Two Minutes Too Late

By Tim Toterhi

Looking back, I’m amazed at how much of my youth was spent in an apathetic, egocentric daze. Sure, I did things, but mostly I just thought about doing things...someday when everything was just so.
It never happened, of course. There was always a monkey in the wrench of life preventing me from making real that which I saw so clearly in my mind’s eye. And so I waited as my introverted childhood was slowly and completely encapsulated by fruitless daydreams. I never fought the bully. I never even raised my voice.
Adolescence was easier I guess, but only because I knew the game. As a bumbling wealth of impotent romance, I never once acted on the yearnings in my heart. I practiced lines I never tried, wrote songs I never sang, and gazed endlessly into mirrors that could do nothing more than serve a bitter slice of truth. I missed the prom. I missed the point. And I missed the boat on a number of friendships that, like so many things, are now gone forever. Two minutes too late. It’s a small saying with a big price tag.
If you’ve been there ¬– and who hasn’t? – you know what it’s like to ache for a do over, knowing full well if the wish were somehow granted it would forever change the person you’ve become. Two Minutes Two Late is a collection of stories detailing the missteps of a hapless romantic. From career blunders and criminal exploits to dating debacles to goodbyes unsaid, it reminds us that while follies happen to the best of us, the future is unwritten and ours to explore.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tim Toterhi
• Release date: Oct 9, 2013
• ISBN: 9780986064609

Tim Toterhi

Tim works as an organization development professional with a focus on talent management, leadership development and large-scale change. He is also a sought after executive coach and speaker. He holds a BA in Communications and an MBA in International Management from Iona College. To learn more visit www.timtoterhi.comFictionTim’s fiction has been described as part philosophical adventure, part paranormal crime, with just the right amount of offbeat humor. His works include:• Both Sides of Broken• Lunches with Larry• The Amazing and Somewhat Sarcastic Tad• Two Minutes Too Late: Stories of Lost Love and Missed OpportunitiesNon-fictionTim has authored over 20 articles on business best practices. His books include:• Strategic Planning Unleashed: An Applied Methodology and Toolkit• Defend Yourself: Developing a Personal Safety Strategy. 50% of profits from this book will be donated to RAINN, the nation's largest anti-sexual violence organization.• Fast Cycle Strategic Planning: An Applied Playbook

Book preview

Looking back, I’m amazed at how much of my youth was spent in an apathetic, egocentric daze. Sure, I did things, but mostly I just thought about doing things…someday when everything was just so.

It never happened, of course. There was always a monkey in the wrench of life preventing me from making real that which I saw so clearly in my mind’s eye. And so I waited as my introverted childhood was slowly and completely encapsulated by fruitless daydreams. I never fought the bully. I never even raised my voice.

Adolescence was easier I guess, but only because I knew the game. As a bumbling wealth of impotent romance, I never once acted on the yearnings in my heart. I practiced lines I never tried, wrote songs I never sang, and gazed endlessly into mirrors that could do nothing more than serve a bitter slice of truth. I missed the prom. I missed the point. And I missed the boat on a number of friendships that, like so many things, are now gone forever.

Two minutes too late. It’s a small saying with a big price tag.

CHANCES

I wasn’t much of a kid. Hell, I wasn’t much a teenager either, but I guess that doesn’t matter anymore. The past has passed. I’ve made my bed and dug my grave, and now it’s time to lay down and get comfy. Still, now and then when the right song is on, or when those happy, preppy people are acting out their perfect lives in a Coors Light commercial, I find myself looking back and wishing I could punch the kid I was firmly in the mouth.

I remember being scared of everything; my present, my future, and how they could both be forever stained by some schoolteacher’s red pen. The permanent record, what a weapon, what a waste. It’s amazing how the thought of something I’d never seen could stifle me so. When I turned thirty I actually called the school looking for a copy of the damn thing. The lady on the other end just laughed and mumbled something that sounded an awful lot like loser. She’s right of course, but what can you expect? It’s in the genes.

Mom was a drunk. Pop chased the dragon. And both had more than their share of insignificant others. I was the oldest of six boys, the straight man in a cast of Costellos. I didn’t mind much. It saved me from the risk of living. Life is so much safer when you can simply sit back as a restless dissonant, muttering sarcastic comments at the people who try and fail and slip and fall. I used to giggle when they hit the pavement. Fools, there goes another blotch, another stain, another something that will make you like them. What woman will want you? What college will take you? What hope is there for you now?

Years passed and I avoided it all. No detention, no rejection, no looks of pity or smug, I told you sos from the perfect people. I was the safe one, the smart one, the one who might turn out normal if he played his cards right and kept his nose clean. Yeah, for twenty-five years I lived as a nice, neat collection of clichés. Then I didn’t.

Her name was Lola, like the song, only a nineties version with punk clothes and a wisp of purple snaked through her cropped black hair. She was sharp, edgy, and wrapped in the kind of lose-fitting skater gear that could completely conceal her nineteen-year-old frame. Still, I knew the tight, tempting body that lay beneath and how easily those layers could be peeled away. That’s the good thing about modern girls. They act like boys when it comes to sex.

She’d smile sometimes when she caught me staring, my mind ravishing her more fully than any she’d been with before. It wasn’t that I was good, or big, or some pre-pubescent locker room lie. No, I was just lucky and my knowledge of this shined through. She said it made her feel special. That’s fair. She made me feel alive.

She was my first if you can believe it. That’s the trouble with hiding. Do it well and no one finds you. She thought it cute and so I became her pet project. I was a slow starter of course, but after three months I actually had the courage to initiate sex. In four we were doing it in public. In five we invited a friend. A girl if you’re curious, another skater only softer with shoulder length blond hair. Her name was Amber the first time, Jill the second. The third night she wanted to be called Alex. I never got the real one, never cared too much either. Not knowing made the whole thing better. We were supposed to meet her for a forth round, this time as Julie, but she never showed. I got the feeling Lola put the kibosh on the affair. That’s okay. It was wearing thin. Besides, she was the important one, the one who was waking me.

I think she fell in love first, though I wouldn’t bet on it. Chances remember? They’re not my thing. Still, it was wondrous to watch us morph into equals. Slowly we became friends, confidants, the someone special with whom we shared our most intimate desires. Hers was to be a painter. Funny, it took me two months to realize the colored blotches on her jeans weren’t ready made. I really thought they came like that, some new style that hadn’t reached the twenty something crowd. She let me in on the secret after making love one afternoon. She said I was the first one she ever told. I don’t know why she picked that day. Maybe it was because the lovemaking was my idea. Maybe because for the first time, it was really love. At last we were each other’s first.

She was into nature scenes mostly, mountains, rivers, and the kinds of trees that New Yorkers never see. She was good. Not famous good, but talented enough to make you want to hang the things. She gave me one about a week later. It featured two oaks set in the distance, near a lake. I hung it in the bedroom so I could picture her on the rare nights when she wasn’t around. Good plan, huh? Yeah, that’s what I thought. Except I said thank you instead of I love you. After all her effort I was still being a chicken shit. Small steps, long journeys.

I should have known. I should have seen. I should have done and said and asked so much more when I was with her, but I didn’t so she took my cue and stayed silent.

She died on Thursday. A father’s belt, somber mood, and ten pills too many. We could have compared notes. We could have talked it through. We could have run away and laughed it loose when enough years had passed.

The worst of it all is that I saw the bruises. I joked at them and swallowed lame lies about skate tricks gone wrong. I could have pushed the issue, but the thought of losing her over the confrontation was too much to risk. I couldn’t bear to watch her run and so I was forced to watch her leave.

I took the painting down after the service. I tucked it away with that crazy notion of a guy like me ever learning to live. Funny, you never think about how much something will cost until you’ve already run up the tab.

GREYHOUND

The Greyhound’s motor hummed quietly through the night, massaging her temples with sensual grace. The setting was perfect for slumber, but she propped up heavy lids and pressed her forehead against the cold sheet of scratched plexiglas. So many miles of blackness. She strained to see something. The whole point was to see something, but the world offered only her own reflection, washed every second or so in the fleeting glow of passing streetlights.

She pushed back the seat and eased into