TATER

"Jason. He is back."

These were her last words to him. This was the impetus behind his drive to the West Side. She had left a comment on his blog as "anonymous", knowing he would be adept enough to search the IP address and discover her identity. He had tried phoning her immediately, had needed clarification, even though those simple words conveyed everything. He hadn't actually spoken to her in some time, though the two of them had patched things up after he had made amends to her. No matter how much she claimed to forgive and understand his selfish exile, she always kept the old warmth of their friendship close to the felt, holding it just out of reach, something for him to work towards and achieve. He had never quite gotten there, and it would be a regret he would have hanging on his wall of shame, until his death.

He had called and called, hanging up every time her voice mail clicked on.

"Hello, this is Savannah George, I am unavailable to take your-...."

It was her professional voice, the cold and business perfunctory he detested, and that whose affect was wholly incompatible to the joyous and vibrant girl he had known long ago. The girl who was as strong as steel inside, without ever fucking realizing it. The one who had given him the courage to go on in the face of overwhelming futility. Though she would have shrugged it off with a dismissive toss of her head, he knew that it was her, not Ben, who had saved his life that summer with her steady and calming presence.

He sensed subconsciously that he was too late. If he were to tap his gift, something he swore he wouldn't revisit again, he would have seen the exact moment of her death, and the visitation upon her by the Maestro, the Dark Man, The Man in Black Boots. Though he had grown adept at walling off what he once considered his biggest asset, little things still managed to seep through, though usually only in his dreams at night, when his defensive guard was at low ebb.   If the connection was strong enough with someone, he would experience an actual physical sensation. He had felt the ragged pain on his throat, and the odd sensation of striking his head. Her image had come to him then, and he had felt her drifting away.

He wasn't at all surprised by the message from Detective Dubois of the NYPD.

"Mr. Henderson, this is Detective Dubois from the New York City Police Department. I regret to inform you of the death of an acquaintance of yours, a Ms. Savannah George. Your number appeared on her phone records repeatedly, and we are currently investigating her death, and were wondering if you would mind providing us some assistance? Her death is being classified by the Coroner as a suicide, but there are a few things which aren't quite sitting right with me..."

He went on to leave his number, once again gruffly stating his apologies for having to inform him of the death of his friend via the phone.

There were many things that weren't setting right with Jason Henderson, but he was trembling at the prospect of what an investigation may turn up, or bring back to all of them. He thought again of the fat little package of powder sitting on his coffee table, the gentle slide into blackness. He contemplated tapping into the font of knowledge just waiting for him  to free it from its cage, but quickly quashed that notion. Had he not learned anything about cause and effect?

He crossed the room and picked up the phone. He hesitated, then dialed the detective's number.

"Hello!  Hey I 'm on the line Jase!  It's been awhile.   You haven't forgotten me entirely I presume?"

"Ben?  Ben is that you?"

"Yeah, DON"T HANG UP!  We really need to talk..."

                                                             * * *

"When are they coming?"  He paused awaiting her reply.

"MOM!  When are they coming?" 

"Jason, I've told you for the umpteenth time that they will be here any minute!" 

She smiled to herself in the mirror, as she dragged the silver  brush through her damp hair.

"You excited to finally be away from here for the summer?  I'm going to miss you sweetheart, you gonna miss me?"

"Yes" 

He said, in his most convincing voice.  He was packed and ready, waiting for Ben and his parents to pull up in their black Fleetwood, "The Hearse" as they lovingly called it, which would convey him and his best friend upstate.  The Walkers had discovered the gifted studies program taught by Leland Quinley, and had recruited Jason, thinking it would be good for the boys to attend together.  Jason saw that their intentions were good, that they were doing this for him and his mother, as a way for them to put distance between the latest chapter in their lives.  Truth was, Jason was more than a little angry. 

He was more than a little sick of the lies he had been fed for the past two years, a horrible stretch of time, launched with  the death of his father, and culminating in mother pawning him off this summer, so she could be with her new boyfriend.  That he knew, the overriding concern she had  was for her own needs, and not his edification at this gifted summer camp, was problematic in itself.  They had tread water in the deep end of that pool one too many times, the last occurrence landing him three months of therapy with Eugene R. Cooke, Child Psychologist.

He had survived that mental shell game, the same way he had navigated around so many other obstacles in his young life, using unfair advantage of what Dr. Cooke extolled as his "extraordinary insight".   Jason chose to refer to it as "Pictionary" brain, named after one of his favorite games. 

Within a month he had become quite adept at concentrating on Dr. Cooke's Case study flashbacks, and as he got to know the man, get a feel for him, the images came through more clearly, and much more rapidly.  Cooke would try and trick him with seemingly innocuous questions, only to scribble some dark interpretation in his notebooks.  It was with major surprise, he received this grenade:

"Jason, your mother has stated that you told her you were with your father when he...expired, in the automobile accident?  Perhaps you can tell me a little bit about that?"

Deep water.

"I was sleeping at my friend Ben's house.  I wasn't with my father when he died."

"Yes, Jason, but she insists that you stated you were there?  That you gave some descriptive details th-"

"I was at Ben's house.  We've been like best friends forever.   Ask Mr. and Mrs. Walker, they've been friends with my parents since college!"

focus Jason

snap

"-details that were never shared with you." 

"Doctor Cooke, I know it seems kind of weird and all.  It was just something I said so she would tell me the truth about him.  I  had heard my mom discussing the accident with Mrs. Walker, and I just wanted her to tell me the truth for a change." he said as he blinked back his tears.

"I miss him so much.  I just wanted, needed somethin-"

"I think I understand Jason.  Tell me, do you feel that your mother is dishonest with you often?  How does that make you feel?"

Bingo.  Back to the shallow end.  Who wants the truth when it can't conform to all those ordered, and logical stacks of pictures?

Jason's eyes glazed over as he regurgitated the desired responses, was once again watching the movie of his father, through his father, slurring and weeping as he pummeled the wheel and dash of his Mercedes.  Saw him focus on the ancient oak tree which stood sentinel at the curve in the narrow lane.  Heard him whisper an apology as he accelerated.

                                                             * * *

He woke with a start and muddled confusion, in the pitch black of night. Not knowing where he was, or how he had come to be there. He was lost in the transition of dreamscapes and the crashing comeback to reality. He felt a slick, cold wetness as he fumbled his hand about, trying frantically to sense his surroundings. The odor of vomit assailed him, bringing him the flash of recognition he needed. He pushed himself up off the floor and stumbled his way across the living room of the coach house. Finding the wall switch, he was flooded with relief as he took in his familiar surroundings. He felt like shit, had no idea how long he had been out, what day it was, what fucking year it was.  He peeled off his reeking clothes in transit to the bathroom, and could think of nothing more necessary than a long, hot shower.

He paused before the mirror, taking in his weathered yet handsome face. Long full hair  given way to the receding of time, now cropped close to his skull,  Steel gray with flecks of black, set off with sapphire eyes. He looked at his body appraisingly, still a bit surprised that the scarred skinny body of an addict had been reclaimed and purified in  trips to LA Fitness and the rooms of NA. Despite liking what he saw when inventorying himself like this, he had been a bit too monastic over the past decade. Had not wanted further involvements, triggers, with things or people he could not control.  He discovered the unknown capacity  to go without sex for long stretches of time, and then sate himself for a few hours with the nameless. Pleasure without extending emotional connection was just about all he could muster after Ben had left him for tranquility and most likely, a new squeeze in San Francisco (not necessarily in that order).

He realized once clean, that Ben had been right to check out.  Jason realized that he himself was the one who shouldered  the responsibility for losing the love of his life. It was he, not Ben Walker, that had chosen to flee their life together with lies and oblivion. No matter how his love had grown for his old friend, it wasn't enough to hold the past at bay, the nightly trips to that summer spent at the lake in New York, and the horror that had culminated as fall approached, and had irrevocably seized and dashed any hopes for an idyllic childhood. The fact that their circle of friends had all been exceptionally gifted, had assured their survival, but never their redemption.

He stepped into the steaming flow of water and something broke inside him. His pretense of strength and courage flowing out of him as the old fears clawed their way to the here and now.   Once begun, the tears seemed to come without end, as he curled up on the marble tile, body wracked with fits of sobbing. He cried for Ben, for his father, for  the sacrifices he had made, the offering of his body, soul, and potential to this twisted fuck. He had come through the blackness of his bleak existence, only to remain a ghost, a soul in hiding with little comfort and nothing to really show for it. He had traded an addiction to heroin for an addiction to living in the shadows, and he railed against the cowardice that had pinned him there, moth behind glass, a fakery of a life unlived.  It was time to move on. 

High time.