by Jones, Brent
Brennan stifled sobs, hoping not to distress Fender in his last moments. “I l-love you, little buddy.” He gasped, stroked Fender’s face, treasuring its softness, and repeated, “I love y-you, little b-buddy.” He kissed Fender on the nose and tears dripped from his chin. “This dog s-saved my life, y-you know.”
The vet nodded. She listened and offered a reassuring smile.
“Ten years ago when I thought I couldn’t go on. He introduced me to my wife, too, if you can believe it. Looked after my daughter until the day she died. He . . .” Brennan choked on his words, managed only to say, “He w-was the last person to see h-her alive.” He looked up through burning red eyes. “I’m as r-ready as I’ll ever be.”
The vet took the cap off a needle, injected it, plunging the fluid from the syringe with her thumb. A young woman in scrubs stood nearby. She listened to Fender’s heartbeat through a stethoscope but kept silent.
“I l-love you, F-Fender.” His words came out a muffled squeak, buried beneath ragged sobs. Half the syringe gone, the light began to fade from Fender’s eyes. His pupils dilated and the rise and fall of his chest grew farther apart. “I’ll n-never . . .” He pressed his head against Fender’s, struggling to finish the thought. “. . . n-never f-forget you, l-little buddy. I’ll never . . .”
Fender drew in his final breath. An almost inaudible whimper emerged from his throat, high in pitch, as his spirit left his body. The sound was unmistakable. And even though the vet and technician gave no indication they had heard it, Brennan knew he hadn’t made it up. Fender had said, You saved my life first, Man Human.
And then Fender was gone.
Chapter 30
The cool morning sky was gloomy and overcast. Showers had thickened the shores of Montrose Beach. Brennan took slow steps through the dark sand and felt it compact beneath his feet. He walked with Fender at his side, pausing every few steps to look across the water to the towering city skyline. It seemed like forever ago that he and Fender had first laid eyes on Chicago from a distance, en route to Milwaukee.
Brennan stopped moving and shut his eyes, damp gusts of wind streaming past his ears. He focused on the memory of Fender glued to the Lexus window, always searching for something. The vet had told him that cremation would take a week, and that his remains could be shipped to Buffalo. But Brennan had insisted that, for a price, anything could be done the same day. He had picked up the urn that morning and now cradled it beneath his arm.
He knelt and traced the wet sand with his finger. It felt hard, granular, refreshing. He etched Colin’s name first—just far enough from Lake Michigan that the tide couldn’t reach it—then Rosie, Abby, and Fender underneath. He drew a heart around all four names, smiled, and allowed himself a moment of silence to honor their memories. We’re all just fleeting memories, he thought. Here one day and washed away the next.
It was the right time of year to find the beach crowded, but in such miserable weather, it was deserted. He noticed a young girl a hundred yards away. She wore rubber boots, a rain jacket with its hood pulled over her head. She splashed in the cold water. Her parents watched from a short distance, huddled together for warmth.
Even though the girl bore almost no physical resemblance to his daughter, he felt she had her spirit. She jumped, splashed, laughed, skipped stones across the shimmering surface of Lake Michigan. And behind her, following her every move, was a portly French bulldog. A breed known for its aversion to water, but a dog willing to make an exception to play with his Little Human.
The girl giggled and shrieked, kicking up a storm of mud and water. Her bulldog hopped and skipped circles around her, dodging splashes, barking with excitement. It took Brennan back to Cocoa Beach, Fender trailing Abby into the Atlantic with a stick in his mouth.
He approached the edge of the water, allowing its shallow waves to ripple over his shoes to his ankles, soaking his socks. He knelt once more and took a minute to enjoy the whoosh of the waves. He removed the lid with care and shook the urn, a little at a time, letting the water absorb Fender and carry him out to sea.
Part of him believed that the remains should be scattered next to Abby back in New York. But he also felt that Fender belonged right here. Chicago had been the last stop on his greatest adventure—his last hurrah. And the lake and surrounding parkland of Montrose Beach offered a tranquil contrast to the urban chaos.
He prolonged the moment, giving each shake its own significance. He set the urn upright in the sand, saving a trace of ash for a keepsake vial he intended to make once home. He closed his eyes and let the words flow from his heart.
“I don’t think you’ll ever know how much you meant to me, little buddy.” He stalled and wiped his eyes, took a deep breath. “I realize now you survived to help me survive. And when it comes right down to it, that’s all you’ve ever done. You were born into a cruel world. A world that was unkind to you and unfair. And despite it all, you made it your mission to love without condition. And, well, I r-really don’t know if there is such thing as a G-God or a Heaven, but, ah, if there is, I’m sure that’s where you are now. Getting a hero’s welcome, I bet, up there with . . .”
He reached deep in his pocket and pulled out a small piece of pink plastic, setting it in the water where the final traces of Fender were being washed away. The lake swallowed the tiara as Brennan read South Dakota Princess in his head. “They’re your princesses now, little buddy. Look after each other.”
He dipped his fingers in the water and swirled them around before standing. “As for me, it’s time to go home.”
Chapter 31
Brennan returned to the Helix to find his friends parked on the street, waiting for him. Rocco called from his opened window, “You all set?”
“Yeah, think so.”
“Everything’s packed and we checked out already.”
“Okay, good to go, I guess.” He climbed in the back of the car and noticed at once how empty it felt. He thought for a second about asking Franky to trade seats with him, but remained silent and looked out the window.
“I’m proud of you,” said Rocco, smiling in the rearview.
“Why’s that?” asked Brennan.
Rocco licked his lips, considered his response. “Well, we’ve only been gone a couple weeks now, if you can believe it.”
Brennan gave his friend a reluctant nod. “Feels like longer.”
“You remember the day we left?”
“Kinda.” Brennan rubbed his temples and strained to recall details. “No, not really.”
“You were a mess.”
“I still am a mess.”
“No.” Rocco shook his head. “You’re not. You made a lot of progress, Bee. Hell, you lost Fender and wouldn’t even have a drink with us last night.”
“Just figured it wouldn’t, uh . . . be any way to honor him. It’s not what he would’ve wanted.”
“That’s what I’m trying to tell you. All we wanted to do was take you away for a bit so you could start to heal. And I know that sorta thing doesn’t happen in just a couple weeks, but shit, I’d say you came to terms with a whole lot while we were gone.”
It was starting to rain again and Brennan scanned the storming skies for shapes and meaning, but found none. He reached for his wedding band, gave it a twist, pulled it from his finger, and slid it in his pocket. “Who knows? Maybe I’ll be ready to move on one of these days.”
Franky pulled his Starbucks Rewards card from his wallet and held it in front of his face. “Me, too.” He tossed it in a cup holder.
Brennan couldn’t help but laugh. He rolled his eyes. “You’re a fucking goof, Franky, do you know that?”
Rocco laughed, too.
“But I love you, bro. You, too, Rocco. Both of you. You guys mean the world to me.”
Franky turned on the radio and set it to country music, which Brennan was beginning not to mind, even if he would never admit it out loud. It wasn’t the words or the half-hearted attempts at a melody he enjoyed, but the reminder t
hat he was among good company. An association of sorts, because in the end, being with Rocco and Franky felt more like being at home than anything waiting for him in Williamsville.
He saw a billboard for personal injury on the interstate and it made him think of Logan, the flamboyant lawyer who had gifted Fender his last meal. The more he thought of their exchange, the more he realized that chance encounter was another example of good in the world. He found himself repeating Logan’s words in his mind, “Find a way to live the life ahead of you instead of the one behind you.” He wondered if Logan ever offered that same advice to his clients.
The men stopped at a roadside diner in Indiana. It made Brennan think of the young woman who had greeted Fender the day before, the one who only saw her dog on weekends. He ordered two plates of burgers and fries and devoured them both without stopping to chew. He was still thin, but after a second slice of sugar cream pie for dessert—and a third to go—he decided it wouldn’t take long to return to his regular bodyweight.
Just as it was getting dark, signs began to announce the upcoming junction with I-190.
“Hey, uh, Brennan?” Franky sounded soft, sheepish, unsure of himself.
“Yeah?”
“About the band.”
“What about it?”
“Think you might like to jam again sometime? You know, like we could get together on Sundays the way we used to, if you’re up for it. Doesn’t have to be every Sunday, but—”
“Sure, Franky. I’d like that.”
“Okay, because if you really did fuck up my drums before we left, I’m gonna need some new ones.”
The car sped onward toward Williamsville. Brennan shifted in his seat, uncomfortable, anxious, imagining what the days ahead would look like. Paperwork, insurance claims, phone calls, mail, and worst of all, an empty house. He thought for a second before asking, “How much longer do you get to keep the car, Rocco?”
“Oh, uh, I don’t know.” He released a deep breath, narrowed his eyes, and hit the steering wheel. He had forgotten about losing his car until that moment. “Fuckers might be waiting outside my place right now for all I know.”
“Yeah,” said Brennan, “that’s not gonna happen.”
Rocco glanced in the rearview.
“Dude, we just spent a hundred hours in this car together. I’m not letting anyone take it away from you.”
“Bee . . .”
“I don’t wanna hear it. You’re keeping your car and that’s that. I’ll help you get it all figured out when we get back.” He knew he had wounded Rocco’s pride, but Rocco would have to accept the offer, because he had no intention of backing down.
Rocco whispered, “Thank you.” He put on his turn signal to merge on I-290.
“No,” said Brennan. “Stay on ninety.”
“What, why?”
“How much more vacation time do you have saved up at the office?”
“A bit more, I guess, Bee. I booked off three weeks for this trip and we didn’t even use two of ’em. Why—”
“You think Harlem will be okay if he doesn’t see you for a little while longer?”
“Bee . . .”
Brennan poked Franky’s shoulder. “On a scale of one to ten, how stoked are you to get back to work?”
Franky laughed, a high-pitched cackle, and slapped his knee. “Fuck, never, dude. Zero. I hate roofing.”
“Then it’s settled, boys.”
His friends exchanged glances. “What’s settled?” asked Rocco.
“This is my new beginning, and it can be anything I want it to be.”
“What’re you talking about?”
“I say we keep going. Ninety’ll take us all the way to Boston, and then there’s New York City to see. DC, too. Baltimore. Jersey, if we want. Shit, maybe we can even take a hike up to Montréal for a night or two. That’s where your favorite strippers are, right, Franky?”
“Fuck yeah!” Franky threw up his fist in triumph.
“The entire East Coast is ahead of us, boys. This trip ain’t over yet. There’s more to see. We’ve got the time, so let’s get out there and make some memories. It’s what Fender would’ve wanted.”
Afterword
If you ever get the chance to go on a cross-country road trip—across Canada or the United States—do it.
My wife and I loaded our two dogs in the hatchback fall of 2015, and drove across America to the West Coast. We started in Buffalo and traveled west to Seattle, south to San Francisco, and then east back home. In all, we were away from home for close to a month and spent more than a hundred hours behind the wheel. We stopped at budget hotels along the way, got work done from our laptops, took our dogs to nearby off-leash parks, and explored what each new location had to offer.
This trip wasn’t taken without precedent, however. Shortly after Andréa and I got married in 2014, we drove to the East Coast of Canada. We lived in Toronto at the time, and traveled first to Montréal, then on to Halifax, returning west to Moncton, then Ottawa—on Canada Day!—and back home. We drove close to four thousand kilometers on that trip—twenty-five hundred miles—and it was then that I discovered my wife was the only person I could be locked in a car with for dozens of hours without having homicidal thoughts.
I guess you could say my wife and I have ties on both sides of the border. Andréa was born in Miami and raised in Atlanta. She refers to herself as an Americanadian, and we now live in the small border town of Fort Erie, a historic location dating back to the War of 1812. Fort Erie was also a significant player in freeing slaves through the Underground Railroad, and it’s the last stop in Southern Ontario before crossing the Peace Bridge to the United States. Buffalo is a mile from our house, and on a clear day, you can see it across the Niagara River from the middle of our street. We get the best of both worlds—two vast, beautiful, and free countries to explore, each with their own political systems, history, values, cultures, ideas, and priorities.
And when we sojourned across the United States in 2015, we kept detailed notes—where we stopped, stayed, ate, what we did, what we saw—that became the basis for the road trip in Fender. The characters follow the same path we took, stopping at many of the same hotels and venues along the way, even though I changed some of their names.
Yes, there really is a booze cruise in Milwaukee that serves tacos. You can buy tickets somewhere downtown, as I recall. I can’t remember if tickets included all-you-can-eat tacos or all-you-can-drink beer—or both—but it sounded like our kind of party. Timing didn’t work out, though, and I still regret it to this day. I do, however, have a goofy picture of myself standing next to the Bronze Fonz, so that has to count for something.
Entering South Dakota, we passed a truck on the interstate loaded with swine destined for the slaughterhouse. We exited in Sioux Falls and made our way to Falls Park, which we decided would be a nice place to walk the dogs. We followed the paved bike trail counterclockwise for a while and heard what sounded like shrieking in the distance. We peeked through the foliage and saw a slaughterhouse, and that same truck from the interstate—now empty—parked at the rear of the building.
An almost naked woman—a bikini barista—served us coffee on the outskirts of Seattle, and all the establishment had was a sign above its drive-thru window announcing Coffee in yellow block letters. To be fair, the glossy sign nearing the drive-thru window—the one Rocco used to determine that a coffee was nine dollars—had a sensual woman in a bathing suit on it. Still, we had to see what these so-called bikini baristas were all about for ourselves . . . all right, I had to see it for myself. Andréa probably couldn’t have cared less.
And yes, we took our dogs to an off-leash park in Vacaville, California, where one of them got sick. We have two dogs: Gibson—named after the guitar, a direct inspiration for naming Fender in this story—and Stirling—named for Lindsey Stirling, the dancing violinist on YouTube who Franky referenced in Salt Lake City. Well, our canine protagonist in this story, Fender, may have been named in the same
manner as Gibson, but it was Stirling who got into trouble in California. Not eating trash, but drinking from a tainted bowl of water.
The good people at the Solano-Napa Pet Emergency Clinic in Fairfield did a wonderful job of hydrating him—he left with a giant camel hump on his back—and administering an anti-nauseant. Thankfully there was nothing wrong with his kidneys. He just had trouble holding down food for the next few days and ended up losing his appetite altogether. Getting him to take his medication felt like pulling teeth, and getting him to eat solid food was an even greater challenge, especially while on the road and living out of suitcases.
After meeting a delightful missionary in Salt Lake City—who gave my wife and I a tour of the Beehive House—I was offered a copy of The Book of Mormon. It sits on my bookshelf to this day, unread, nothing more than a glorified paperweight, but I’ll never forget the young woman who gave it to me. I have no idea how old she was—certainly not much older than eighteen—but she offered me her phone number in case I had questions while reading it. I suppose taking her number wouldn’t have been against the law. But I knew no good could come from walking around with a teenage girl’s phone number in my pocket. I politely declined.
I share these stories with you for two reasons. First, and most important, the open road holds adventures that you can’t predict or foresee. If you depart without expectations and allow curiosity to be your guide, I can almost guarantee you’ll make memories to last a lifetime. And the second reason is that this story is a complete work of fiction. I think it’s important to underscore that point, because I described some of the cities and hotels as dingy, drab, and depressing.
I further characterized neighborhoods in Buffalo as two-dimensional novelties, rather than celebrating their diversity and history. I’ve spent time in Buffalo. It’s a wonderful city, and Masten Park is no more bad than Allentown is good. Both areas have their own charm and appeal, and at no time while writing Fender did I intend to offend my neighbors across the river.
