Bullets and Baklava

By Yiros Palsaros

As COVID-19 cases in the U.S. grow alarmingly, a jobless husband in a small town falls into depression and reverts to alcoholism and verbal and physical abuse, leading to the breakup of his family. In the grip of despair, convinced God cannot love him and all is hopeless, he embarks on a path to suicide. One by one, he providentially meets several rather unique and endearing personalities who are also Christian believers, each of whom senses he is troubled, offers a listening ear, and encourages him to turn to God for help. Will he leave the road to utter darkness and destruction and find the forgiveness, peace, and hope that Christ freely offers? Since no man is an island, how might his story influence others for good or ill?

• Language: English
• Publisher: New Harbor Press
• Release date: Nov 12, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201056612

Book preview

Preface

As COVID-19 cases in the U.S. grow alarmingly, a jobless husband in a small town falls into depression and reverts to alcoholism and verbal and physical abuse, leading to the breakup of his family. In the grip of despair, convinced God cannot love him and all is hopeless, he embarks on a path to suicide. One by one, he providentially meets a few rather unique and endearing personalities who are Christian believers. Each of them senses the man is troubled, offers a listening ear, encourages him to turn to God for help, and prays for him.

In the course of events their various paths cross, and they compare notes. From the disparate puzzle pieces that they manage to put together emerges a grim picture. Their newfound friend masked a far deeper pain than anyone imagined, for it is certain that his life will soon end—by his own hand. No one knows where he is. Can one of them, acting on a hunch, find him in time and prevent a terrible tragedy? Will God intervene?

Now themselves tempted to despair, they must keep their eyes on the God of the impossible while relying on prayer and each other for support and encouragement. Opportunities arise for them to enjoy some lighthearted moments, which help to keep their spirits up. Still, they can't help but sense a growing foreboding.

Containing a touch of romance, reading at times like a mystery with a few stunning twists and turns (as they say in Greece, your eyes must be fourteen as you watch for subtle clues), this story deals with some serious, often heartbreaking, life issues and might have been a rather dark and dismal tale were it not interspersed as it is with wholesome ethnic humor (which first-time author Yiros Palsaros expertly crafted with his flair for the dramatic and intimate familiarity with Greek customs, manners, and temperaments, as he himself is a first-generation American of Greek descent) and is bound to be a source of encouragement, inspiration, and smiles to many readers. Alas, sometimes it's the son who's expected to submit to the cultural expectations of the parents.

A few of the characters speak in English but with a Greek accent. Yiros believes that hearing the accent is enriching in its own way, providing a more realistic experience. He has come up with a system of English phonetics (no attempt was made to copy that of any other author) that he believes adequately captures the accents he recalls hearing at home—particularly his beloved father's and his beloved maternal grandmother's—during his formative years. Interpreting the phonetic spellings is relatively easy given that Greek is such a phonetic language. Still, care has been taken not to go overboard with the Greek-accented English, so the reader isn't bogged down.

One for whom English is a second language may pronounce a word in a way that isn't readily apparent to the fluent speaker of English. Often, the meaning is discernible by considering the word in its context, but not always. You can easily search for any word that may be unclear. How to do this is explained in a section embedded within Chapter 4. You are encouraged to read all such sections as they provide many useful details to enhance your understanding and enjoyment along the way.

Speaking of the story, who is the main character? It's a riddle (aínigma, Greek αἴνιγμα, the source of the word enigma) you'll have to ponder. Perhaps a better question might be: Which of the characters do you find the most engaging?

Watch for a guest appearance by the author's beloved mother (in a different guise, of course), whose words are quoted verbatim and addressed to him even in his fifth decade of life. Needless to say, they too are immortalized in his mind.

If you'd also like to learn some conversational modern Greek in an engaging and fun way, this book is especially for you.

Moreover, be strongly advised that this story may raise your hunger level, so you may wish to keep some snacks within easy reach.

The story is set primarily in a small town. Some of the events occur in a state park and a farmhouse outside of town. Other events are described in flashbacks, internal dialogue, and storytelling. The action takes place within a two-week period, although some historical background of a few of the characters is presented going back decades.

Characters

Doug Rykensen, a lost man

Susan Rykensen, Doug's wife

C.J. Rykensen, adopted son of Doug and Susan's

Steven Sims, restaurant employee and Bible college student

Katelin Moore, women's shelter employee and Steven's girlfriend

Scott Jenkins, Esq., attorney specializing in estate planning

Ruth Jenkins, Scott's wife and owner of Ruth's Eatery

Cindy Smith, secretary at Scott V. Jenkins, Attorney at Law, LLC

Joan Wilson, friend of Ruth's

Tom Wilson, Joan's husband

Philip, Tom and Joan's son

Elaine, Philip's wife and Doug's sister

Kirk Lowry, Doug's neighbor and best friend

Mary, sister of Scott's

Daniel, brother-in-law of Scott and Ruth's

Billy, son of Scott and Ruth's

Lucy, Billy's wife

Abigail, adopted daughter of Billy and Lucy's

Jerry Jones, client of Mr. Jenkins's

Margret, takeout customer and friend of Ruth's

Demos Landragonopoulos, chef at Ruth's Eatery, Steven's best friend

Lisa Vance, Demos's fiancée

Trissoula, Demos's sister

Nikos, Demos's brother

Sophia, Nikos's wife

Kostas (Gus), Nikos and Sophia's son

Angelos and Marika, Demos's father and mother

Harry, Marika's brother

Christos, Demos's first cousin

Dina, Christos's sister

Parents of Christos and Dina

Buddies of Christos's

Mrs. Astrapia Kalliozopoulou, Demos's maternal grandmother

Mr. Dimitris Kalliozopoulou, Demos's maternal grandfather

Johnny Giglioretti, taxicab driver

Jeanette Giglioretti, Johnny's wife

Larry Montgomery, dine-in customer

Betty Montgomery, Larry's wife

Danny, grandson of Larry and Betty's

Alexa, Danny's girlfriend

Mother of Alexa

Dr. Alan Kademan, pastor of an Independent Baptist church

Priest of an Eastern Rite church

Altar servers

Mother of altar server

Church visitor

Church board members

Cantors

Choir singers

Congregants

Child being baptized

Mail carriers

Police officers

Ambulance personnel

Garbage truck driver

Classroom teacher

Proprietor of garden store

Restaurant food servers

Takeout customer

Dry cleaning employee and customer

Aunt in Greece

Second cousins in Greece

Friends of the family

Airline passenger

Pedestrian

Volleyball players

Potential client of Mr. Jenkins's

FROM GREEK MYTHOLOGY:

Eros, god of love and passion

Aphrodite, Eros's mother, goddess of love and beauty

Psyche, Eros's wife, goddess of the soul

Hephaestus, Aphrodite's husband, god of fire and metalworking

Hermes, messenger of the gods

Oracle of Delphi

Eos, goddess of the dawn

Apollo, god of music, poetry, light, and archery

Euros, god of the east wind

Hermes Trismegistus, purported founder of alchemy

Chelone, a tortoise god

Dolphins

Disclaimer

Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. English and Greek pronunciation helps were conceived by the author. Aside from a few memorable personality traits of the author's father (see Dedication), maternal grandmother, and mother, expressed vicariously through some of the characters, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, actual events, actual places, and/or pronunciation helps used by other authors is purely coincidental, and should not be inferred.

Dedication

This work is dedicated to Yiros's beloved father, Yeoryios, a devoted family man and successful restaurateur for many years. Along with his unique Greek accent (which has endeared him to many and which his son has endeavored to capture) is his occasional fiery Greek temper (of which his son has been on the receiving end more times than he cares to admit). You'll encounter vivid examples of these characteristics along the way. In this work, imitation is admiration and a way to relive cherished memories.

Quotes

W hat man of you, having a hundred sheep, if he loses one of them, does not leave the ninety-nine in the wilderness, and go after the one which is lost until he finds it? (Luke 15:4)

I haven't washed, yet I'm all washed up. (Doug Rykensen)

A man's life is worth infinitely more than a car's suspension. (Scott Jenkins, Esq.)

Like happens with spark plugs, my synapses can sometimes misfire. (Kirk Lowry)

What makes sense ain't always so. (Demos Landragonopoulos, after lots of practice)

Becoming a member of God's family is never about color or bloodline. Only belief. (Steven Sims)

A simple schwa vowel can be dangerous. (Lisa Vance)

I think it is, therefore it is. (author's paraphrase of a dictum by the French philosopher René Descartes)

Chapter 1

By now, I must have imbibed enough drops of alcoholic drink to fill a ten-gallon drum, Doug thinks to himself as he sits on a couch in the great room, alone in his house, absorbed in thought. He periodically sips from a short glass tumbler.

He's sat here brooding for virtually the entire night, drifting off every once in while, but generally plagued by a recurring insomnia that he's come to detest. Frequently, Doug's mind dwelled on Susan, but romance was overshadowed by remorse. Now, the closed curtains are brightly lit around the edges, the obvious sunshine outdoors in stark contrast to the gloominess within.

Gazing lazily around the room, the man looks for the umpteenth time at the crack in the wall plaster where he'd violently thrown a drink glass in a moment of rage. He has another flashback to arguing heatedly with Susan about his drinking and their finances.

I know it's hard to find a job these days, says a teary-eyed Susan, her voice overwhelmed with emotion. But your drinking doesn't help at all. I thought you were over it.

"Just stop, okay? Doug says with intensity. No need to remind me, all right?"

We never talk, Sweetheart. When do we ever talk?

Taking another drink, Doug senses the anger returning. He doesn't feel like talking, and his wife is getting on his nerves.

You're not only withdrawing from me, but you've been withdrawing cash left and right, notes Susan with pained face, her voice bewraying deep hurt. You've been gambling away some of our savings, haven't you?

"I don't gamble all that much! I'm sure I'll hit it big before much longer. I need to have a little fun anyway and forget what a failure I am!" Doug shouts.

Gambling's not the way, Sweetheart. You have to stop!

"No, you have to stop with the criticism! That's all I get! And I'm sick of it! All you do is whine and get on my case!"

Doug's yelling pauses long enough so he can take another gulp.

I don't know why I'm your husband anyway! I'm a miserable scumbag! he continues, plopping the now-empty glass on a table. A large, dusty family Bible rests nearby. "If your God brought us together, he made a big mistake! You deserve better. A lot better!"

During their lengthy spat, their fifteen-year-old son, C.J., arrives home from school to a painful, all-too-familiar scene. He heard the angry yelling as he walked to the front door. Now, it reverberates through the house. Peace and quiet is a rare commodity in this house. Exasperated, the young man runs upstairs to his room.

Doug reaches for a mostly-empty bottle. His wife tries to yank it away but is unsuccessful.

"I need a drink to unwind! I can handle it!" Doug yells, the rage brimming over.

Please don't! she cries.

"Don't you tell me what to do! Just SHUT UP!"

Inflamed with anger, Doug quickly raises an arm to slap Susan, who screams—

Back to a dreary reality and finishing his drink, Doug sets the glass on the coffee table, glancing at the dusty Bible. It was a housewarming gift from one of his in-laws. The FBI would be hard-pressed to find any of his fingerprints on it.

Bending forward, his arms on his knees and holding his aching head in his hands, Doug sobs.

After a while, the man reaches into a jeans pocket, pulling out a folding knife, which he flicks open. The blade looks shiny and ultrasharp as always. It would make a nice gift for someone provided Doug the real-life tragic hero doesn't use it on himself—like one of those classical tragedies he vaguely remembers in school. Lately, lamentably, life is one long, sad soliloquy. One powerful knife thrust to the jugular is all it takes.

Yawning, he closes the knife and pushes it back in his pocket. His mercurial mind is fermenting another motley mixture of musings.

Once in a while, I'd overhear C.J. talking with a friend about one topic or another. It seemed religion and science were two of his favorites. He would talk at length about things way over my head. Things like what consciousness is. What the soul is. How long eternity is. Traveling through time. Black holes.

Well, just like my knife is squeezed in my pocket in this dark and dingy room, Doug broods, so I'm in the unyielding grip of a black hole trapped within a black hole. Any vestige of meaning sucked away. Any glimmer of happiness or hope irretrievably lost. Any light at the end of any tunnel smothered in darkness. Any indication of any tunnel at all completely obscured. Any path to anywhere worth going totally obliterated.

If there's a God who knows everything and exists outside of time, as C.J. would say, then countless ages before I'm born, God knows all these tragedies I've faced will happen. Why allow it? It's neither logical nor reasonable.

And yet, as Kirk sometimes told me, everything that happens is all part of God's—what's it called? Yeah—His sovereign will. God, he claimed, is the source of all logic and reason.

Well, buddy, I beg to differ. How the author of logic can do things so illogical is, to me, beyond baffling.

A God of infinite power can do anything. This means it isn't fallacious to imagine God whispering to me in my uncreated state—before I'm conceived—some inkling of how my life will turn out and give me the option of being created or not. Hasn't Kirk told me that we existed in God's mind in infinite detail eons before we were created?

Sounds like a mystery to me. But nothing's a mystery to God. God works in mysterious ways, so He specializes in accomplishing mysterious things.

But even if God can't communicate with a person not yet created, He knows what I would tell him if He could:

Please don't. Please save your breath. Please spare yourself, spare others, and spare me this pain so insane. This grief beyond belief. My being born will mean terrible tragedy and horrific heartbreak.

My preference is guided by reasons so comprehensible, buttressed by logic so defensible, engendered by aims so apprehensible, and spawned by sentiments so sensible. It's such a simple wish. Yet so profoundly beneficial. Fewer people like me being born. Less heartbreak and pain in the world. A big dent made in overpopulation. Not nearly as many cars and plane trips. Decreased emissions. Cleaner environment. Slower climate change, et cetera. Man, it's sounding more logical by the second.

But knowing all this, does God do the logical and right thing? Does He respect and honor my request?

He won't. He doesn't. He didn't.

All things happen for a reason, Kirk would tell me. What good and logical reason can there be for all that's happened?

Sorry, dear friend, I see none. All I see are three miserable people whose lives are virtually destroyed.

Sorry, it seems God doesn't always do what's best. Which means He doesn't always know what's best. Which means He doesn't possess infinite knowledge. Which means He can make mistakes. Which means Kirk's understanding of God has serious kinks, and my being conceived is a big goof-up. Which means my buddy's faith is resting precariously on flimsy supports. And a life brought forth that wasn't meant to be, wreaking havoc everywhere it goes, like this detestable coronavirus that's afflicting so many.

Sorry, my being conceived was an oversight. It revealed a surprising lack of foresight. Now, it's up to me to set things aright.

What alternative is there?

By the way Kirk, here's my handgun. Would you mind firing it at me? Please don't be shocked. You don't have a clue what a tremendous favor you'd be doing me and many others, not to mention your God.

Doug chuckles. Scratch that. Kirk won't do it. Heck, he'd do anything to stop me from doing it. Short of shooting me, that is. There's another conundrum: shoot me to stop me from shooting me.

Hark! Is that a conversation I'm overhearing? Two voices whispering. God communicating with my guardian angel. I'll bet I gave that angel some grief.

Oh, dear angel, God is saying, wringing His hands, "I know you've had such a hard time of it, having to deal with such a miserable excuse of a human being. I know I goofed big time by allowing a conception I didn't intend to occur.

But no worries! I still have a lot of my ability to foresee things. You'll be happy to know that in just a couple of hours, it will be like the conception never happened. And then you'll have a much more fulfilling and enjoyable assignment.

And the angel rejoices.

See? Even an angel will be benefited today. Just think of all the good one bullet can do. I couldn't spend it better!

But ammo is in short supply these days. Besides, there's the risk that whoever stands to inherit the handgun I used on myself won't want to own it.

Doug once again pulls out and flicks open his knife. He stares at the blade. One powerful thrust to the jugular is all it takes. Use this, and some lucky beneficiary will unreservedly have my handgun, ammo, and an extra bullet to boot. And to shoot.

Alas, everything I've ever hoped for is down the chute. To achieve my last goal, I gotta be resolute. Too bad there's no magic flute.

Closing the knife and pushing it in his pocket again, Doug stands up.

Whoa! He feels woozy. He grips an armrest and holds on.

Things are steadier now. Slowly, Doug reaches for a jacket draped over the back of the sofa. Methodically, he slides his arms into the sleeves one after the other. It's almost large enough to get lost in as its owner hasn't had much of an appetite these days. As cool as the weather has gotten, this jacket comes in handy on those intermittent occasions when he's out and about. Made of fine denim, it's plenty comfortable.

He feels for his keys in one of the pockets, then slowly makes his way to the foyer. He grabs a backpack off a chair, swinging it over a shoulder. The dizziness returning, he grips the back of the chair. Breathing deeply, he looks back wistfully around the room.

The crack in the wall plaster is still there. But for his impending demise, it will always be etched in his mind, an ineradicable reminder of his ruthless depravity. A broken end table and lamp sit in one corner of the room. The stately column near the door is chipped. A lovely, hand-painted vase used to sit atop it—a wedding gift—but it too fell victim to his wrath.

A hopeless, hapless has-been, he commiserates with himself, I've been home alone for weeks, seemingly held up in a house that's hardly a haven and more like a hellhole, hounded by guilt and humiliation, hungering to depart this hellish experience, happily looking forward to heading out of here for good, hopeful to be entering a harbor of heavenly peace within hours. How my head hurts, and horribly!

Opening the door, he squints hard when hit by all the mid-morning brightness. It's like a punch to the eyes, irritating him. Now I have a vague notion of how vampires must feel when encountering sunlight. Too bad for them that I'll be bleeding profusely in broad daylight while most people in this town are eating their lunches.

He goes outside to the driveway, more stumbling than walking, and manages to lock the already locked pickup truck a couple of times before finally unlocking it. The short beep each time he accidentally locked his vehicle was truckspeak for You gotta unlock me, you dummy!

Opening the driver door, he shoves the backpack in, pushing it toward the passenger side. His body fully erect again, he senses more dizziness and has to lean over the truck for a minute.

Going back and pulling the front door shut, Doug struggles a bit to insert the house key into the lock. His trembling hand brings challenge to what is ordinarily a very simple task. He utters an expletive. Succeeding, he turns the lock for the last time.

Some birds sing happily, reminding him of Susan, who maintained the feeders and kept them full. She loved birds. They shouldn't be singing now. They shouldn't be anywhere around for that matter. Wherever she is now, that's where they ought to be. Guess they're too dumb to realize she's not home. Even dumber not to flee in horror when I walked outside. The truck beeps were irksome enough, but those birds are even more annoying. Their incessant, twittering chirps are only exacerbating my headache.

He steps back awkwardly, looking at what used to be a happy home. Pondering his life of abject misery, he hears his name.

Kirk stepped outside to get the newspaper and bring the trash bin back to the garage when he saw his buddy locking his front door. I heard the beeps from inside the house and wondered if Doug may be returning from an errand, he contemplates. I rarely see my long-time friend these days but almost always see his shiny pickup in the driveway. Calls to his cell go unanswered. Occasionally, I've stopped by and rung the doorbell, but, each time, there's been no response. It's good to see him.

How have you been? Kirk asks, walking to him.

Living the dream, man, Doug utters, somewhat sarcastically, still looking at the house. Haven't slept much in days, actually.

Doug and Susan Rykensen and their adorable baby, Charles Jacob, moved here fifteen years ago. Kirk and Doug have been good friends and neighbors for nearly all of that time. They often went on weekend excursions. Sometimes hunting. Sometimes fishing. Sometimes just hopping on their motorcycles for roaring treks along winding mountain roads. Kirk challenged Doug to join him in some mountain climbing every once in a while, but Doug always declined, citing chronic aches and pains from years of contact sports.

During some of their weekend trips, Kirk would talk about his faith in God and how God turned his life around. Occasionally, he'd throw in a thimbleful of things theological. Doug found some of the topics somewhat interesting and listened politely while looking for opportunities to change the subject. Still, Doug couldn't refute the clear and positive transformation in his buddy's attitudes and lifestyle over the last several years.

Kirk encouraged Doug to make it to a Christmas or Easter program at his church, where Doug's wife and son became members, and where Susan, with her lovely singing voice, sang in the choir. Doug came to a few services but confessed to Kirk that he really isn't a churchgoing guy. Besides, and no offense to his buddy, he really doesn't need God. Doug has tremendous faith in himself and his abilities. God is for frail, needy people whose lives are incomplete and lacking in meaning.

Everything was going well for the Rykensen family until several months ago, when things began taking a very serious turn—grieving Kirk. All that he has been able to do lately for the man standing in front of him is pray, and, in infrequent interactions such as this moment, just listen and let him know he cares.

Still praying for you, man, Kirk reveals. I've tried calling and came by a few times and rang the bell. Anything that I can do for you?

Doug sighs.

You've been a great friend all these years, Kirk, he tells him, reaching for his hand and shaking it, his other hand on Kirk's shoulder. Thanks for all your prayers and everything you've done. For being so good to me and to my—

Sighing, Doug looks down. I was going to say my family. But they're gone. I have no family.

Kirk speaks.

You're my best friend, Doug. I care about you. So does God, you know.

Doug slowly steps to his truck and leans back against it, holding his hurting forehead with one hand. He needs to be sitting. God really cares, huh? Sorry, the caring thing would have been to not let me and Susan meet.

I can tell he's been drinking, Kirk ponders to himself. His breath, his eyes, and his walk communicate it clearly. He shouldn't drive now. His words and handshake give me an impression that he's saying goodbye. Like he's going on an extended trip.

Thanks, buddy, Doug begins. As far as your God goes—no offense, okay? Your God and me? We still aren't on speaking terms. And we never will be. That's all there is to it.

Doug, all that can change, Kirk reminds him as he steps closer. God really loves you. And He really wants to have that personal relationship with you.

Doug listens. I really don't feel like talking about this. But I'll never see my buddy again. Not in this life. How I wish what he is saying were true!

Can I share something with you? Kirk asks.

Doug nods.

One very dark night, begins Kirk, when things were completely hopeless, it seemed. And I couldn't sink any lower, it felt. And there was no way God could love me or forgive me, I thought—

He's describing me to a T, Doug realizes.

"I was on the floor screaming out in pain. God, I cried, I need Your mercy. Jesus, I lamented, I need Your forgiveness. I need your deliverance from all this agony. Please see my suffering! Please forgive me! Please touch me! Please heal me!

And man, you know what? The huge load of pain and guilt and shame, as heavy as an aircraft carrier, that was pressing the life out of me? Slowly, it began lifting! I was starting to feel relief. I was sensing, maybe for the first time ever, a sliver of deep-down happiness. Like a ray of sunlight breaking through a very dark, dark sky, getting brighter and brighter. Until I was bawling with joy.

Visibly moved, Doug looks down, his eyes shut.

And, buddy, God turned my life around in ways I never imagined, continues Kirk.

By now, Doug appears utterly forlorn, his downcast eyes a study in torment.

His hand on Doug's shoulder, Kirk whispers, "Buddy, you're in tremendous pain. Like I was. I sense it. I wish there was more I could do right now to lessen that pain.

But believe me. What God did for me? He'll do it for you. Call on Him. Like I did.

Quickly wiping his eyes with a sleeve, Doug looks up, sighing.

I appreciate you, man, he says. You were like the brother I never had—

A wave of emotion washes over Doug, who has to turn around. He leans forward against the truck, his back to his buddy, sobbing as quietly and imperceptibly as he possibly can. But his shaking body reveals the depth of his agony.

Kirk voices a silent prayer. Lord, I'm hurting right alongside him. Please help him. Please draw him to Yourself. Please save him. I'll always be there for him. And yet, he's talking like I'm—like I'm some distant memory.

I'm grateful for my flexible hours, which means I can call the office and let my boss know I'll be in later. That is, assuming Doug would like to sit and talk over a coke. I pray that he will. He shouldn't be driving.

Kirk looks at his watch.

Having wiped his face several times with his sleeves, Doug turns around. Ever since Kirk found this Jesus Christ, he really has been a changed man. And he's been nothing but a good friend. Unlike me, who's hardly been concerned about anyone but me.

I really wish God could help me, Doug says with quivering voice. But I'm rotten to the core, man.

Hey, welcome to the club, Kirk remarks. The only difference between you and me is I'm a rotten sinner saved by grace. You can be saved too. And have a fulfilling life. That's a fact.

Kirk's voice is almost a whisper. Turn to God, Doug. He won't let you down.

His breathing quickening, Doug senses the onset of an anxiety attack. But he calms down just as quickly. That sounds wonderful. But Kirk's an all-around decent guy. Not like me. Sure, he caused his ex a lot of pain. But not nearly as much suffering as I've inflicted on my wife and son.

No. Sorry, Kirk. Your beliefs are earnest and sincere. But your beliefs about me are very much mistaken.

I can't, buddy. I'm too far gone.

Hey. Look, man, I don't have to go into work for a while, Kirk says. Why don't you come in and have a coke? he suggests, gesturing toward his house. We haven't talked in a long time, you know.

I appreciate that, man. I really do. But I can't stay, Doug reveals. There are some things I gotta get done.

Okay. Well, can I give you a lift? Wherever you need to go, I'll take you there. That would be another way we could talk.

That's mighty nice of you, man. Really. I know we haven't gotten together for a long time, confesses Doug, "and that's totally my bad. I'm not trying to brush you off or anything. Really I'm not. It's just that—I don't have a lot of time right now, and that would slow me down. No offense, okay?"

None taken, Kirk says. How about you come over later on, say, around fiveish?

Doug is fidgety. How can I tell him I'll be dead at midday? He looks around as he searches for words.

Chapter 2

U h. Well, I'll see if I can. It's just that—I'm planning on going away, man. I really can't stay here.

The thought that Kirk's longtime buddy is moving away is like a fastball slamming into him.

"Whoa, man! Earlier, I got the impression you might be planning a big trip. But you're moving?"

Yeah. Someplace where I can, you know, forget all these painful memories.

Doug has given me a lot to process, Kirk thinks. Wow. Well, many people do move elsewhere to begin anew and create good memories. Maybe such a move, as painful as it'll be for me, will help my buddy to clear his head and rebuild his life. We can always visit each other from time to time.

It's sounding like that recent top-dollar offer he got for both his house and truck is too good to pass up. There's been no moving van here so far as I know, so it'll be a little while yet before he moves away. Renting a van may be one of the items on his agenda for today.

I understand, man. Moving to a new place has its advantages, Kirk notes. And I know that such a major undertaking takes a whole lot of time to plan and prepare for. Not to mention execute.

Doug's eyes open wide. Kirk has no clue he made a couple of puns that made me shudder. The move I'm planning won't require movers. Only an undertaker. And I guess one could say that executing this move means executing myself.

Okay, says Kirk, glancing at his watch. Quickly looking behind him, he begins walking backwards, causing Doug some bemusement.

After taking a dozen steps back, Kirk tells his best friend to walk toward him.

What?

Walk to me, buddy.

Yeah, he can tell I've been drinking and wants to make sure I'm up to driving, Doug realizes. Knowing him, he'll take away my keys if I don't pass this test. Then my plans will be shot to pieces. No doubt this is another reason he wants me to sit and have a coke first, or drive me around. I hope he doesn't know about my DUI.

Okay, man. I'm perfectly fine. Watch.

Carefully, Doug walks toward his buddy. Despite his wooziness, his path is straight enough to satisfy Kirk.

Okay, man. You be extra careful, okay?

Doug assures him that he will.

Whenever you need my help with the move, Kirk says, you let me know, okay? Even if you just wanna talk, okay? I'll sure miss you, man.

Kirk and Doug embrace.

I'm already plagued with more pain than I can handle, Doug's inner voice cries. And now, my being so deceptive with Kirk is making my burden beyond unbearable. He's always been truthful with me. How will he take it when he learns I made the ultimate move and never turned to him for help? The thought is ripping me apart. I gotta go.

Turning, he grabs the door latch and pulls. I'll miss you too!

Quickly, Doug climbs in before letting more tears show and becoming destitute of even the few vestiges of self-respect he has left. From the driver seat, he looks once more at his best friend. The loving concern on Kirk's face tears at him. Doug reaches for the interior handle.

Goodbye, my buddy! Doug cries in a voice more wailing than speaking. Dying is so difficult.

Bye! says Kirk as Doug's door shuts. He offers a brief silent prayer. Yes, he's in so much pain, Lord. Please help him. Please keep him safe on the road. Help me too, as I'll really miss him.

The vehicle hums to life. Jerking forward a moment, it slowly passes Kirk, who lifts his hand in a wave and starts on his trek to the front curb. The truck's windows reflect sky and trees. There's Doug's personalized plate, which I've always thought is cool.

That truck is Doug's pride and joy. He never lets anyone touch it, much less drive it. It's caught the eye of several would-be buyers who have stopped by while I was outside. Having no idea if my neighbor might be interested in selling, I always directed them to ring his doorbell and/or slip their name and phone through his door slot.

One man said his older brother will pay top dollar for both the truck and the house and wants to give the vehicle to his son as a belated college graduation gift. Obviously a very well-to-do family. No doubt that son would be thrilled. I sure would be.

Having grabbed the newspaper, and nearing the trash bin, Kirk waves again as the red pickup, sparkling in the morning sun, turns onto the street. He watches the truck's path for a few seconds.

Pulling on the trash bin, Kirk realizes it's still full. It should have been picked up yesterday. Oh, well.

Inside his vehicle, his newspaper on the passenger seat, Kirk activates the garage door. He ponders awhile. I don't know how my buddy is doing financially. Chances are, not very well. I can't imagine him parting with his truck, unless he really—and I mean really—needs the cash. His house note payment may be more than he can handle.

Is he not foreseeing any hope of a reconciliation? If not, where will his wife and kid go? Will they stay here? Or live with relatives for a time until they can find a place of their own?

As for Doug, Lord, I sense You're working on his heart. Please continue to draw him to Yourself. Help him, Lord, to see that You love even the worst among us. I'm certainly proof of that. I've shared my testimony with my buddy on more than one occasion, and again just now, about how You saved me from a life of utter emptiness and intense pain.

Oh, I enjoyed countless pleasures. But they were all fleeting. Quite a few of my years were filled with debauchery and drug abuse. I told him about all the drug highs and my adulterous affair, and how all that led to the breakup of my marriage. Thankfully, I never hit my wife. But all my acts of moral turpitude, as the divorce papers put it, still felt to her like punches to the stomach.

I really should have a new will made. I've been hoping against hope for a reconciliation. But, more and more, it looks like that ain't happening.

Oh, I pray for a wife, dear Lord. By Your grace, I've been mostly staying away from porn, but You know I'm sometimes so tempted to look. It's my fault for indulging in the first place. Keep me pure. If You're pleased to give me wife, O God, I'll have eyes only for her and treat her like a queen.

A distant siren brings forth another distressing memory.

The night I saw a fire truck, police vehicles, and an ambulance at Doug's house is unforgettable. I was stunned at the sight of my buddy walking to a police cruiser in handcuffs and, not long afterward, his moaning son being carried out on a stretcher and placed in the ambulance. His wife was crying uncontrollably. Other neighbors had walked outside and were staring in stunned silence. Predictably, one or two were capturing the scene on smartphones. Many townspeople know what happened, as the dreadful saga was reported periodically on local media.

Kirk prays again for Doug and for his family, trusting that the siren he heard has nothing to do with an accident involving his best friend. Then he turns the key and pulls forward, the garage door closing behind him.

DRIVING ALONG, DOUG experiences another flashback to Susan crying, holding her face that Doug slapped hard.

I'm sorry, Baby! Doug says, trying to comfort her. I didn't mean to—

Just leave me alone! she sobs, turning away.

I'm just so stressed out! I'm really SORRY! he cries.

How could I have done what I've just done? What a miserable wretch of a husband am I?

He goes and grabs his jacket. "I'm nothing but a FAILURE!" he screams, kicking the column in the foyer with all his might, the colorful vase on top smashing onto the floor in pieces as he rushes out the front door, slamming it hard—

A blaring car horn barely keeps Doug from hitting the vehicle in the lane adjacent to his. I really shouldn't be driving given I have one damnable DUI to my name already. Failing another sobriety test will mess up my plans for days if not months. I would have written a letter to my family and left it on the sofa, but it will be torn up in as many pieces as the shattered vase and thrown in the wastebasket. Or burned.

How could I have hurt her so? And inflict such pain on my son?

I should have been more forthright with Kirk. He's been too good a friend for me not to tell him what's going on.

But knowing him, he'll do whatever it takes to stop me, even wrestle me to the ground and pin me down if he has to and then call 9-1-1. I'll cry out to please let me go, because I can't bear all this guilt anymore. Staying here will only prolong the agony. Time and time again, I've endeavored to drown it in drink.

But it always returns with a vengeance. Like now. It's too great!

Doug rubs a forearm across his eyes to rid them of the tears. Waves of emotion well up within, engendering something like a full-blown anxiety attack.

His truck begins swerving.

Get a hold of yourself, his inner voice cries. You gotta see clearly. You're buzzed enough as it is. Don't get pulled over. You don't need another DUI. At least you're driving away from the sun.

Calm. Calm, he mutters.

Okay, he whispers, breathing deeply. Just two more tasks, and I'll have peace.

Some minutes later, he is entering a bank parking lot. The line of vehicles at the ATM drive-through isn't long. After moving up behind a vehicle, Doug pulls out his wallet from a back pocket of his jeans and hunts for his ATM card.

I know it's here somewhere. Careful, keep your foot on the brake. There it is. I think I have enough cash in the account. I'll put the wallet on the passenger seat for the time being. Man, my head still hurts.

Before long, Doug is pulling out a bunch of twenties from the machine. He's been subsisting on his credit card most of the time, but it's nearly maxed out. This withdrawal leaves a grand total of $1.24 in his checking account. Seeing a vehicle behind him, he conveniently stuffs the bills and ATM card in a side jeans pocket and moves forward, hoping he has enough cash for the task ahead.

Getting back onto the main road, he drives through town, glancing here and there at the familiar homes and businesses that he won't be seeing anymore after today. His drinking hasn't erased the many fond memories he still has of this community.

There it is, the grade school C.J. attended. Across the way, his junior high school, followed by the duck park and playground where Susan and Doug took him often when just a toddler. Some shops, a few restaurants, and a movie theater dot the landscape.

Doug thinks about stopping at the dry cleaner's just to chat with another family friend one more time. He's in no terrible hurry. Slowing, he catches a glimpse of the fellow chatting with a customer. The nearly-deserted parking lot suggests business is way down.

The customer exits the business. But Doug decides to drive on, too embarrassed to stop given all the negative publicity he's heaped on himself over the past months. Moments later, he is passing the public library.

He turns on the radio, hoping to distract himself with some country songs. The one playing he immediately recognizes, but it's nearing the end.

As Doug makes a turn, a commercial break follows. An announcer invites listeners to savor the large variety of tasty meals: delicious chili dogs, hot, tasty fries, delectable, melt-in-your-mouth burgers, gyros that will titillate your taste buds, Greek-style pastries, Ruth's flavorful signature coffee, and so much more. Come to Ruth's—

Other than a cold slice of pizza for breakfast, food is the last thing on Doug's mind, and he pressed SCAN. "The Supreme Court will hear arguments today about whether the requirement of the landmark legislation known as—

They offer affordable climate-controlled storage too. Located just one mile out of town toward the state park—

"A DMV spokesperson says two employees have tested