success as the orange man and another friend came running over to get a piece of the action.

There was nothing Cale could do but deflect each punch as best as he could. Luckily, he was drunk enough that each successful punch or slap was toned down a tad, but they still stung like all holy hell.

And just like before, each successful punch seemed to take away the problems in Cale's life. His art, Diana, God, and the baby grew diminished as his focus shifted to the physical pain.

“What did I say mother-fucker!” The orange man screamed. “I told you I would kill you if I ever saw you again!”

He reached behind his back and pulled out a handgun. Solid black, it was a SIG P226, a weapon commonly referred to as a hand cannon. When fired, it would do more than just penetrate, it would utterly destroy.

From several feet away, the orange man stood with the gun pointed at Cale. The sight made Cale close his eyes and accept his fate. His life had been nothing but failure and disappointment. It was time to finally end things and go to a place better than being alive.

God help the man who gives up living.

The orange man took a visible swallow and walked forward till he was able to place the gun in Cale's mouth. With the barrel firmly in the back of his throat, that whole accepting fate thing immediately dissolved into terror.

A fact: There is no possible way to convey in words what it's like to have a loaded gun in your mouth. A person can write page after page after page about every miniscule, graphic, and sensory facet of this act, and it still wouldn't come close to reality. The only men who are able to handle a loaded gun in their mouths are the truly insane. Even the bravest falter.

As Cale lied there shaking in fear, a simple prayer started to repeat in his head.

Don't let me leave her.

Don't let me leave her
.

The her was his daughter. The her was Diana. The her was life in all its sad, ecstatic, fearful, lovely, 'cry till you can't cry any harder', 'scream till you can't scream any louder' glory.

Don't let me leave her.

The orange man's hand was trembling as he held the gun in Cale's mouth. At this point, he had to pull the trigger. There was no backing out for an ego of this caliber.

Don't let me leave her.

“Stop!!!” Shouted a voice. Suddenly, from out of nowhere, a pale girl with wispy white-blond hair and raccoon-like eyes ran over, grabbed the gun, and pulled it out of Cale's mouth. With tears in her eyes, she cried to the orange man, “Please don't do this! Please!”

Lying on top of Cale, she whispered, “Stay down champion, stay down,” which made Cale open his eyes to find a woman protecting him. He blinked three times, and then it happened.

Like a dam exploding and water gushing out, it happened.

Like a scream after jumping out of an airplane, it happened.

Like a supernova equal to the power of trillions upon trillions of nuclear bombs, it happened.

The first was the relieved looking woman extending a hand.

The second was a smiling little girl on her dad's shoulders.

The third was a man in a suit picking up a woman in a flowing dress by her waist.

And they kept coming. And coming. And coming.

He had inspiration.

Speechless, Cale stood up and wiped the blood away from his eyes. He gave a quick, but heartfelt nod to the pale, wispy haired woman, and from there he sprinted home destined to create.

The orange man, his three perplexed friends, and the woman exited from the alley to watch Cale race down the street. After he disappeared from view, they heard a loud, “Whoooooo!” come from the distance.

The woman dug into her pockets and pulled out a pack of Pall Malls. As she lit a cigarette, she said to the men, “Just for the record fellas, he saved himself.”

THE LONELY RED HEAD II

The Diana Young Pregnancy Update 

Estimated weeks till delivery: 3 

Shape of stomach: Rotund enough that every person she passed gave the, “She's ready to burst” comment. 

Food Craving: An Advil.

Mood: Embarrassed.

Alone in a dressing room, Diana looked at herself in the mirror and sighed. She was clad in a striped neon pink and black bridesmaid's dress that gave the illusion she was much larger than she actually was. She pleaded with Caitlyn not to make her 'that'
⁵²
 bridesmaid, but her sister wasn't having any of it. The argument of 'It's my day!' trumped, 'I'm pregnant!'

Her phone began to vibrate, and the caller ID showed Andrew. As she caught herself in the mirror, she answered, “Hey, are you on your way to the church?”

But Andrew wasn't in his car, he was in his office. “Diana, I have some bad news. They need me in surgery in ten minutes. I'm sorry, I was halfway into my suit when I got the word about this emergency transplant.”

Diana responded with a statement, not a question. “Wait, what!? The wedding is in an hour and a half.”

“I can't get out of this surgery, Diana.”

Lately, most of Andrew's sentences began,
I can't get out of this _______
. It was something Diana decided to call him on. “When was the last time we saw each other?”

“What are you talking about? I was with you last night.”

“You sliding into bed at midnight and then sleeping while I leave in the morning doesn't count. I mean when was the last time we had dinner together? Or went out? Or did anything that wasn't sex or sleep?”

In the mirror, a clown of a woman stared at Diana. “What am I going to do, Andrew? It's bad enough that I have to be the pregnant bridesmaid. I can't add dateless to that as well.”

“Diana, if there was anything I could do... why don't you invite Jenny, or hey, how about my brother? He'd be a great date.”

“Andrew, I'm pregnant.”

“I'm sorry Diana, but I have to save a life.”

With losses to, 'It's my day!' and now, 'I have to save a life,' it was a bad day to use, 'I'm pregnant!' to get what you wanted.

“Diana, I know I haven't been around much lately, I've just been so busy. It will get better, I promise.”

“No, it won't.”

“I have some vacation...”

Diana's sad, lonely reflection implored her to ask, “Can't you see it, Andrew?”

Defeated, Andrew responded, “Yes.”

Throughout the course of Diana and Andrew's relationship, they had this uncanny ability to match speech. That is, to say the same thing at the same time. It made their relationship feel right, special, and all those other heartfelt, supernatural, warm-the-heart things. That's why it was so bittersweet when they both said at once, “So I guess this is the end?”

Continuing their synchronized speech, they laughed. The short, polite laughter that purposefully focuses on the phenomenon (synchronized breakup requests) rather than the message (breaking up).

In order to stop the synced speech, Diana stayed silent and waited for Andrew to speak. It was clear by the three second pause that he had the same idea.

Eventually, he spoke. “Dammit, I really thought this would work.”

Not wanting to think about that, Diana said, “I can't believe your ex-wife was right

“She was? About what?”

“Right before the settlement, she told me your work will always come first.”

Diana couldn't see it, but Andrew was nodding on the other end of the line. “It's funny. I've always believed I could have everything. You know, the job, the looks, the family, and everything else. I wanted to be great.”

“Me too.” Diana admitted.

There was no point for either of them to continue the conversation, and they both knew it.

“If you ever need anything, Diana...” Andrew said. He was too smart of a guy to use the 'can we still be friends' question.

“Same for you, Andrew.”

At the same time, they said bye.

It was the logical conclusion of the Professional Relationship of Professionals. A mutually agreed upon breakup. Naturally, Diana was sad, but the reflection in the mirror stopped her from crying. It was bad enough she was now the dateless, pregnant bridesmaid. There was no reason to add puffy eyed and smeared makeup to the list.

There were neon pink drapes next to a stained glass saint. A zebra print carpet running between rows of dark oak pews. Wedding programs featuring a puffed up love story where the bibles were usually placed. Instead of an organ and choir, there was a DJ with a fetish for
mmns
and
tssts
. It was Caitlyn Young's wedding, sanctity be damned.