American Dreamer

by Shawn Wesley Ballenger

  Tommy stood there, watching his best friend attempt to get drunker, utterly speechless.

  “Where’s Gabe? I want to talk to him.” Brandon stumbled towards the patio door.

  Tommy’s wife, Kathy, walked in from the kitchen as Brandon drunkenly slid the patio door open.

  “What’s going on with him?” She gestured toward their drunken friend, who was now searching the patio for his intended target.

  “Brandon is plastered. He got fired today.” Tommy watched Brandon disappear in the crowd of guests outside.

  “What?” Kathy gasped. “What happened?”

  “I have no idea. I’ve haven’t seen him this drunk in years.” Tommy said, remembering the day Brandon’s father told him that he was a failure for not saving his marriage.

  Just as Tommy finished his thought, yelling from outside rang through the house. Tommy and Kathy stared at each other in shocked disbelief before rushing to find out what was going on outside.

  Brandon had his fist back, and Gabe was floundering in the swimming pool.

  “Brandon!” Tommy yelled as he ran up to him. “What the fuck?”

  Brandon stood at the edge of the pool, pointing at Tommy’s brother.

  “That’s for all the times you called me a geeky little fag!” Brandon yelled, remembering when he was a kid, and Gabe teased him, not knowing how close to home he was hitting him. “Want to call me that now? Go ahead.”

  Brandon bowed up and bumped his fist against his chest, threatening Gabe like a high school bully.

  “You fucking asshole!” Gabe yelled as he started swimming towards the shallow end of the pool.

  Tommy grabbed Brandon by the arm angrily.

  Brandon tried to jerk away, but Tommy gripped tighter.

  “Come on!” Tommy dragged him towards the house.

  Brandon turned his head and yelled back at Gabe. “And there’s plenty more where that came from!”

  He laughed maniacally as Tommy drug him towards the house.

  “Get the hell in the house.” Tommy slid the door open, pushing his friend through before stepping inside, violently shutting the door behind them. “Kitchen. Now.”

  Brandon didn’t say a word as he stumbled into the next room with Tommy right behind him.

  “Just what in the hell are you doing?” Tommy leaned against the counter and crossed his arms over his chest, indignantly.

  “Remember how he used to tease us as kids?” Brandon glared angrily at his best friend as he held himself up against the kitchen table. “Payback sucks.”

  “Payback? Fuck, Brandon. That was forty years ago!” He uncrossed his arms and grabbed the cabinet behind him.

  “Which means it’s was long overdue.” Brandon winked, clicked his tongue, and continued. “He started a rumor that I spent our entire senior trip jerking off in our hotel room.”

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake, I started that rumor by accident.” Tommy rolled his eyes.

  The memory of talking to Martin Branch, teasing about how Brandon had crusty socks, flashed through Tommy’s mind. Martin had spread the joke as fact, and soon everyone assumed it was true, resulting in Gabe giving Brandon the nickname “Crusty.”

  “You did?” Brandon shook his head, utterly confused in his drunken state.

  “Why are we even having this conversation?” Tommy threw his hands up in the air.

  Brandon’s lip began quivering.

  “Cam hates me.” Brandon opened his arms and fell into Tommy, threatening to send them both to the floor in a heap.

  It took a moment for him to regain his balance.

  “Dude. He’s a teenager. Teenagers hate everyone.” Tommy felt fat, wet tears soaking into the shoulder of his shirt.

  “Well, he really hates me,” Brandon replied as he wiped his nose on Tommy’s shirt. “I’m worse than my own father.”

  “Come on, man. Don’t say that.” Tommy knew to try to make Brandon see reason, when he was this drunk, was next to impossible.

  “Cam said I was too self-absorbed, and he’s right.” Brandon blubbered.

  “Come on, Brand.” Tommy grabbed ahold of Brandon’s shoulders and pushed him away gently.

  “I just want to go home and pass out.” Brandon pulled away roughly and turned towards the door.

  “Brand. Come on. You don’t need to be by yourself tonight.” Tommy tried to keep his hands on Brandon’s shoulders, to hold him in place, not let him leave, but Brandon jerked away forcefully.

  “Just leave me alone!” Brandon screamed as he stumbled towards the living room.

  “Brand. Please.” Tommy pleaded, following his stumbling friend. “Let me take you home. You can’t walk home as drunk as you are.”

  “Leave me alone!” Brandon kept walking.

  A few minutes later, Brandon stumbled into his house and closed the door. He flipped on the light and desperately scanned the room. The silence was deafening. Memories assaulted Brandon as his mind suddenly flashed back to little Cam in his diaper, running through the room laughing with Echo barking at his heels. He looked towards the corner of the living room where the Christmas tree stood every year, remembering the tradition of him, Marcia, and Cam going to the tree farm to pick out their tree.

  He started crying again as he stumbled towards the couch and fell face down on the cushions. He laid there several moments before flipping over on his back to stare up at the ceiling.

  “Why, God?” He screamed. “It’s not fair!” Tears streamed down his face as he pounded the cushions like a child having a tantrum.

  His eyes shifted to a photo of him and Cam that was on the bookshelf next to the fireplace. His mind flashed back Cam’s tenth birthday party at the paintball course where the picture had been taken. His son didn’t want a party, he just wanted to play paintball with his daddy. His daddy. He loved me so much back then, Brandon thought as he cried. We were buddies.

  “And you fucked it up, Brandon!” He screamed at the top of his lungs. “You ruined it, you selfish bastard!”

  Brandon rolled off the couch and fell to the floor with a loud thud. He reached up and tried to pull himself up using the coffee table and fell again before finally managing to get to his feet. He stumbled towards the photo and stared at it again. Grabbing it, he clutched it to his chest and sobbed as he weaved drunkenly towards his bedroom.

  The bedroom seemed dark and foreboding as he stood in the doorway. He flipped on the light and stared at the closet. Thoughts of the object contained behind that door filled him with terror. My life is one big mistake. His mind spun out of control. Nobody will miss me when I’m gone. I’m a loser. The image of a bullet smashing through his head, and his blood and brains splattering the walls popped into his mind. Brandon shuddered. I can’t do it.

  Brandon turned around and stumbled down the hall, clutching the glass frame tightly. Opening the door to his son’s room, he stared at the bare walls that were once lined with posters of sports stars. Light from the streetlamp outside lit the empty bookshelves that once held his son’s sports trophies and cast shadows across the dusty, unused furniture. This isn’t a home anymore. Brandon cried as he shut the door and trudged back down the hall to his bedroom. Standing in the doorway, he hesitated before fixing his eyes on the closet once again. You’re not only selfish, but you’re a coward, Brandon Daniels. Be a fucking man!

  He took a step towards the solution to his problems. God, I hate you! Those words drove him forward. He opened the door. He’s better off without me, Brandon did his best to justify what he was about to do.

  Staring at the top shelf, his eyes focused on the old Florsheim shoebox that contained the forty-five-caliber handgun his father had given him. His mind raced back to that day. “A real man has a gun to protect his family,” his father had said as he laid the weapon in Brandon's hand.

  Brandon reached up and slowly lifted the box, being careful so as to not drop it in his drunken state. Clutching it under his arm, he dragged himself to the bed and sat down. Placing the shoe b
ox beside him, the sound of his boss’ voice echoed through his head. I’m calling security. Steve’s words echoed as he waited for the guards to escort him out the building where he’d wasted the past twelve years of his life.

  He pulled the lid off the box and tossed it on the floor. “Be a real man,” his father’s words came again. He lifted up the gun. “You’re useless, Brandon,” Marcia’s words followed. He flipped the safety off. “God, I hate you!” His son’s words echoed one last time.

  He placed the gun against his temple, his pain overwhelming. The ice-cold barrel made him shiver as he pressed it harder against his skull to steady his shaking hand. He wrapped his index finger around the trigger and squeezed his eyes shut, his muffled sobs filled the room. Willing his index finger to bend and squeeze, he scrunched his face up and readied himself for any pain he might feel from the bullet entering his head before destroying his brain.

  “Please don’t do this, buddy.”

  Brandon’s eyes shot open. “Tommy?”

  His best friend stood in the doorway, his hands held out, pleading quietly with him.

  “I can’t live like this, Tom.” Brandon managed to answer over a sob.

  “Please, Brand,” Tommy begged as he wiped a tear from his cheek. “This isn’t the way.”

  “My life is shit, Tom!” Brandon clumsily rubbed his eyes to clear his vision. “Cam hates me, Marcia hates me, my father hates me—"

  “It doesn’t have to be this way, Brand.” Tommy pleaded. “We can fix this. You and me. Together. Daniels and Burkhart. We’re a team.”

  “It’s too late, Tom.”

  “It’s not too late, Brand. Please, buddy. Please don’t do this.” Tommy’s pulse raced as his mind frantically searched for the right words to stop him.

  Brandon looked at him one last time and closed his eyes.

  “You’ve been a good friend, Tom. The best.” He said as he took one last deep breath and repositioned his finger.

  “I can make you young again!” Tom screamed desperately as he stepped forward, holding his hands out to stop Brandon.

  Time seemed to stand still, and the room seemed quiet as a churchyard as Tommy closed his eyes and held his breath, praying that he wasn’t going to hear the horrible sound that would end his best friend’s life. Brandon slowly relaxed his face and opened his eyes.

  “Huh?” Brandon opened his eyes, and his finger moved from the trigger, though the muzzle of the gun stayed against his head.

  “I can make you young again,” Tommy repeated desperately.

  “What?” Brandon had known Tommy all his life, and while he knew his best friend sometimes said crazy things, he would never be flippant in such a serious situation.

  “I can give you a chance to start all over again. Look, Brand, I know this is going to sound batshit crazy. And you’re going to think that I’m just saying this to stop you. But, um, I have a youth potion.” Tommy held his hands up defensively. “I know that sounds absolutely crazy, and it’s hard to believe, but it’s true. I swear.”

  “You’re fucking with me.” Brandon’s eyed him suspiciously as he held the gun against his temple. “Trying to stop me long enough where you can call 911?”

  “No, Brand. I’m not. It’s the absolute truth. I swear it. Listen to me, Brand. If you put the gun down, I’ll tell you about it.” Tommy held his breath, gesturing for Brandon to calm down.

  Brandon searched Tommy’s eyes for signs of deception but found none. He concluded either his best friend was convinced what he had said was true, or he’d gone insane. He studied his face for several seconds before deciding to give him the benefit of the doubt. He slowly pulled the gun away and placed it down on his knee, still holding the handle firmly in his grasp.

  Tommy lowered his head and sighed with relief. “Thank you, buddy.”

  “You better not be lying to me, Tom,” Brandon said, still suspicious, as he flicked on the safety and placed the gun back in the shoe box.

  “I swear to God it’s the truth,” Tommy said.

  Tommy stood up straight and looked towards the shoe box, knowing he had to get Brandon as far away from it as possible.

  “Let’s go into the kitchen and have a cup of coffee, and I’ll tell you all about it.”

  Brandon thought about it for a moment before he eased himself off the bed. The effects of the alcohol were fading quickly as he cautiously moved towards the door. He stopped in front of Tommy, whose eyes were darting between him and the shoe box.

  “I told you I’d hear you out.” Brandon reiterated.

  Hesitantly, Tommy nodded before following Brandon out of the room.

  Tommy waited for the Keurig to finish brewing a cup of coffee for him while Brandon sat at the table drinking the first cup that had been brewed. Brandon held his throbbing head in his hands then grabbed the Ibuprofen Tommy had laid on the table. He popped the pills and kicked them back with a sip of hot, black coffee before going back to rubbing his temples gently. Cautiously, he looked up at Tommy, wondering what his friend would have to say.

  “Let’s hear it.” He said impatiently as he watched Tommy grab his cup from the counter and take a seat across from him.

  Tommy leaned back in the chair. “To begin with, you are the first person outside my family to know about the potion.” He took a sip of his coffee. “So, do you remember from history class the story of the explorer Ponce De Leon and his quest to find the Fountain of Youth?”

  “Yeah.” Brandon vaguely recalled the explorer led an expedition across Florida in the late fifteenth century looking for the fabled fountain.

  “He didn’t find it.” Tommy sat his cup down. “My great, great grandfather Nigel Burkhart did.”

  “You’re shitting me?” Brandon looked at Tommy skeptically.

  “No. He found it. It’s real.” Tommy crossed his arms on the table and stared into Brandon’s eyes. “De Leon wasn’t looking far enough north.”

  “You mean your great, great grandfather found it on your family’s farm?” Brandon asked, knowing that Tommy’s family had lived and farmed on that piece of Georgia land for well over one-hundred and fifty years.

  “Yeah. He did.” Tommy sat back up, picked up the sugar, and poured some into his cup.

  “Where? I mean, we explored every inch of your family’s farm when we were kids. If it were there, we would have found it.”

  “Somewhere on the west side of the property near the banks of Madison Creek. He found a small cave entrance.” Tommy stirred his coffee. “The way the story was told to me, he crawled into the cave, and at the back of it, there was a pool of shimmering blue liquid. It is said he thought it was the most beautiful color he’d ever seen. Being curious, he stuck his finger in it and tasted it. Staring into the pool, he watched as the wrinkles faded from his face.” Tommy continued. “So, he pulled an empty whiskey flask from his coat to collect some of the liquid to take home to show my great, great grandmother. Being a poor farmer, he came up with the idea that he could get rich selling the stuff as a youth tonic. The next day he went back to the place with a shitload of empty bottles, and it was all gone.”

  “Gone?”

  “All of it - the cave entrance, fountain, everything. Poof. Disappeared.” Tommy gestured grandly. “He looked for it for the rest of his life and never saw a sign of it again.”

  “Wow,” Brandon looked down, struggling to wrap his mind around such an incredible story. “So, I take it you have his flask?”

  “I don’t have the flask, but I have some of the potion. Less than two-tenths of an ounce. That’s all that’s left.”

  “How potent is it?” Brandon asked, wondering if that amount would be enough.

  “Very potent. One drop regresses a person five years. Give or take. It’s not an exact science.” Tommy tilted his hand from side to side, indicating his uncertainty. “At least, that’s what our family has learned over the generations that the secret has been passed down. Less than a dozen people we know of in our family have actually
taken the potion. It is shared with only two family members every generation.”

  “And you were chosen?”

  “I was.” Tommy paused as he thought about his fifteenth birthday when his father had told him the whole crazy story and presented him and his older brother Chris with their share of the potion. “It’s enough to knock off about twenty years apiece for me and Kathy. Chris and I have the last of it in existence. Once it’s gone, it’s gone.”

  Brandon suddenly realized the sacrifice his best friend would be making for him. “I can’t let you give up yours and Kathy’s future for me.” He shook his head. “I won’t let you do it.”

  “Brandon.” Tommy looked his best friend in the eyes. “I would rather give up an extra twenty years I never had than lose my best friend forever.”

  “Tom.” Brandon’s eyes watered as he debated his moral dilemma. He didn’t want to take away years that Kathy and Tommy had if they took the potion, but the temptation to take his friend up on the offer was too great. “I just want you to know how much this sacrifice means to me, Tom.”

  “I know, Brand,” Tommy stated, stoically. “Before you do this, I want you to know there are risks. No one in our family has ever tried to regress as many years as you want. It’s very dangerous, and you could end up a baby. Or worse.”

  I could regress to back before I was ever conceived, Brandon thought to himself. Am I willing to take this chance? He hung his head. What’s the alternative, death by a bullet through the head? Does it even matter at this point how I die? His mind raced before he looked up at Tommy.

  “I’m willing to risk it.”

  Tommy nodded, knowing what his best friend’s answer was going to be before he had even answered.

  “I’ll go get the potion.” He said, rising from his seat steadily.

  Brandon waited for Tommy to return. His thoughts rapidly shifted from the dangers to the rewards of actually being seventeen again. I’ll get to go to Prom again! I’ll get to graduate high school again! It’s going to be so cool to graduate with Cam. Maybe I’ll become a teacher! Maybe writing. I love writing. Cam and I can go to college together! We could be roommates! Of course, I can’t tell him who I am. I’ll just have to become his best friend! His thoughts were interrupted by Tommy’s return. Brandon turned to face him, his mind still racing.