Motive ; One Last Day ; Going Viral

by Dustin Stevens

  I am not just some kid having trouble with the passing of his father, and I am damn sure no longer Charles.

  “I can’t help it that you don’t like who I’ve become, but a hell of a lot of people do. I have friends and, more importantly, I have fans. Hundreds of thousands of people tune in every week to hear what I have to say. I’m expecting half a million or more to watch me on the Fourth and see what I’m about to do.”

  The walls shake a tiny bit as I slam my feet down, stomping by my crying mother to the dresser. I continue muttering under my breath as I pull on my cargo pants and t-shirt, grabbing up everything I can from the floor.

  Across from me, the sobbing finally quiets a bit, her voice finding its way out from the huddled mess on the chair.

  “What are you about to do?”

  I don’t even bother looking back at her as I go.

  “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  Friday, January 21st, 2015

  8:01 pm

  We are now in the stretch run. With just under two hours left before this comes to an end, finished or not, it is time to finally get to the part that caused Carmen Pearson to get in her car this morning and make the drive from her office in Nashville to the Clarksville Correctional Institute.

  Before we could get to the events of that night though, to the part that almost one million people tuned in to see live, and ten times that many have watched since, we had to get through everything else.

  It wasn’t enough to just sit down and give her a blow-by-blow of Independence Day. I had to take her back. She needed to see the entire evolution; from the humble beginnings to the frantic delusions that kept pushing everything so awry.

  As I promised her hours ago, not one thing has been altered. If that was the case, I wouldn’t have told her about the time I punched Quasi and definitely wouldn’t have told her about my mother. But that would have been dishonest, and it wouldn’t have done me or the story she would soon tell a bit of good.

  “Wow,” Pearson says, looking over at me, unsure how to continue.

  As this was something I’m sure she wasn’t expecting, she seems to be caught a bit unawares. There are no prepared questions for her to fall back on, nothing to help align her thoughts on the fly.

  “That was the last time I ever saw or spoke directly to my mother,” I say, the words soft and low. “I walked out that morning, took everything I could grab, and never returned.”

  The surprise on her face grows a bit more pronounced as she stares at me, again unsure of how to continue.

  “She threw you out?”

  “No,” I say, shaking my head just a tiny bit, “she would never do that. She tried reaching out to me over the next couple of weeks, just as she has tried coming to see me here but, each time, I’ve stonewalled her.”

  Her hands leave the keyboard and go to her lap, out of sight as I imagine they twist themselves into a ball.

  “Why?”

  My last desire is for this to become a Dr. Phil session, though this part is too important to cast aside. In my life, there have really only ever been three personal relationships worth mentioning.

  The first was my father, whose loss was the indirect catalyst for all of this. The other two were Quasi and my mother, both of whom I managed to completely alienate with my maniacal need to be adored by strangers.

  “Guilt,” I say, “shame, embarrassment. There are a number of adjectives that can be prescribed to it, though it all comes back to the same thing. Just like that morning when she was standing at my door calling my name and I didn’t respond, my mother was reaching out for someone that was only marginally there at best.”

  I pause, hoping she understands what I am telling her, though the expression on her face makes it clear she does not.

  “Thinking that somewhere deep down Charles Doyle still existed gave her hope. Finding out that he was gone, that this tattooed person named Chaz D was all that remained, would have killed her.”

  “And you don’t think knowing her son is about to be executed and refuses to see her isn’t doing the same thing?” she asks, a bold question that surprises me a bit, though I don’t let it show. “You don’t think that not being able to say goodbye doesn’t make it that much worse?”

  Both questions are things I have thought of many times. More than one night I have spent staring at the concrete ceiling in my cell, wondering if the next time she comes I should just walk down and give her a hug, tell her I’m sorry.

  But each time I come back to the same irrevocable truth.

  “I don’t want her to think that it’s her fault,” I whisper, flicking my gaze up to Pearson, watching for her response.

  It doesn’t disappoint.

  Her eyebrows raise and her eyes grow larger, though she says nothing.

  My gaze goes from her to the clock on the wall.

  “We should get moving. We don’t have much time left.”

  She stares at me a moment longer before nodding, her hands reappearing on the table. She rests them in front of the keyboard and says, “We’re skipping ahead to that night now?”

  Her use of the words skipping ahead brings a wan smile to my face, parroting the very words I’ve been using as caution against her all day.

  “No, we’re not skipping anything,” I correct. “The next two weeks were just more of the same. I cut a couple of promo videos, got the rest of my right arm done.”

  “Where were you staying?” she asks.

  “A shit box on the outskirts of town called The All-Niter. Hundred and fifty bucks a week for a bed and free wifi, allowing me to slavishly check my video stats every waking minute.”

  She nods, taking this down. I can only imagine the pain her hands and wrists must be experiencing, early carpal tunnel setting in from the typing marathon she’s endured.

  Just a little further.

  “Why not stay with Pauley and Rae?”

  My right shoulder rises, a half shrug my only response.

  “They really weren’t those kinds of friends. We partied together and hung out and stuff, but they definitely weren’t people you’d want to cohabitate with for an extended period of time.”

  I leave it at that, hoping she gets the point I am trying to make. Even for as out of control as I was at the time, it still paled with some of the things they were into.

  “So you were in a hotel...” she prompts.

  “Yeah,” I say, nodding, “setting up the live feed, getting cameras ready. It was a hell of a lot harder without Quasi’s help, but I kept at it.”

  “That’s right,” she says, the name jarring something in the back of her mind, “we’re about to see him jump back in.”

  My gaze drifts to the far wall, focusing on nothing. After a moment, I smirk, my head twisting an inch to the side.

  “Yeah, something like that.”

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  Wednesday, July 4th, 2012

  10:01 pm

  The fireworks of Franklin ignite in the night sky overhead, the deep percussive sound of their explosions filling the inside of the car. With the windows down, I can feel the bass of each one as it erupts, the front windshield vibrating. Outside my window, the colors splash against the water of the Cumberland River, a cornucopia of hues painting the backdrop for tonight’s escapades.

  Less than one hour from the official live start, I can feel adrenaline surging through me. It has set my heart to pumping so hard the veins are bulging in my forearms, my body wanting to jump from the car and sprint to my destination.

  The suburban streets are largely barren as I drive. Most of the people that live here are either downtown for the big parties or stationed along the river with their families for the fireworks. Those that aren’t at one of those places are camped out at home, watching on their televisions while claiming they don’t want to mess with the crowds.

  I know this because that’s where my mother is now, where my family as a whole has been since I was born.
/>
  On the seat beside me is a vest I fashioned for tonight’s show. Solid black, it was once a heavy knit pullover I picked up at an army surplus store for six bucks. It’s far too warm for the middle of summer, but I needed the extra heft of the thick material so it could hold up.

  The arms and shoulders have been removed to make it a little cooler for me, a wireless camera secured onto the chest of it with electrical tape. In my pocket, I’ll be carrying my cellphone, rigging the camera as a Bluetooth to transfer everything it sees to the live website streaming as a hot spot.

  Not the most high-tech thing I could come up with, but it beats all of the alternatives.

  Working with just one man was never ideal, though when Quasi punked out, I didn’t have many options. Asking Rae or Pauley to come along would be inviting disaster and even at that, they would never grasp the full significance of my plan.

  After that, there wasn’t really anybody else. The only other person I would I even consider trusting with something like this would be my mother, but there’s no way that would ever happen for a variety of reasons on both our parts.

  Having left pissed off or not, I’m not a total asshole.

  Over the course of the last week, I have instead convinced myself that Chaz D isn’t the kind of guy that needs backup. James Buchanan, the character that started it all, would never ask for someone to ride shotgun with him.

  Long ago, this stopped being about him or my father, but if I am going to do this right, if there is ever going to be any small amount of tribute paid to them, I must do this alone.

  Turning away from the river, I wind into the business district of the suburb, watching storefronts and single-family dwellings fall by the wayside. In their stead appears a series of small office buildings, their exteriors as non-descript as a million others like them.

  Corporate Middle America at its finest.

  A sheen of sweat appears on my skin as the sound of the fireworks continues above me. The rush of wind pouring through the window does nothing to cool me down or calm my nerves as I drive, knowing that I am inching ever closer to my destiny.

  The clock on the dash tells me it is eight after ten, fifty-two minutes before I am set to begin. For weeks, I have debated how to best approach this, whether to kick off from the parlor and let people watch me as I drive up. Doing so would only increase the anticipation on their end, trying to determine where I was going, watching for any small clues in the background. At the same time, it provides me with far less cover. It creates a lot more dead time for me to keep filled while driving and it brings the risk of me looking foolish if anything happens along the way.

  Tonight is my final coronation, the climax and confirmation of everything I’ve been doing. I have to be in control the entire time. I have to be certain it all goes to plan.

  The reflected light of the show fades behind me as I make my final turn, a new glow appearing on the horizon. The sweat bathing my body seems to increase on sight, forming small droplets atop the ink covering my arms.

  “Oh, shit,” I whisper, cutting my headlights as I reduce the speed and roll by my destination, staring in horror at what I see.

  The place looks quite a bit different than the last time we were here. Instead of the plain glass façade, a new sign has been added above the first-floor entrance, the words RIDER LIFE stretched across the top. In the parking lot are no less than one hundred people, lawn chairs and smoking grills filling the space.

  A few of the people look my way as I roll by, making no effort to mask my rubbernecking as I go.

  All saliva flees my mouth as sweat continues to pour from me. It drips off the tip of my nose and burns my eyes as I look once more at the glorious ending that was supposed to have been mine, the place buzzing with drunken revelers.

  “What the hell am I going to do now?”

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  I know he’s in there. Muted light is shining through the curtain covering the top half of the door. The sound of fireworks and commentators is audible.

  The smell of pizza lingers outside.

  Sweat continues to drip as I raise my fist for a third time, pounding the door with the side of my hand. Desperation surges through me to the point I can’t help but smash my hand against it, the entire barrier rattling against its casing.

  “Come on, come on, come on,” I whisper, envisioning the dashboard clock in my mind.

  I have just over half an hour before everything I’ve planned for the last month and a half is wasted.

  More importantly, every bit of ground I’ve gained, every relationship I’ve torched, becomes all for naught.

  “Quasi!” I yell, smacking the door again.

  The first two land hard and square, the third stopped by the door swinging open unannounced. Bright light floods out as Quasi stands before me, casually munching a slice of pizza. He glances me up and down once before shrugging, putting as much effort as he can into appearing unimpressed.

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” he says. “Please tell me the big Fourth of July reveal you had in mind wasn’t showing up over here and begging for forgiveness. Something tells me that might not play to the masses all that well.”

  I ignore the comment completely, fully expecting him to make some cracks before I even arrived.

  “I need your help.”

  His eyebrows raise a bit as he continues working on the pizza, though he doesn’t move an inch.

  “You do need help, that much is for damned sure, but I don’t know how much I can really offer. Sorry.”

  In my head, I count the seconds ticking off, the starting line growing ever closer.

  “No,” I say, shaking my head, “for tonight, I need your help. I can’t do this without you.”

  “Meh,” he says, again shrugging a shoulder, “I’ve seen the stuff you’ve been putting out. It’s choppy and the camera work reminds me of Blair Witch, but you’re doing fine. Keep sitting on motorcycles and getting new tattoos and people will continue tuning in.”

  I know the statements are supposed to be expressing disinterest, though to me they just show that he’s been tracking my progress. Most likely he could tell me with reasonable certainty how many views I’ve been experiencing, give me a close approximation of how many people to expect tonight.

  “No,” I say, my chest constricting so tight my breathing is becoming ragged. “You don’t understand. I tried to do it alone, but I couldn’t. None of it worked.”

  The last bite of pizza goes down as he turns over his shoulder towards the television.

  “Don’t let me stay here too long, there’s a show coming on at eleven I’m planning to watch.”

  “Abe!” I say, almost shouting the word. “Please.”

  The use of his real name turns him back to face me, though he remains silent.

  “My plan was to go to Rider Life and break in,” I say. “I was going to go into Vance McCreary’s office and take that God-awful football ring he had displayed on his desk, really show him how credible I was.”

  I have no idea why telling him the extent of my plans is pouring out of me, explaining it to him in full seeming the only way to really get his attention.

  His face falls slack as he stares at me, remaining silent.

  “I looked it up. The law in Tennessee would label it a Class F felony. At most, I would get less than a month in jail, you would get probation.”

  “Gee, thanks,” he mutters, his voice just audible.

  “But when I got there, the whole place was buzzing with people, hundreds of them everywhere,” I say, leaning forward and gripping the door frame on either side. “It wasn’t right, none of it.

  “That’s when I realized, we built Chaz D together. It has to be us, as a unit, that really pushes it over the top. I can’t do it alone.”

  Assuming the clock in my head is even reasonably accurate, we now have just over twenty-five minutes before show time. If ever we are going to end up as anything more than hilarious punch lines that become in
ternet memes, this is the moment.

  “Come on,” I say. “What do you say? One last go-round before we ride off into the sunset?”

  He remains perfectly rigid a moment before his shoulders sag. His head twists from side to side as he looks at me, his expression clouded.

  “You know this is crazy. And dumb as hell.”

  “I do.”

  “Do you even have a backup plan?” he asks.

  “A rough one,” I say, wanting to head for the car but knowing I can’t move until he does.

  With another shake of his head, he heads back inside, turning off the television and sliding on his shoes.

  As he does so, I can’t help but let a smile cross my face.

  The son of a bitch bought it.

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  Friday, January 21st, 2015

  8:38 pm

  I know the look that’s coming long before it arrives.

  Angry. Disgusted. Like she might just leave now and miss the last hour of the entire tale.

  The moment Pearson is done typing it appears, her gaze shifting to me with a glare that says she would stab me if there was some way possible.

  “You tricked Quasi back into the fray.”

  It isn’t a question, or really even a statement, more of an accusation. She snaps it across at me as if Quasi is her little brother and she is trying to protect him, absolutely appalled that anybody would take advantage of his loyalty.

  The truth is, I didn’t have to try very hard. The moment I told him what I was planning with McCreary, I saw his face light up the same way it had for months.

  “An argument could be made for that,” I say.

  “No,” she says, shaking her head, “no argument. You just said so yourself in simple sentences. You showed up on his doorstep, made him believe he was needed, and preyed on his desire to please.”