Of Embers' Ashes

By Thomas M. Tukesbrey

‘Of Embers’ Ashes’ is a modern day ‘thief at the cross’ story of restoration, forgiveness and redemption:

The week started off typical for Mick Shorlan, regrets of his past and family tragedies that had consumed him for years filled his thoughts, he took the time to search out and harass a street evangelist, standards for the bitter, egocentric and self centered man he had become.
Yet this week would prove to be the most critical for him,
when a series of events confront him with himself,
his attitudes, perspectives and who he is at the core
of his very being. Orchestrated by the Creator,
the changes Mick undergoes in a week’s time,
especially concerning forgiveness, transform him,
in preparation for the not so Hollywood,
happy ending.

• Language: English
• Publisher: LifeRich Publishing
• Release date: Aug 11, 2023
• ISBN: 9781489748317

Thomas M. Tukesbrey

Born again in 1992 Studied for the Catholic Priesthood Spent four and a half years involved with college campus ministry with a pentecostal ministry Former middle school history teacher Haven't always made the right decisions, allowing for experiences expressed within the book I've written - lived much of what is described in fiction form

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Copyright © 2023 Thomas M. Tukesbrey.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Scripture taken from the New King James Version. Copyright © 1979, 1980, 1982 by Thomas Nelson, Inc. Used by permission. All rights reserved.

LifeRich Publishing is a registered trademark of The Reader’s Digest Association, Inc.

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

ISBN: 978-1-4897-4832-4 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4897-4831-7 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2023911895

LifeRich Publishing rev. date: 07/31/2023

CONTENTS

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Epilogue

Dedicated to all seekers of genuine truth everywhere

THE YEAR IS 2008...

1

I t was now three weeks ago the crumpled pile of tissues had, one by one, been stacked on the nightstand during an early fall flu outbreak on the north side of the city. Covering books and old papers, collecting dust, this compilation of the normally discarded was exemplary of what Mick usually paid absolutely no attention to, unless forced by semiconscious social mores that kicked in when the improbable guest was planning to come to call. In fact, throughout the apartment were the remnants of the physical trial he endured for a week and a half, battling finally back to health with a combination of various over the counter remedies, a suggested home made concoction, time and rest. From the outside observer’s perspective, the apartment was a dismal mess. Empty grocery bags and small boxes were randomly thrown about, clothing was in every conceivable location, giving the impression that the entire place was to be considered one large hamper, dirty dishes and take out Chinese and Italian containers were balanced, ironically, with great care on different elevated, flat surfaces, so as not to spill on the writings they rested upon. All this was within a small studio in which dull grayness was its strongest attribute, sparsely furnished with dumpster finds and containing a few sentimental knickknacks from an earlier life that was years and miles away from him now. It would have been obvious to anyone that Mick was both single and living alone.

He woke up groggy. The catatonic state which often accompanies a nap lingered like unwelcome relatives, making him irritable and short on patience. God forbid that the phone would ring in moments like these, to the dismay of anyone upon the other end. Those few who knew him also knew to get off the line quickly, those that didn’t generally wished they had, regretting the initial meeting and any sales inquiries faced a wrath of Biblical proportions, whether he was tired or not. Reaching for the pen and notepad he kept near the bed, knocking over a quarter glass of three day old Coke in the process, Mick began to write another of his countless thousands of ideas that often manifested, as did this one, in a philosophical snippet partially related to an ongoing flow of thought he had expressed and documented over the years.

‘There is an absurdity that exists in the world today and has for centuries in which individuals blame governments for the woes of society. The actual structure of a government only creates the avenues in which human nature and its desire for the exploitation of one’s fellow human beings is executed. Perhaps millions of people have died in vain in the pursuit of changing the political structure, when it is the individuals within the structure and their greed, vanity and selfishness that are the roots of humanity’s failures to advance but little beyond the animals around us.’

As was Mick’s habit, this note, upon ‘completion,’ was torn out and set below the tissues, on top of the small stack that had been accumulating for the past three months of other ideas set upon the lone shelf of his nightstand and essentially forgotten (an odd procedure he only conducted when writing in bed, all other ideas were in various notepads throughout his apartment – his ‘up and walking’ ideas). He threw an unwashed pair of sweatpants on his spill, swung his legs out from under the covers and searched for the only pair of jeans he had that actually fit him, a simple task, since his was an ‘organized’ mess, marked with both consistency and predictability on his part. He knew, basically, exactly where everything was and why it was placed there. To even use the term ‘search’ describes more his mental state but moments after waking than the ‘lost’ condition of the Levis. Pulling them on with a grunt and a scratch, Mick glanced at the clock to gain some personal context: 5:30.

Morning or evening? he whispered to himself, having grown accustom a long time ago to speaking aloud a number of thoughts that ran through his head, probably due in part to the loneliness he faced from the self sustained isolation he generally functioned within. Mick was convinced that he was only crazy if he began to answer himself.

Drawing the twenty years out of date curtains from the sole window of his apartment, he noted the sun was still up and about an hour from setting. ‘Evening it is, good, 5:30 in the morning would have been too early to get up, even though I’m not tired at all,’ he thought, this time without voicing it. There was nothing for him to really do. No obligations cluttered his schedule today or any other day, enabling his general lack of being aware of the time. His time was mostly spent in self indulgences that take on greater meanings to those invested in them than to the greater society within which they function. The writings he documented, his wanderings of the city he embraced for both the physical exertion and the mental stimulation and the interactions he had with a handful of acquaintances and, really, only one friend, took up the majority of his time.

A rather large inheritance he had received some twenty-nine years earlier allowed him to live his unencumbered and eccentric existence, an inheritance that was delved out to him in small dispensations, as were the conditions of the will of his deceased great uncle, who had been one of the few to make a fortune during the Great Depression, profiting greatly from the numerous foreclosures of individual family homes and businesses. Mick didn’t really know Uncle Clyde, in fact, he had only met him a few times when he was a small child and at certain, select funerals, but so is the benefit, at times, of small families with quick to die relatives. His only true distinction was that he simply had outlived all the others once his great uncle passed, leaving him as the only blood heir. After various charities were given sums meant to ease his conscience and gamble for a slot in heaven, Uncle Clyde left the remainder of his fortune to Mick, to be given out in a trust at small intervals, meant to both take care of any and all of his great nephew’s legitimate, lifelong needs and keep him from overindulgence, hoping to spare him of the financial troubles large sums of money creates for their owners or slaves, depending on perspective.

This monthly allowance was a nice chunk of change in the late seventies when it began to come to him at the age of twenty-two, but with the declining value of the dollar, combined with Mick’s general lack of any realistic or socially applicable ambition, there had been a gradual lowering of his personal standard of living. At first, he was the toast of his friends, with ladies readily available and spending to everyone’s delight. He thought nothing of the future, of investing in anything except his good time. Drugs, alcohol, fast women and cars, all in scenic backgrounds and desirable locations traveled to, made Mick the prodigal poster child into his early thirties. But, though the wealth and will of his great uncle ensured a lifetime of income, this income was fixed at a set rate that had ever decreasing buying power. As his money began to buy less, his vacations declined, people he considered great friends and lovers were seen with less frequency and the standard of living he had grown accustom to began to steadily slip from his hands. The concept of 20/20 vision plagued him concerning his past and he often shook his fist at recollections of the light not turning on in time. He knew, while still in high school, that someday soon he would inherit a large sum of money from Great Uncle Clyde. He had been told so through a few written correspondences that discussed his great uncle’s personal wealth, health and desire to keep a large percentage of his fortune in the family. This understanding planted the seed of his complacency and lack of ambition. He knew, or rather, guessed at what was coming to him and saw no need to apply himself in his studies or entertain any thoughts concerning college. College was for individuals who needed a greater opportunity to get ahead in the world, he would tell his friends, ‘and I already have everything I’ll ever need coming to me pretty soon.’ The choice was obvious, he would bide his time, await the Grim Reaper’s hand upon dear Uncy’s heart and kick back the rest of his life enjoying the riches of another’s labor.

He was twenty-seven when he attempted a court action to allow for standard of living adaptations to be applied to Uncle Clyde’s will, so that he would gradually see an increase, there was certainly enough money available for multiple lifetimes. When this failed, he would think, then should have been the time to create a new plan of action, to actually speculate about future needs he would have, needs he had at the moment that weren’t being met. Instead, he simply accepted the news as his need to live it up while he still could and counted the lawyer fees for this venture as a bump in the road, one less vacation and a few less baggies of the quality stuff.

From this point on, it was as if Mick had been fighting a slow and defensive battle of attrition, likened to World War One’s Western Front. He dug his trenches where he could, made over the top efforts to maintain what he had accumulated over the few years, only to be shot down by his economic reality, steadily running out of means and eventually, heart. At thirty-four he had to sell the property he had bought, being unable to continue to make the large mortgage payments, in order to pay off the loan and to have a lump sum to operate with. This he recalls with bitterness, like most of his memories, given how the wealth he inherited had been gained to begin with, coupled with how he lost the money from the sale of his home.

It was a simple idea. He considered life a gamble and considered, up to this point, that he was a winner. His good fortune had been evident since the passing of Uncle Clyde and he didn’t exactly embrace rational thought and behavior afterwards. Being utterly convinced of his inevitable, additional success that would enable him to once more live completely as he wished, Mick chose to use the funds from the property sale to gamble with in Las Vegas. He actually made a production of it, inviting friends that had been dropping off like flies and an old girlfriend that had left him ten months earlier. He wanted to demonstrate that he wasn’t the sinking ship they all saw him as, paying for their flights, rooms, drinks, meals and anything else they wanted, just like the old days. He considered it a small investment to, once again, gain the admiration of those he desired to have around him, those who had often let him know what a great guy he was.

It was late June in the dry desert air when they touched down and caught a limo to the newly opened Excalibur. This would be the launching spot, moving about throughout a week long planned gaming venture. As is the case with most unrealistic goals, Mick believed he could at least quadruple his money in a week’s time, having been lucky before at blackjack and roulette. He had pooled everything available to him in order to have $120,000 in a briefcase he kept handcuffed to his right wrist, for show and laughs. Playing the part of a high roller wasn’t foreign to him and the hotel was very accommodating, with all kinds of complimentary gifts and heavily lowered rates lavished on Mick and his guests. He secured his case with management, minus $20,000 to start with, wasting no time getting to the tables.

It was the Vegas you expected once you got near the tables. The flashing lights, the bells, buzzers and sounds of coins dropping from the slots. The beautiful women walking around, looking to encourage whoever was hot, the giving out of free drinks to encourage a bit of recklessness in decision making, the complete absence of clocks, windows, sense of time and personal responsibility. Everything there served to motivate the grandiose imaginings that Mick and countless others walked into the room with.

He decided on blackjack first. He found a table that allowed $1000 bets and sat down at the only empty seat. His fellow patrons were almost stereotypical, one large cowboy hat and boots wearing Texan, one Asian man wearing sunglasses, dressed in a suit that many would consider gaudy, one woman covered in diamonds and extravagance, one business suit, sweating, probably playing with company money and one young, rich daddy’s boy full of arrogance and gin. The dealer wore one of those plastic smiles you could tell was fake, yet you could never call him on the insincerity. He was steeped in politeness and business like manners, keeping the game going at a brisk pace, just how most at the table liked it. From bet number one Mick knew this was his moment to shine. He won the first three hands he played and won the majority he bet on throughout the four and three quarters hours he spent at that table, walking away that evening with an additional $51,000. Everything was going according to plan and he was just warming up.

Overconfident, Mick took some time away from the table to grab a meal and to steal away with the woman he brought, knowing he would get what he wanted there, too. Though some warned him of the possibility of losing his lucky streak by walking away, he knew they were wrong, he was a lucky streak. He was like an electric razor, just plug him in and he’d cut it smooth, anytime. He had no concerns about failure, since this was infeasible, given who he believed himself to be, his plan and the initial success demonstrated of the plan in action. After two hours of self indulgence and a few drinks, Mick returned to the blackjack tables and won another $23,000 throughout the night, before retiring to bed for the evening. He could have kept going, but, he thought, ‘why not be fresh for the next day’s winnings?’

After a hardy breakfast and his ego filled with the congratulations from his hand picked entourage, Mick once again turned to the tables, this time at the Mirage. Midas himself would have stopped and perhaps, without coaxing, uttered some comment of amazement. Mick just kept on winning. By the time he walked away from the tables on his second day, he had accumulated $131,000 more than he had shown up in town with, which meant, in his eyes, that he was basically on schedule. He caught a show and basked in his own brilliance, along with the admiration of those around him and permitted himself to emotionally embrace the exclamations of love Anna expressed, which were coupled with her explanations of how foolish she had been to have ever left him, how her heart actually had never waned and that she had only been watching out for the both of them by giving them time apart to show the endurance of their love, ever waiting for the right time to reunite. She was a mile wide and an inch deep, but Mick had always loved wading in cool water with his shoes off and ate up her words like they were gospel.

It was the third day that the disease set in. He had gone back to the Mirage only to find that his lucky streak matched the establishment’s name. After dropping $18,000 in less than an hour he returned to home base, a bit confused, but not bewildered nor shaken. He would hit the Excalibur once more, only to drop another $36,000 over the course of the next three hours. It became obvious to him why, he was spending all his time at the blackjack tables and had completely ignored roulette, where he had originally anticipated he would make his biggest killing. It didn’t take him more than five hours to lose not only everything that he had won, but also the vast majority of what he had come to Las Vegas with. Two hours into his decline at the roulette wheel, his entourage and girlfriend left, went back to the rooms and took enough money that Mick had left lying around to take care of themselves and secure flights home, which they booked and were on by the time Mick actually noticed they were nowhere to be found. He was down to his last $5,000 and secured a credit line of an additional $40,000 from the casino. Gambling all night left him with little more than the shirt on his back, literally, and so, at 6:15 in the morning the dream was dead. It would take the sale of his two prized automobiles to square with the casino and give him enough money to last until his next month’s check came to his recently acquired P.O. Box, necessary due to his current lack of a home.

He spent two weeks sleeping on the couch of his oldest and probably his only real friend, Tyler Benigment, whom he had grown up with in Deerfield, a modestly affluent northern suburb of Chicago. There were the standard frustrations and exaggerated exclamations spewed forth from Mick about the fix being in, the defeat at the hands of cheating and the inevitable belief that all had been unfair. Taking personal responsibility for ignorance wasn’t a strong point for him and Tyler recognized the ancient patterns and his needed expressions of sympathy, understanding and general agreement.

You have no idea how close I was to busting that town wide open and then my so called friends destroyed my karma, was a consistent theme throughout the time spent.

Never seeking a judgment opinion or presenting a line of questions related to the legitimacy of his choices uttered from Mick’s mouth. He knew, still, it had been the right decision, that it never really had been a chance venture. He was made to win. He simply hadn’t taken into consideration, pardon the pun, the cards being stacked against him, due to the insensitivity of those he had considered friends, the overwhelming dishonesty of those operating the tables and the assistance they must have had from his fellow gamblers. He could even recollect moments that he thought curious, which he overlooked at the time, when signals seemed to be passed between those around him at the tables. He had been set up and vengeance was one desirable wish, had he only the names and addresses.

With the first check received after his return, Mick began to rent the studio apartment on Fullerton he still resided in. He dedicated himself to a self absorbed plan of financial conquest that never got off the ground. Working was beneath him, his talents being far too precious to waste in the private sector. The thought of answering to anyone or being dictated to was not for his caliber. Over time he began to accept that, perhaps, his fortune would come only with patience, perseverance in his dedicated efforts of self proclaimed relevance and a greater understanding of working the system of American free enterprise. This had to be the answer, since he considered himself a man of destiny.

Having dressed, Mick shuffled throughout his apartment, looking through a few old magazines and fixing himself an omelet with sliced pieces of ham and melted cheese, of which the aroma invigorated and momentarily covered the stale odors of his residence. Greedily wolfing this down as he read an article from a week old Tribune on the economic impact of the Iraq War, he began to let his thoughts wander, thinking of the streets he would trudge through after what was for him, breakfast. After contributing to the pile of dishes he would usually clean every couple of weeks, today not being the day, he made the brief rounds of establishing an air tight and secure home and exited. He knew the window was locked, he never opened or unlocked it to begin with, but being a creature of habit, he only felt comfortable going through his usual ritual.

He had seen a steady decline in the condition of his apartment building. When at first he took up residence, it was rather upscale, at least upper middle class in its inhabitants. A well kept and manicured exterior was matched by a clean and maintained interior that always had the appearance of having been freshly painted. Mahogany doors and trim lent a sense of style and class, blending well with the lighter shade of brown the decorative lighting gave to the walls with a crisp brilliance. Security hadn’t been an issue there, with a guard always sitting at the front desk of the entrance and two sets of doors that only could be gotten through with the proper set of keys or the standard courtesy calls made to the individual apartments via the latest intercom system for the time. This had been the greatest selling point for him and he came and went, in those days, with a complete sense of personal safety, giving little to no thought of his valuables he would later return to every evening. His was a steady and growing habitual change over time that coincided with the decline of the building and the neighborhood, being caressed by an ever increasing sense of paranoia and fashioned by his belief, mostly subconscious, that if they were willing to steal from him in Vegas, they would certainly be willing to do so here, especially should they gain access to his treasures.

Scuff marks now plagued the woodwork, as if a maniac with a razor had been given free reign to attack with random, indiscriminate blows. Most of the lighting was haphazard, bulbs rarely being replaced and some fixtures being incapacitated long ago. The walls had cracked in many spots, with different colored plasters having been applied in a slapdash manner by a variety of fly by night, two bit handymen, always cheaply hired and brought on call only when possible concerns of condemnation of the structure demanded it. This only slightly distracted one from the faded and peeling coat, as well as the writing in spots that really caught one’s eye. His favorite read, ‘for a good time, be willing to have one.’ This was a deviation from the usual vulgarity and, though a comment that actually slapped him in the face at times, at least, he thought, it said something. There was no longer a security guard, eliminated a little over a decade ago and the first of the two security doors was broken, though keys continued to be issued by management, at a hefty price should one be lost.

Given the changes and the mass evacuation of ‘quality’ clientele, one would wonder why Mick stayed, but two major factors played the deciding role. First and foremost was his economic situation, which limited his choices, but secondly was his almost beyond human resistance to change. Moving would have meant packing, packing would have meant going through the clutter and going through the clutter would mean facing all the remnants of his past which were situated throughout the apartment. As much as he detested the descent his living conditions had taken, so much more did he abhor the idea of actually taking actions that would have brought change to his reality. His thoughts ranged from a sense of control which he had, at least, over his own studio to a stifling fear that gripped him on rare occasions when the consideration of sifting through his various piles could possibly present evidence of poor decisions or missed opportunities.

It wasn’t until he reached the top stair outside that he realized he had forgotten something to write on. There were a few items Mick refused to be without upon any excursions, and rarely forgot, beyond his four walls: his cigarettes, a lighter, his wallet, a notepad, pen and his keys. Turning around and making his way back into his apartment, he crossed the room to a set of four shelves on the wall across from his bed. It was here that he kept many of his cherished tokens of the past, the ones that brought positive recollections, anyway. There was a 1969 program from Wrigley Field, from the last game his father had taken him to before his untimely death at the age of fifty-eight. A patch for the Presidential award given for excellence in physical fitness he had won his freshman year in high school. A funny looking porcelain duck given to him upon his seventh birthday by his mother, which always reminded him of her. A conch shell twice the size of his fist he picked up on a beach in St. Thomas while vacationing with, perhaps the only woman he ever truly loved (not mentioning the seemingly countless crushes he had in and prior to his teen years, as well as the various self deceptions he held dear at the time, none of which amounted, in fact, beyond infatuation and subconscious reactions to personal insecurities), Margaret Bilston. All these and other items were each covered heavily with dust, but still holding the positioned arrangement that was carefully selected when first put there. Though it was living in the past looking at all these things, they were, at times for him, his only source of hope. If he had known happiness in the past, which each of these items represented, ultimately, to him then, it was possible to, once again, find a bit of it in the future. He essentially ruled out his present.

A quick inventory of his shelved contents brought a number of split second flashes of days gone by, though overshadowed by the task at hand. He pushed aside a stack of papers that had made their way there and found the notepad he desired, but also another remnant of his past he hadn’t seen or thought about for quite some time, given its concealment and the distance in time he had from the stirred remembrance. It was an old and completely rusted railroad spike he had had now for nearly four decades. He picked it up, rubbing with his thumb one of the sides, allowing flakes of rust to fall to the faded and worn carpeting below. A smile ran across his face as he drifted for a moment to a better and never diminishing memory.

2

T yler Benigment was an awkward and geeky young man at thirteen. Lanky and slender with a high level of acne breakout, he gave the appearance of an innocent, blundering clown, with his feet too big for his body. He was prone to clumsiness and maintained a countenance that was the epitome of nervousness, a combination of an ox in a glass shop and a man spinning dozens of plates on sticks. He was the easy target for the heavier and insecure boys at school, despite being taller than most of them, and the receiver of behind the back, ‘yuck, no way,’ under the breath comments from the girls, none of which he would have even considered ever making any efforts towards, given the shyness that he had in any social situation where he wasn’t completely comfortable and accepted. He was the kid that sat on the side of the gym at every junior high dance. He wore thick, plastic rimmed glasses that often had tape holding them together, hand me down clothing from his two older brothers that weren’t in style even when they had them and a high pitched voice in the process of changing, making even simple conversation a breeding ground for potential disaster of cracks and embarrassment. All this, along with red hair and freckles, marked him as someone only a mother could love to those who didn’t know him.

But Tyler had a classic and dry sense of humor, using sarcasm as both an offensive and defensive weapon, as well as a head full of grand ideas the general public rarely, if ever, recognized. He was wholeheartedly kind and loyal, qualities that kept his friends his friends, those that had been willing to have gotten beyond the barriers that would keep people from initially engaging him. He accepted you for who you were and was quick to establish a complex network of personal support should you need him. Despite the amassed quantity of drawbacks that would have kept others down, Tyler maintained a personal balance and optimism that exceeded most his age. He believed with devotional faith that which he embraced, which included ideas, personal hopes and people he cared about.

He had been the new kid at Wilmot Junior High just under a year earlier in a move he had emphatically protested, from a small town far outside Grand Rapids, Michigan, forced upon him due to his father’s new job as a tax accountant based out of northern Cook County. Given his appearance and the negative stereotypes immediately thrust upon him by his peers, it was a culturally shocking and difficult transition in Deerfield. The ‘brains’ wouldn’t receive him. Though he was bright enough to have been among their numbers, his intelligence hadn’t derived based solely from book knowledge. He was an average student, applying himself strongly in the few things that interested him and making minimal efforts towards the majority of subjects that didn’t. He was definitely not a ‘jock.’ The band members, of whom he probably had the most in common with in the school for all kinds of reasons, rejected him by default, he played nothing but his radio constantly, and they were birds that only seemed to flock together. The, would be, juvenile hawks and doves had no part with him either, since he, himself, rejected their black and white visions. Tyler viewed the world in Technicolor. For all not so practical purposes, this left Tyler as an outsider, a reject in the socialization process formulating and defining status at the middle school level.

He met Mick at the beginning of seventh grade, in the homeroom of Mrs. Straston, a down to earth eccentric that had no problem putting forth her own opinion amid the facts she dispensed. After initially leading the way of Tyler’s chastisement, Mick began to feel sorry for him. Tyler showed that he was hurt, but made no efforts to strike back at those who singled him out. It was a simple and by all appearances, uneventful exchange on the playground that turned Mick completely.

Hey, new kid, what’s your problem?

To be honest, I don’t think I’m the one with the problem, Tyler retorted.

All the other kids are making fun of you right to your face, why don’t you do something about it?

They’re all just a bunch of idiots who don’t even know me. To tell the truth, they probably are just insecure anyways, at least that’s what my mom says.

Huh?

Yeah, they probably have a bunch of problems at home or something and to make themselves feel better, they pick on someone else.

You think you’re pretty smart, don’t you?

It’s not so much smart as being right or wrong and I know I’m not always right, but I know I’m not wrong, they haven’t even given me a chance.

Well, I’m gonna start a football game, do you wanna play? You can be on my team.

This was an obvious break. Tyler could tell that Mick got along with just about everyone. Mick had the uncanny ability to bounce between groups, being accepted by most of his fellow students, without attaching himself to any of the cliques so as to be identified as ‘belonging’ to any one. He was a bit of a class clown and could make the others laugh, endearing him to them, which opened all kinds of doors.

Yeah, thanks.

Even as they walked to gather other players for the game, there was a mutual ease that came over them both. It wasn’t until the bell rang that the formality of introductions took place as they ran together for the door. From this moment on they knew they were friends and as time went on, they became inseparable. One was always at the other’s house after school and on weekends. Sleepovers, bike rides, trades of comic books and baseball cards and games of all kinds became commonplace for them, but the key to it all was the ability to make each other laugh, often to the point of personal requests to stop, due to the physical pain extended bouts of laughter brought to their sides. Theirs was to develop into a timeless friendship, the type that lasts beyond circumstances that usually bring people together and fades once the commonalities they shared were over, such as school, a sports team or work. It was the kind that picks up where it left off regardless of how much time passed between. This is not to say that the relationship was based on a mutually recognized equality.

Mick was a dominant character, overshadowing others, seemingly lost in his own personal sense of significance. It went beyond the routine childhood phenomenon of being self-centered, which the majority of suburbia churns out. He had a strong will, coupled closely to a fierce and self righteous personal sense of ability. Competitive and egocentric, he got along with others rooted from whit, but these were surface relationships which kept all engaged and at the safe distance of arm’s length. When Tyler came along, Mick was ripe for opening up to someone, since he never really had beyond family members, especially his older brother, whom he idolized and was currently serving the second of a two year tour of duty in Vietnam. In fact, it was his brother’s absence that created the void, which brought on additional tension beyond the usual preteen to teenage woes and motivated him to reach out passed the superficial to someone he could connect to.

Tyler accepted his role as second fiddle without qualms, being trained up for it as a middle child, having a younger sister who got most of his parent’s attention, in addition to his two older brothers. He never really, until much older, considered himself as such, only as complimentary, a yin to Mick’s yang. They fed off each other with a background of societal turbulence, with the war raging in Vietnam, racial tensions and the civil rights movement, with its civil disobedience through nonviolent protests (seemingly always met, ironically, with violence), riots, the failure of President Johnson’s war on poverty, the beginnings of environmental awareness due to increases of pollutants by land, air and sea that couldn’t be ignored anymore, the drug and free love subcultures in clash with the conservatives and social ills like murder, rape and theft on the rise. The pins and needles brought many to the point of walking on eggshells, creating confusion, disillusionment and outright rebellion from all that had once been considered sacred. Despite any and all parental efforts to shield their children from the outside world, all that took place in American society at that time had affected everyone, no one went untouched. Parents rarely give their children enough credit to realize that what affects them deeply affects those dependent on them and that very little is left unnoticed, even if only on the subconscious level. Even a baby responds with tears when anguish is sensed in their mother. These pressures did more than trickle down from the adults, they gushed in raging waves that left impressions which last a lifetime. As Mick and Tyler’s relationship grew and strengthened, it seemed the world around them was falling apart.

The roller coaster took several painful and nauseating turns by late August of 1968. Death totals from Vietnam mounted, with the Tet Offensive taking the American public by surprise and demonstrating the futility of the war and the utter waste of human life being sacrificed in a losing effort, even bringing Walter Cronkite to advise negotiations. Protests of the war became ever increasingly violent and confrontational. Riots throughout major U.S. cities took place as a result of the assassination of Dr. King, the symbol of the American lack of conscience. Robert Kennedy was gunned down, like his brother President John F. before him, taking with him an unexplainable optimism and hope to the grave. The cold war took a new step forward towards gloom and doom when the Soviets invaded Czechoslovakia. Even pop artist and icon Andy Warhol was shot. The boys, along with the society around them, struggled with the turn of events that were shaping the American psyche. Not only were their bodies telling them they were growing beyond being kids, but the anguish that screamed out all around them thrust upon them adult realities in their childhood lives. Perhaps this, with their deep desire to just be kids with no cares or concerns, was why the last Friday of summer meant so much to them.

It had begun like any other summer day. Tyler had stayed the night at Mick’s in order to get an early jump on it, so as not to waste a second. Soon they would be eighth graders, steeped with book reports, science projects and math homework that would, in their eyes, steal their precious time, so they looked at this day as a bit of a last hurrah. Mick woke first, dripping droplets of water on his friend’s forehead, Chinese water torture style, in good humor to get him moving.

What the, thanks, asshole!

Good morning, Sunshine.

Stick it, completed a brief but pleasant exchange, where the worst could be said, but the best intended, among true friends.

They dragged on their clothing and after taking the time for a few punches and pushes, one of which sent Tyler against the door frame hard, sending a sharp pain between his shoulder blades, they went downstairs for breakfast. Mick’s mother, Mrs. Shorlan, had prepared pancakes, eggs, toast and sausages for the family, of which Tyler was considered a welcome extension.

Don’t talk with your mouth full….Mick, take that hat off at the table, she insisted, like so many other countless times.

Mick even mimicked the words to a tee as they were spoken, much to Tyler’s delight and apprehension, imagining the day lost, had Mick’s mother actually been paying attention and caught him. They both snickered at the successful act of stealth. Noting his mother’s positive disposition, he extended a compliment about the morning eats to pad the probability of a successful launch out of the house.

Mom, we’re going to be out all day, riding our bikes and stuff, okay?

I think your father wants you to clean the garage, he’ll be down in a minute, you’d better wait for him.

BUT MOM!! School starts Tuesday and I can clean it tomorrow, an anxious Mick retorted, knowing full well that if he played this hand right, he would be out the door before his father ever had a chance to chime in anything.

Don’t ‘but mom,’ me, mister. I said you need to speak with your father, Mrs. Shorlan stated with a firmness that had holes in it, Mick could tell by the little glimmer in her eye this was an opportune moment.

The two boys, having had their fill, slowly began to rise from their chairs while Mrs. Shorlan’s back was turned. Quietly, they inched towards the door, choreographed and familiar steps nearer to a day of freedom. As she began to turn around, the two were but a few feet from the backdoor. When eye contact was made and before she could utter another word, Tyler broke out with a ‘thanks, Mrs. S.’ It was a routine and almost methodically practiced cue for Tyler to throw a screen by thanking Mrs. Shorlan for breakfast as they sped through the door, buying them that needed, split second to exit successfully, both of them knowing she would habitually respond politely to the compliment and fail to have the time for an instructional retort. She knew what they were doing, but she usually let it happen, babying Mick a little more since her eldest son had been drafted and shipped off. Besides, she