by Jason Jauron
But despite all that, I am still alive.
Because of you Patty.
Our time together showed me that life does have its good times. Happy times. And our time together also made me more aware that I have some control over my life. There is sorrow in every life. And I have lived through mine. Our time together taught me to stop living in the past. To stop dwelling. To stop feeding off its negative energy. A negative energy that was isolating me, destroying me. To stop allowing pain to be my only companion. I learned that I had to let go of the anger, negativity. I had to stop letting the past be my excuse for the way I was living. I had to start to live in the present tense. And you Patty were a wonderful present tense. You showed me that there is also happiness in every life. You just have to persevere. To stay alive. Happiness is out there for everyone. You just can’t give up. You can’t surrender.
I am still alive Patty.
Because of you.
I just wish you had called me. I could’ve lifted your spirits. I know I could’ve Patty. I still remember the jokes. I still remember your dimples. I still remember where to tickle you. I still remember your giggle. And I can still remember your smile. I enjoyed what we had. Time will not diminish what we had. It was real. It was love. It just wasn’t forever love. But that’s okay. That’s what will make forever love that much more remarkable. And I know I will find my forever love. But our time was special. And you leaving us will not change how I view our time together. Cause you saved me Patty.
Thank you.
“Thinking of you made me smile today.”
Jed Darby, 1984, first note he got from Patty
47.
8am
Jed flung open the curtains, looked outside. The radiant light momentarily blinded him. But the light and heat from the butterscotch sun instantly calmed him. He stood there immersed, relaxed. He felt alive. He felt rejuvenated. Like someone opening a window in a stuffy room.
He scanned the sky.
Robin’s egg blue. Patty liked all the blues.
He stood there transfixed for several minutes, like a snake warming itself.
This is going to be a good day.
He smiled, cracked his back, shut the curtains. It was time to finish with his clothes, get some breakfast. As for finishing the speech, he figured he would have plenty of time to jot down ideas in the car.
48.
“Dude, you think when Darby beats off he cums puss?”
One of many jokes made about Jed in the dorm lounge
9am
As Dave backed his Ford Probe out of the gas station, he was grinning ear to ear. He had 64 ounces of fountain pop, a package of strawberry pop tarts on the passenger seat, and “Sister Christian” was playing on the radio.
Damn I’m feeling good right now.
He continued to scream the lyrics for several more blocks. When the song ended, he reached carefully for the pop tarts. As he merged onto the interstate, he took his first bite.
“Round and Round” started on the radio.
No. fucking. way.
He set the processed food down.
It was time to show off the golden baritone.
49.
930am
Three steps into the diner.
That’s all it took.
The fragrance of recycled air, bacon grease, and cigarette smoke took the wind out of his sails.
And I came here to relax, work on my speech?
He just stood there like a galleon during dead calm.
“Seat yourself, be with you in a minute,” a voice called out.
As he slid his ass into a booth, an older, plump waitress stopped, rambled, “You want some coffee to start out with honey?”
“I suppose that would be a good idea,” replied Jed.
“Be right back with that honey.”
What the fuck is she calling me honey for? Who the fuck told her to do that? Did she even look at me? Is she even paying the fuck attention? Fuck, bitch, if I was your age, or older, maybe you could call me honey. Because of some kind of implied motherfucking shared life experience. Like being a 60’s child. A Baby-Boomer and shit. But lady, you are much older than me. About 50,000 times around-the-block older. And you ain’t no fine looking cougar like Bo Derek or Farah Fawcett. So we sure as hell ain’t swapped no spit, so spare me your down-home-country-feel-good-neighborly-canned fucking response.
Just then, a mom and her two young sons walked past.
They stopped at the booth directly behind him.
Really?
Of all the open booths, and what, there must be twenty; you gotta plant your ass right behind me.
Where’s the fucking logic in that Descartes?
One of the young boys immediately dialed up his inner Tommy Lee. Those poor salt shakers.
Jed cringed.
“Michael Thompson you stop that this instant,” snapped the mother.
The playing continued.
“Michael Thompson, listen to your mother.”
The drum solo got louder.
“Michael ALLAN Thompson, you stop that right now!”
The young boy stopped.
But just to change grips.
“Michael ALLAN Thompson, I am not gonna say it again!”
Jed closed his eyes.
Went to his happy place.
What the fuck is it with parents and the middle name? Like the middle name has some mystical, magical power. As if saying the middle name somehow instantly calms, sedates, and helps control a hyper child. Like no real fucking parenting is needed. Just accentuate their middle name as you scold them. But these damn parents today love to pull the middle name card. The middle name is the verbal cue to the child that they have crossed the point of no return.
The mom was shaking her finger.
“Michael ALLAN Thompson I am going to count to 5,” she blurted.
Jed shook his head.
It’s too early to fold the middle name card lady. You should have waited. Given him two minutes of the silent treatment. Your son would have tired. Game over. There was less than 2 minutes left of his solo. I guarantee you that. Your son ain’t Alex Van Halen. You could have won with the middle name card. Instead you folded the card too quickly. Now you are left with one card. The counting card.
“One, Two,” began mommy dearest.
This isn’t going to end well lady.
“Three, FOUR.”
Lady you are going too fast. Let the drama build slowly to a crescendo. Your quick cadence is counterproductive. You want the boy to visualize the spanking. Almost feel the pain.
“FIVE!”
The boy pushed the shakers at his mom, bolted out of the booth.
“Michael ALLAN Thompson you get your ass back here right now!” She stomped her feet. “I am going to count to five.”
Jed got up, walked across the room, and fell into a different booth.
I think I’ll squat here.
The waitress located his new booth.
Never called him “honey” again.
The Texas omelet was perfect.
The coffee was black and strong.
The cost was reasonable.
The dive even took credit cards.
He was mere seconds from standing up, walking out the front door when he noticed his favorite booth was being served their food.
“Mommy, I don’t like chicken fingers!” shouted Michael Allan Thompson. “I won’t eat them!”
“You don’t have a choice, that is what I ordered,” said the mother firmly.
Then the mother went and made yet another Parenting 101 mistake. Her previous comment was fine. But the young boy had flustered her earlier, so she decided to tease him.
“Why don’t you just be a good boy like your brother Eddie and eat your food?”
Jed quickly found a seat, watched the calamity. He knew all too well a young boy’s anger when being compared unfavorably to a brother.
He had to give young Michael Allan Thompson props
. The combination of high-pitched wailing (the kind only a young boy can muster) and the rhythmic pounding of silverware was impressive.
It took nearly four minutes and six hollow threats before the chicken fingers were removed and replaced with a mini-hamburger.
Jed just nodded at Michael Allan Thompson as he walked past.
That was impressive theatre. It’s not everyday you get to see escape conditioning done with such energy and attention to detail.
50.
10am
Dave put on his turn signal, pulled off the interstate and into the parking lot of an enormous truck stop. Fast food restaurants surrounded the truck stop. Dave paused, mentally weighing the pros and cons of each place as he quickly scanned the area.
But his preoccupation with fast food would cost him. His focus on food – and paying attention to driving – resulted in him running over quite a few large pieces of broken vodka bottles in the parking lot.
As he entered his favorite fast food restaurant, the smells from all the additives filled his nostrils. Little did Dave know he had the small state of New Jersey to thank for the enticing aromas.
All of the smells were manufactured by several companies in New Jersey - located within a five-mile area.
And Dave pounded his food. Something he does not normally do, but he was having so much fun, he wanted to get back on the road.
So before leaving, he got a refill on his large fountain pop. High fructose corn syrup is hard to resist. Dave was well on his way this year to consuming nearly 50 gallons of the stuff.
He turned on the radio.
“Too Young to Fall in Love.”
Un.Fucking.Believable.
He cranked up the volume.
51.
10:15am
Jed was back at the hotel.
He was finishing packing his suitcases. Every now and then primping in the mirror.
He was quiet the whole time.
Waves of nervous energy were not making his job any easier.
He had changed his plans. He was now going to leave the funeral immediately after he spoke. He would not go to the cemetery. He envisioned many ways his experience at the funeral could play out; he concluded his emotional state would be better off leaving after speaking.
And as for speaking, he was ready.
The truth would set them both free.
It would take him no more than five minutes.
52.
10:35am
He got a surprise in the church parking lot. Jed had not even turned off the ignition.
There was a tapping on the passenger side window.
It startled Jed. He had been scanning the main parking lot for James McGuire and had not noticed the Iowa State Patrol Officer.
Jed took nearly 10 seconds to get unbuckled; his sudden lack of motor skills just heightened his anxiety. Finally, he got out of the car, straightened himself, and asked, “Is there a problem with my car officer?”
“Not at all Jed Darby,” was the firm response from officer Bruce Holmes. “I am here to give you this.”
He walked around the front of the car, handed Jed an envelope.
“I have known your father for some time, and I owe him many favors. Your father wanted you to have this before you went inside.”
Jed shook the officer’s hand. Waved goodbye. Looked at the envelope. Felt the butterflies inside.
It’s Patty’s handwriting.
Despite the cold conditions, he moved quickly away from his car and began walking briskly to the back of the church.
He wanted some privacy.
53.
10:38am
Dave screamed in anger. His right hand pounded the dash.
The reason his car was pulling to the right was obvious. Both tires on that side were going flat. He had been blaring the radio too fucking loud, singing along like an idiot. That is why he had not heard the telltale “thump” from those tires a mile back.
He pulled over to the side of the road, turned on his hazard lights, and took a moment to compose himself.
Got out.
Evaluated the situation.
Concluded he was shit-outta-luck.
He had never changed a tire in his life.
Never mind the fact he had but one spare – which needed air.
Never mind the fact that he was so close to surprising an old friend.
I was just a few miles from making it.
He shook his head.
Fuck getting help.
Fuck the car.
I need to see an old friend.
He took his wallet and watch out of the car before he locked his pussy little Ford Probe.
He had one choice.
Face the traffic.
Extend the right arm out.
Thumb your way to the funeral.
54.
10:39am
Jed used his right hand to brush some leaves off the stones of a retaining wall behind the church. He sat down. Glanced around. He was alone. And he didn’t give a shit about the weather, his clothes, and the rest of the day.
He just stared at the handwriting on the envelope.
The tears came so quickly. He dug in his coat pockets. Found the tissue. Wiped his eyes, nose.
I wish that I could hold you.
He carefully used his right index finger to open the envelope.
You were my only one.
He took a deep, cold breath. Exhaled loudly. Wiped his face again.
Dear Jed
I am so sorry for hurting you. I know that you will never forgive me, but I am sorry. I can’t take back what I’ve done. Things I never meant to do. Bad things. But know that I love you. I will always love you.
I know you’re mad at me for what I’ve done. To myself. To us. But I was so tired Jed. Tired of just trying to find a reason to wake up. Tired of pretending that everything was okay. I am so tired of knowing who I am and what happened to me.
I can’t be free because of the memories inside me. Haunting me. Taunting me.
I was just a little girl Jed.
Now look at me. A life wasted.
I was in third fucking grade!
I remember my dad calling me into the barn. I thought maybe he was hurt. But right when I walked into the barn, he pulled me into the corner. He took his pants off so quickly. Then he told me to put it into my mouth. I just stood there. He grabbed me by the back of my head and pulled my face into his crotch. He started rubbing his penis against my forehead. Then he told me again to put it into my mouth. To lick it, suck it, like I would a Dum Dum or a Bomb Pop. And I just looked at it Jed. It was small, curved upwards. It was dripping with sweat.
My father had taken a break from mowing the lawn so he could get a blowjob from his only daughter. And I can still hear him whisper, “Come on, show daddy you like him. It’s real easy if you try.”
And I can still hear him panting.
And then it happened.
I threw up his cum in little spurts all over my Strawberry Shortcake shirt. And all he told me after I threw up was that the next time it would be easier and that I should go clean up before mother gets home. Then he hugged me and told me I was a good girl.
And then my brother had to assfuck me.
I learned one thing as a young girl. Boys just loved me for my holes.
I never had a childhood Jed. It was taken from me. I never had a chance to be a virgin. Before I even knew what being a virgin meant, I had been violated so many times I stopped counting. I stopped fighting.
Sex has always been just an act for me. A physical act. Nothing more. I really don’t even feel anything from sex either. No pleasure. No intimacy. It is easy. Just lay there for around 10 minutes, and then it is over. No big deal.
Then I met you Jed.
You changed everything. For a while at least.
I stopped hurting myself. No more cutting, burns. I wasn’t afraid of you. You were gentle with me. Never called me names. Forced me to go down on you. It wa
s so wonderful. But it couldn’t last Jed. There was always something fighting me. The insecurity. Depression. The voices would make sure to remind me of who I really was. I was always afraid that you would eventually see me, for me. An overfucked, emotionally awkward, depressed bitch.
I know it must be tough to read this Jed, and it probably is a little scary, but I have to get this shit out.
I’m tired Jed. As crazy as that sounds, I am so tired. Tired of hating my father. Tired of hating my brother. Tired of hating me. I’m tired of the nightmares. I’m tired of living.
I do miss you.
Your goofy smile. Your boundless energy. The way you made me feel. You are all I know of love.
You didn’t do anything wrong Jed. Always remember that.
I hope to see you again. Someday. Somewhere. Somehow.
I really wish I could hold you now.
