by Mitch Goth
Bobby stopped the car in a brightly lit parking lot after speeding through the empty back streets of town for almost fifteen minutes. As soon as the car shut off and the consol went dark, he breathed a sigh of relief and began feeling cautiously at his injured ear.
“Bobby?” Nate called from the back seat.
“Yeah?” Bobby replied tiredly.
“What the hell is this?” Nate pointed at the building attached to the parking lot they’d stopped in, a twenty-four hour fast food restaurant.
“I’m hungry, and I know you are too. Just chill out.”
“Don’t tell me to chill out! This is not the time to fucking chill out! Two of our friends are out there somewhere in the hands of the psychos who just shot your ear off, don’t expect me to chill out!”
“They didn’t shoot it off, just sort of grazed it.”
“Will you stop being so callous about this, this is no time to be some laid back hippie, Bobby!”
“You ought to slow down a bit, Nate. No offense, man, but you live life too fast, too stressfully. You need to slow things down and take it all one at a time.”
“I think stress is warranted tonight.”
“What about every other day? Is stress warranted then?”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“Well, granted I don’t know all that well, I always assumed you were a rather high strung fella. Am I right,” Bobby turned to Taylor and Mike for validation.
“You’re sure as hell not wrong,” Mike nodded.
“Right is the right word,” Taylor agreed.
“What does this have to do with anything?” Nate asked impatiently.
“Let me ask you something,” Bobby went on, “when was the last time you slowed down your life and just took a day to enjoy everything you’ve got. A day to enjoy the company of Cady, or just enjoy a sunny, cloudless day by yourself, or a rainy day for that matter. You should really consider taking time to enjoy the rain once and a while.”
“I still don’t think I’m getting your point.”
“If it started raining one day, and for one reason or another you knew that this particular storm would be the last one you’d ever see, would you hide inside or go out and frolic in it? The point I’m making is that you try so hard to control every part of your life, you often forget to live it. And in a situation like this, logic might say thinking about your options is the best strategy, but obsessing over it can disrupt your progress. The surest way to lose track of something is to pursue it too quickly. Life takes finesse, you can’t rush it. Go with the flow,” Bobby opened his door and the car lit up. “Now come on, we all need food, and so does the car.”
“I agree,” Mike said, “starving like Ethiopian children is no way to be productive.”
At that, Bobby got out of the car and began heading into the restaurant. The trio watched him go for a moment, but Mike’s attention was soon turned back to Nate.
“You just got psychoanalyzed, bro,” he snickered. “That guy hit your nail right on the head.”
“Yeah,” Taylor chuckled, “it was scary spot on.”
“Come on,” Nate sighed, opening his door, “let’s go get food.”
By the time the three of them got into the restaurant, Bobby had already ordered and was sitting at a booth, sipping at his drink. Taylor and Nate walked up to the counter to order, but Mike had to make one extra stop.
“Okay,” he sat down across from Bobby, “where’d you learn to throw like that?”
“What?”
“At the alley, Bobby. That rock, man. Where’d you learn to throw like that.”
“You know, I was gonna ask you the same question. That toss of yours was one of the worst things I’ve ever seen, and I once saw a bridge collapse. Not to be too harsh.”
“Thanks for that,” Mike sighed.
“I guess I’ve always sort of known,” Bobby explained. “I never really think about it, it’s just a reflex. If you over think it you’ll get the yips.”
“The yips?”
“You know, when you over think something to the point where you can’t do it anymore. It’s like your friend Nate and his life. He over thinks it too much, so he can’t really do life. Just be glad your yip is throwing. Nate’s got the whole life yips.”
Mike couldn’t help but laugh at this.
“Is there a cure for it?” he asked.
“Practice until it’s first nature, I guess. Or maybe a time will come along when it just sort of becomes an instant reflex. But don’t count on that, practice your craft, man.”
“Thanks,” Mike got up, “I’m going to get a heart attack on a bun now.”
“Those are always good,” Bobby said partially to himself as Mike departed.
Only a few seconds after Mike left, Taylor filled his place, food in hand.
“How’s your ear?” she wondered.
“Hurts like hell,” Bobby replied, “but I’ll be fine. It’s far away from the heart. I suppose I’d be angrier about it if I had an earring or something.”
“Yeah, I don’t think you’ll be able to wear one of those for a while,” she joked.
“Maybe I’ll just have to buy one of those piercings people put in their eyebrows,” he laughed.
“You can never go wrong with a belly button ring either.”
“If the fashonista that is Taylor Lankin says I’d look good in it, it must be true.”
“I’m not that big into fashion you know.”
“Oh, come on, if you’re not going to some kind of beauty or design school, I’m going to be shocked.”
“Well then prepare to be shocked.”
“What are you going for?”
“Journalism.”
“Bullshit,” he said as lightheartedly as possible, “there’s no way you’re going to study journalism.”
“You better believe it you hippie bastard. I’m gonna work for CNN one day, just you wait.”
“Well maybe your first Pulitzer winning story can be a detailed account about this fuck up of a night.”
“It very well could be. So what’s your plan?” she changed the direction of the conversation. “What are you doing now that you’re done with school?”
“I don’t really know,” he said indecisively. “I figure, I like I music, and I’m fairly fond of tea,” he held up his now empty cup, “maybe I’ll open up a music store or a tea shop or something.”
“A music store? How retro.”
“Who knows, maybe it’ll be a success and you can make a special CNN report about it.”
They both shared a small laugh at that remark.
Nate and Mike sat at the booth directly across from Bobby and Taylor, although Nate was currently sitting alone as Mike was following Bobby’s instruction and shooting crumpled up napkins towards a nearby trashcan. He was missing every shot.
“How exactly do you plan to get better at football that way?” Nate inquired.
“Practice makes perfect,” Mike retorted.
“How is shooting napkin balls like basketballs towards a trashcan and missing a form of football practice?”
“It just is, alright.”
“And I don’t think now is the time to be doing this. You sister is out there being held hostage by some crazed Middle Easterners.”
“Cera can hold her own, and how do you know their Middle Eastern? That’s kinda racist.”
“You saw what those two guys looked like. They looked Middle Eastern to me.”
“They definitely have some of that ancestry in them. But they could be from Europe or Russia or somewhere like that. Or the United States for all you know. It’s dangerous to assume things like that, that’s how wars get started. Besides, who cares where they’re from? You’re worrying to much, just remember what Bobby told you.”
“Bobby,” Nate glared surreptitiously across to their longhaired driver.
“Yeah,” Mike laughed, “I love that guy.”
“Love?”
“Yeah, you know, in
a non-weird kind of way.”
Nate nodded, but his mind was already far off into space at that point.
“I wish I would’ve told Cady I loved her more.”
“Holy downer, dude,” Mike finally sat down across from him gloomy friend.
“What else am I supposed to think?”
“Look at me, bro,” Mike leaned far in, “we’re gonna find Cady and Cera, and everything’s gonna be fine. And together, we’re gonna kick the shit out of those guys who did this.”
“What makes you think we can do that? That I can do any of that?”
“Because who are you?”
“Nate Bray,” Nate replied, puzzled.
“Who are you?” Mike repeated, with slightly more fervor.
“Nate Bray.”
“When I accidentally hit that cop car with a pass during the homecoming game last year, who talked him out of giving me a ticket?”
“I did.”
“Exactly. And who helped me out when I got my head stuck in that mailbox freshman year?”
“I did.”
“And who’s gonna find his girlfriend and kill some psychos of a currently unknown nationality?”
“I will.”
“Who will?”
“I will!”
“Who?”
“Me!”
“And who are you?”
“Nate Bray!”
“Who?”
“Nate Bray!”
At this point, both of them came back to reality. Somewhere in their conversation, they both had stood up from their seats and their voices had elevated to the point of screaming. Heavily embarrassed, they both looked around. The restaurant was devoid of customers at this hour, but all the workers were staring over at them, as were Bobby and Taylor.
“Maybe we should go,” Mike suggested, red-faced.
8
