Soul Mates

by Thomas Melo

  Soul Mates

  A Novel By

  Thomas Melo

  -To my loving wife, Heather, and to all of my grandparents:

  This one’s for you.-

  Tyler Swanson: The Child

  Chapter 1

  “Well, hello there! It’s so nice to see you again! The feeling isn’t mutual? Aww, well, I can live with that; I can live with that just fine, and have for quite some time, as a matter of fact. Fine as the hair on a babies arm, haha! That’s pretty fine isn’t it? Can’t say I blame you given your position, in all honesty. I can tell that you’d prefer I dispense with the pleasantries and aural claptrap and tell you what you’re doing here. Very well then. Hot? It is, isn’t it? Well, I prefer it that way if I may be frank for a moment or two–and you should take advantage of my moments of candor because they aren’t in abundance, I don’t mind telling you! I typically prefer a guile approach. Yes, I love the heat. It keeps my powder dry, as they say. I used to live in Las Vegas, Nevada: Sin City, as the perceptive call it. Yes, I liked that city just fine. I mean, what’s not to like? There’s gambling, remarkable nightlife, women or men–whatever your fancy may be, and among other things, the Super Chasm. Why, that’s the best attraction of them all…in my unpretentious opinion. I’ll tell you a fascinating story about it in a bit.

  Anyway, there was a common misconception that I used to hear all the time when I lived in the glamorous and deliciously decadent city of Lost Wages. Care to guess what it is? Yes! You just earned yourself a hearty pat on the back! Of course: the myth of lawful prostitution. Yes, many people come to Las Vegas to dabble with ladies of the evening (or men for that matter. Why isolate half the population’s needs and desires in a capitalistic society; am I right? Of course I am.) Yes, within the confines of the Clark County provincial lines, prostitution is not, I repeat, NOT legal. But we all tend to do things that aren’t exactly within the sometimes ashen confines of right and wrong, don’t we? How utterly mind-numbing life would be otherwise, yes?

  Ok, ok! We’ll get to the Chasm, not that it needs any introductions–as I’m sure you’re all aware, haha!–but it is a significant part of the story I want to share with you anyway. This story you’re about to hear is one of my favorites, well, in recent years anyway. I have a profusion of stories in my repertoire, as I’ve been around the block quite a few times. You would think I would have written a book by now! Anyway, this story is about man, a New Yorker turned Nevadan, in fact, named Tyler Swanson. Maybe you’ve heard of him. Ha! But of course you have! I’m afraid he is indisposed at the moment, but he’ll actually be joining us in a little while. Isn’t that exciting? It’ll really tie the whole story together, believe me. Good old Tyler. He really lived quite the Cinderella story…sort of, hahaha!”

  Chapter 2

  So, our ‘friend’ began to tell his (quite literally) captive audience the story of the infamous Tyler Swanson. I will share with you the same story, but spare you from the purely venomous tropology in which our “friend” will share the same tale with his obligated audience as much as I can. In some instances, however, it simply can’t be helped. Let us begin then.

  Chapter 3

  Ever since elementary school, little Tyler Swanson–well, little in terms of stature; he had a few extra pounds on him as a young lad–although his handsome face and dark brown hair picked up the slack that his extra weight added–led the typical cruel life of a slightly introverted, somewhat overweight growing boy who was rising through the ranks of grade school. The name Tyler didn’t help his social life either. Even at the young age of eight he would be regularly reminded by his peers that “Tyler was a fag’s name.” Tyler’s parents, Ray and Cindy (Ray in particular) didn’t agree with the bully’s consensus of his only son’s name. One night when Tyler was lying in bed, waiting for sleep to wash over him and carry him on to a new day where perhaps things would be a bit better with the kids at school, Tyler heard his parents discussing this very issue. “Tyler isn’t a fag’s name, Cin,” Ray proclaimed sipping a condensation spotted diet soda from the can. “I don’t think so either, but you know kids; they mock what isn’t familiar to them, or even what is familiar to them! Also, Tyler isn’t your typical boy’s name like Mike or John.”

  “I mean, it’s not like we named him Skylar, you know? Little bastards,” Ray added and whipped up a carbonation-charged belch. Both Ray and Cindy had a good laugh at that one, (the Skylar quip, not the belch) but prudent Cindy didn’t lose herself to the point where she forgot to remind Ray that Tyler was sleeping just upstairs, and that they should keep their voices down.

  Tyler was the type of child you would love to have as your own–as long as you are the type of person who wants children. It may come as a surprise to you to find out that contrary to what society pushes, not everyone needs to have a child to reach optimum fulfillment in their lives. Truth be told, many people who have children should not, but I digress.

  You know the type of child I’m speaking about. He was the type of child/student that would boast five-week progress reports from his teachers that informed his parents that he was “a pleasure in class” and who always “works conscientiously” but children like this also come with their fair share of baggage, don’t they? Children such as Tyler Swanson would often come off of the school bus with tear stained cheeks and with those, inflamed–crimson eyes from the constant mocking from their peers every so often; perhaps more frequently than that. The incessant teasing would more often than not come from a little piss-ant (pardon the language, but I despise seeing good kids picked on) that the teased (Tyler in our case) could make quick work of if he wanted to, but is too pleasant and polite a child to do so. Yes, Ray and Cindy taught him well as far as how a young boy should act, but left much to be desired when it came to teaching Tyler to stick up for himself. It’s not that they disapproved of it; it’s just that they didn’t really think to educate him thoroughly in that arena.

  I’m sure it will come as no surprise to learn that Tyler was not a member of the popular clique in school. That is not to say that he didn’t have friends; he did, but he and his friends were not going to be athletes or prom kings in the latter grades that awaited them. You could just tell even at that age.

  Even at the kindhearted age of eight, the constant nuisances that waited for Tyler almost every day at school took a toll on him. Tyler was raised by two wonderful parents, with plenty of love to go around, not only for him, but for each other as well. That is important when you are trying to shape the life of a growing boy such as Tyler. It is not only important that he receive unconditional love and attention, but that he is also in the presence of said love and affection even when it isn’t directed at him, per se. I don’t think it takes a team of Sigmund Freuds to reach that conclusion.

  Tyler took his licks in school just like any other child. You would be hard pressed to find a child growing up in modern times or the days of old who didn’t have a nemesis that would make them tip-toe around the halls of their schools and duck into hidden alcoves in the gym locker room that only “the bullied” had discovered out of necessity. If you believe the contrary, I have a bridge to sell you, and since you look like a nice person, I have a really special price I’d be willing to let it go for, if you’re interested.

  After coming home from school with one too many bruises, Tyler’s father suggested some martial arts classes so that his son could defend himself and perhaps build some self-esteem and confidence. There was only so much that phone calls from the Swansons to the parents of the “little shits” (Ray’s words) would do. After all, someone raised the child in a way to turn him into a bully (little shit), didn’t they? Of course Cindy wasn’t too keen on the idea, but even she could see the benefits in such a course of action. There are pros and cons i
n any endeavor worth doing.

  So, Tyler took jiu-jitsu for a few years. He did very well with it for awhile, too. He earned a green belt, which is more or less an intermediate rank. He even broke his first wooden board with his bare hands in order to receive the belt. Pride gleamed from him at that moment; so much, in fact, that he hardly felt the bruise that had instantly started to develop on the heel of his hand. Much to Tyler’s parent’s delight, the intended byproducts of martial arts training began to manifest themselves. His self-esteem and confidence increased significantly. Instead of walking to the bus stop staring at rocks he intended to kick down the street as he walked, he was always walking with his head up and shoulders back while surveying his surroundings. He no longer gave off the filthy stench of a mark, but exuded the air of a barely pre-adolescent who wasn’t going to be taken advantage of. No fucking way. Not this Tyler; not anymore. This is not to say that martial arts transformed Tyler into a hard (now) twelve year old who made a bully tremble when they simply heard the foreboding name: “Tyler Swanson” whispered through the halls of Neil Armstrong School District. Not at all; but bullies typically choose the path of least resistance because they are pussies, put directly. There’s some simple unadorned equivalence at its best, just for you. In other words, they choose to pick on easy targets; targets who would stand there and take it rather than fight back. Once the word was out that Tyler wasn’t just going to grin and bear it anymore, the number of bullies he had to tolerate dropped considerably.

  Tyler finally left the jiu-jitsu program when he was engaged in what was called kumite (simulated fighting) and his leg was hurt by his opponent. His sensei (teacher) had yelled at him to keep fighting when Tyler could barely put any weight on his leg until the pain had dissipated. He never wanted to go back after that lesson in humility. It wasn’t the pain of being kicked in the leg. No, surely he had endured more pain from bullies that were actually trying to hurt him in a real fight. What impacted him the most was the dressing-down that the sensei had given him in front of the entire class. He was humiliated, almost to the point of tears. It was the shock of a grown adult yelling at him, and the fact that there was an audience, which was something to which a boy of Tyler’s temperament was not accustomed. So that was it; no more jiu-jitsu, but he had already taken plenty out of the classes anyway.

  When Tyler turned twelve, he had received a bb gun for his birthday. Like most young boys, he had grown up playing War with sticks vaguely shaped like handguns or high-powered rifles, and tossed clods of dirt like hand grenades. He had been on his parent’s backs about finally getting one. This was another debate that Ray and Cindy had, and yet another debate that Cindy lost.

  “I promise that I’ll only shoot at cans and stuff in the backyard,” Tyler had negotiated.

  “No ‘stuff’. Cans like you said, Ty; I’m serious! Remember what I told you about the rabbit when I was your age? Obviously I never forgot that, right?”

  Tyler looked down at his shoes, feeling sorry for the unforgotten rabbit his father had told him about.

  “What do you think, Cin?” Ray asked, as if he didn’t already know she was odiously against it.

  “You know what I think already, Ray. This is your thing, not mine,” Cindy sighed. “Just be careful and don’t fool around with it; and never shoot it in the house or your father will throw it away.”

  “Sound fair, Ty?” Ray concluded.

  “Ok!” Tyler agreed.

  “I’m serious, Tyler Swanson!” his mother reiterated.

  “I said ‘yes’!” Tyler argued.

  “Oh, and you are going to wear safety glasses when you shoot, too!” his mother added, like a bill that passes under the shroud of night with sub-laws, the descriptions of which, were omitted in the initial proposal.

  “Yep!” Tyler exclaimed.

  Ray and Cindy had inadvertently and comically nodded their heads in unison. Meeting adjourned.

  So, he had gotten his bb gun: a Sure-Fire air rifle (with a scope) that could shoot a bb–or a pellet (it was a hybrid)–up to six-hundred feet per second. He was ecstatic when he had opened it at his birthday party. His friends were all envious of his new gift and that made him Lord of the Land, however temporary. Secretive and covetous murmuring permeated through his assembly of friends once the wrapping paper was torn off of the gun’s box. His friends were his friends, tried and true. People like Ty (bookish) stuck together in school, like any other clique. A convenient byproduct of their cohesiveness was that there was always strength in numbers when dealing with the now intermittent bullies. They were envious of Tyler because of his gift, but every one of them also felt as if he had deserved it. Call it a reward for “Most Improved Boy of the Year.” As soon as his birthday party was over and his last friend was picked up by their parents, he broke out his new air gun. He tore through the box it came in with such alacrity, that he gave himself a nasty cardboard paper cut and didn’t realize it until much later after the adrenaline stopped flowing. He picked it up out of the box and held it up with both hands, scanning it from butt to barrel, then back again. An ear to ear grin was plastered on his face as he carried one of the picnic benches across the backyard and set the bench parallel to the fence. He filled all of the empty soda cans left over from his party with water from the garden hose, and carried them two at a time to the bench where he lined them up. The cans stood there like the condemned in front of a firing squad, just waiting for Ty to pull the trigger. He pulled down the safety glasses which were previously perched on the top of his head. It was like how his father wore his sunglasses on days when there were more clouds than sunshine. Like father, like son. He disengaged the safety near the trigger-well of the rifle and ceremoniously lowered the barrel in front of him until he was peering through the sighting scope. He steadied the crosshairs on the first can on his left.

  “Right to left, just like reading,” he thought to himself. A natural before he even fired his first shot, he squeezed the trigger rather than pulled it.

  A small geyser of water erupted from the mouth opening on the can. Water began to leak out from the body of the can where the bb struck its intended target.

  “Fuck yeah!” Tyler celebrated. He quickly covered his mouth with the hand that wasn’t holding the rifle in pseudo-shame when he realized what he had shouted in an automatic and outright visceral reaction. He didn’t know it at the time, but this moment would set him down a path that would cause him to make a decision. It would be a decision from which the rest of his life would be carved. You don’t understand now, but you will later…much later.

  Tyler made it his business to get out to his backyard with his Sure-Fire air rifle every day after school, weather permitting. He loved challenging himself by keeping track of how many times he would miss and he would always try to reduce the number of errors in the subsequent rounds. He had also made it his business to follow his parent’s list of provisions when using his birthday gift…well, most of the time. He may have “forgotten” to wear the safety glasses a handful of times, although he justified it to himself by remembering that they gave him a headache after sitting upon the bridge of his nose for only a couple of minutes. Not to mention, even at his age, he understood that the odds of a bb ricocheting back and directly into his eye were astronomically low. Then again, he didn’t have the greatest luck in the world.

  He would often have his friends come by and use his bb gun with them, having contests to see who the crack-shot was among them. It was never even close; and it wasn’t only because he had the bb gun to practice with at his leisure, although practice does make perfect, as they say, but he had natural talent. He wasn’t only accurate, but he was fast.

  * * *

  On this particular day, Tyler had two of his friends with him, Jayson and Lilith. Jayson was a friend of Tyler’s since fifth grade, but they were rapidly outgrowing their friendship. That is not to say that they didn’t get along. They got along just fine… great even. They still slept over each other’s houses on
sporadic Friday nights, still went to the movies together, and still hung out with the same small but intimate group of friends. It’s just that they were growing apart as kids tend to do. Their interests started to trail off into significantly different directions.

  But, Lilith…she was growing very close with Tyler; Jayson as well, but mostly Tyler. She was part of the reason Tyler and Jayson were growing apart. Nothing will pit friend against friend, especially at a young age, like an attractive member of the opposite sex, especially when members of that opposite sex are sparse or otherwise non-existent in a clique.

  Chapter 4

  Lilith was a transfer student from an out of state school called Mary Blevin’s School for Girls. Even though she was fourteen years old, a whole two years older than Tyler and Jayson, she liked spending time with them and their group of friends. She received the attention from that fairly–but not entirely–geeky clique that young girls seek out (sometimes with desperation), but do not necessarily reciprocate with their juvenile gentleman callers. Of course she received attention from the boys. Even at fourteen she was quite bosomy and very attractive. She had very dark brown hair, almost black, that was straight and a little longer than shoulder length. She had hypnotic icy blue eyes that entranced anyone who engaged her in a conversation…even adults. Yes, she was the recipient of attention. “I love the control it gives you. Boys’ll do anything you ask them to do if you just look at them a certain way. You don’t even have to do anything, you know…anything disgusting,” Lilith had confided in her friend, Mackenzie, who was the co-conspirator in the ruse which sent them both to the Mary Blevin’s School. Lilith found herself in the all-girls school when she and Mackenzie were caught selling kisses in the small restroom shack adjacent to their original public school’s outdoor tennis courts for a dollar a peck. Really, quite a bargain for any twelve year old boy whose hormones were starting to work double, no, triple-time. Between you and me, males weren’t the only ones who occupied Lilith and Mackenzie’s line. Curious and/or confused young girls were beginning to make that long trek into womanhood, and some were discovering who they were as well. Lilith and Mackenzie had made a game of their kisses-for-cash business. They would often make a bet as to who would earn the most money at the end of the day, which happened to only span the time of fifteen minutes on three separate days when the buses were parked in front of the school, waiting to take the tired students home. The winner would take all when they were both feeling lucky enough to agree to those terms. The girls were caught when Hal Kelly, one of the school’s bus drivers, had radioed in to the school’s main office, describing what he was witnessing from his vantage point in his bus. He observed this while his bus was idling in the school’s traffic circle, waiting for the kids to burst through the main doors. What filthy old Hal neglected to inform the main office of, was that he was pushing and tugging at the crotch of his pants the entire time he watched Lilith and Mackenzie get up to their debauched extra-curricular activities. A little side note for you: he had also planned on storing this scene in his memory bank for later. Enjoy that caveat the next time you’re lying in bed at night, ladies and gentlemen. No need to go into great detail about Hal’s physical description. What you’re picturing is accurate enough, I am certain.