The Unusual Second Life of Thomas Weaver

by Shawn Inmon

  The party was obviously over. Engines started all around him. As the Pinto beside him backed up and turned away, the headlights flashed across the bank where a small group had been just a few minutes before. He thought he saw Zack lying on his back on The Beach, rain pounding down on him. What the hell?

  Tommy opened the door and ran to the general vicinity. Sure enough, there Zack was, laying stretched out, mumbling something incoherent. “Zack!” Tommy shouted over the storm. “Zack, come on, let’s go!”

  Zack’s head turned in Tommy’s direction, but his eyes didn’t focus. “No, I’m good right here.”

  “It’s raining!”

  “No shit,” Zack seemed content in spite of the weather.

  “Come on, let’s get out of here.”

  Zack lifted his head, focused on Tommy for a moment. “Hey, that’s my shirt.” He didn’t seem inclined to move more than that, so Tommy tried to pull him up into a sitting position. He got him bent almost to 90 degrees, then his hand slipped. Zack fell back, banged his head and laughed.

  “Zack, come on, we’ve gotta get out of here. Everyone else is gone.”

  “Chickenshits. What, are they gonna melt?”

  “C’mon. You’re too heavy, I can’t lift you all by myself.”

  “That’s because I’m a grown ass man and you are but a boy.”

  Tommy sighed. He could not carry Zack, so Zack would have to cooperate. Tommy considered the problem, then did what he usually did under pressure: fib.

  Zack’s eyes were closed and his mouth was open, making him look like a fish that had washed up out of the river. Tommy slapped Zack's cheek. “Wake up! Hey, you know Amanda? She said her parents weren’t home and that the party was moving to her house. Let’s go. We can catch up with them.” If that doesn't get him moving, I'm screwed.

  Zack rolled over on his stomach. Tommy was afraid that he had passed out face down in the muddy grass, but he was just gathering his strength. He pushed himself up on all fours, like a baby getting ready to crawl. With Tommy lifting and guiding, they did a drunken tango to the Camaro. Zack slid behind the wheel and Tommy ran around to the passenger side. Once inside, Tommy looked and saw that Zack lacked the wherewithal even to shut the driver’s door. Tommy cursed, got out, ran around, glanced to make sure none of Zack's extremities were in the way, and slammed the driver’s door.

  Before Tommy got back around to his side, Zack leaned across the passenger seat and vomited. “Dude,” Tommy said. “That is so gross. You’re probably going to blame me for that in the morning.” He stripped off Zack’s Foghat t-shirt and used it to scoop as much of the mess onto the grass as possible. He threw the shirt into the back seat.

  Zack did not vomit again, nor did he do anything else. Tommy’s heart sank. There was no way that Zack could drive them anywhere. Unless Tommy were prepared to drive the Camaro home, they'd be spending the night right here. I only have my learner's permit, but I do have a licensed driver with me, even if he's out cold. I'll worry about sneaking Zack into our bedroom once we're home. One crisis at a time.

  Tommy pulled and tugged Zack’s dead weight across the bucket seat to the passenger side. As he slammed the door, Zack's head lolled toward the window. Bonk.

  Mental note: Do not drink yourself blind like this. It’s a pain in the ass for everyone else.

  The downpour had eased into a more normal summer rain, but Tommy still shivered as he ran around to the driver’s side and clambered in. Under his breath, Tommy whispered, “Okay. Okay, okay, okay. It’s okay.” He scooted the driver’s seat forward, adjusted the mirror and seatbelt, but neglected to buckle Zack in. ”Okay.” He turned the key, and the motor growled to life.

  Tommy had often imagined swiping the Camaro for a moonlight run. In his imagination, it had never gone like this. He put the gearshift into reverse, took a deep breath and let out the clutch. It was stiffer than he expected, and he popped it out too fast. The Camaro lurched backward a few yards, then died. Tommy winced in expectation of ritual ridicule, but Zack was beyond noticing anything.

  C’mon, Weaver. You can do this.

  This time he let the clutch out slowly, backing up in a curve until the headlights picked up the muddy tracks in the field. He pointed the nose of the car toward it and shifted into first. Too fast; the car jerked forward.

  Tommy drove the Camaro old-lady style—back straight, nose pressed forward toward the windshield, every ounce of his being focused on the road ahead. The muddy field gave way to a muddy dirt road, then a straight gravel road. The Led Zep 8-track clicked over to Trampled Underfoot, keeping time nicely with the windshield wipers. Tommy relaxed a little and shifted into third, not too awkwardly, nosing the Camaro up to thirty.

  When the gravel road T-intersected with County Highway 13, Tommy came to a complete stop. After looking both ways, he turned on his blinker, shifted into first and pulled onto the road. He managed to shift into second and third again without incident. Visibility was lousy, but no one else was on the road.

  This isn’t so tough. I got this. Next stop: home.

  Tommy couldn’t resist goosing the Camaro up to fifty, then sixty, enjoying the feel of the acceleration. The RPMs registered at 4000 and he felt alive and powerful. He pushed the clutch in to shift, but couldn’t find fourth gear. He took his eyes off the road, looked down, shifted into fourth, and let the clutch out.

  When he looked up, he saw the reflected eyes of a small doe, frozen in the middle of his lane.

  “Shit!”

  Tommy slammed on the brakes, pushed in the clutch, and cranked the wheel hard to the left. The Camaro swerved violently, tires screeching as the momentum carried the muscle car into the oncoming lane. The back bumper passed the doe close enough to riffle the small hairs on her face.

  The first hard rain in a month had brought up all the oil embedded in the pavement. The minute Tommy braked and swerved, momentum and force gained more control of the vehicle than the soaked, nervous boy behind the wheel. When the Camaro began to roll, Tommy's head hit the driver's side window hard enough to feel no more.

  The car rolled over violently once, twice, three times. Finally, it slammed down right side up, the front end crushing a blackberry bush, the rear end hanging into the oncoming lane.

  When Tommy came to, he couldn't see. Am I blinded? The warmth on his face finally explained the cause as blood running into his eyes from a cut on his forehead. He squinted, wiped the blood away, then unbuckled his seat belt. His left arm wouldn’t move. It felt like shoulder damage, and was starting to hurt like hell.

  The engine had died, but the 8-track and wipers were still going. The surviving headlight pointed into the bramble tangle on what had been the left side of the road. The end of Trampled Underfoot sounded ghostly as it faded out. Tommy reached down and clicked off the key. A nauseating wave of pain emanated from his left arm. He bit his lip to keep from crying out.

  The commingled reek of blood, puke and gasoline assaulted his nostrils.

  Oh, shit, oh shit, oh shit. What have I done? Mom’s going to kill us, if Zack doesn’t kill me first for wrecking his car. “Oh, no, no, no. Zack, I’m so sorry. I wrecked your car. Zack, I’m sorry….”

  Answered only by silence, Tommy wiped more blood out of his eyes, then looked at the passenger seat.

  It was empty, the door hanging open at a crazy angle from one mutilated hinge.

  “Zack!” He looked wildly over his shoulder into the back seat. Nothing there but a vomit-stained Foghat t-shirt. He reached across to throw his door open and flew outside, cursing as he banged his left arm. There was a still, crumpled form in the path of the roll, several yards back in the left lane.

  “Zack!” Tommy’s scream tore at his throat. He sprinted forward, then slowed as he approached the body. “Zack, Zack, Zack…” His voice faded to a whisper.

  Zack lay inert, one arm tucked grotesquely backward behind his head. The angle of his neck looked improbable. His handsome face, washed clean by the continuing rain, was
unmarked and peaceful. He had never seen it coming.

  Tommy sat gingerly beside him, all urgency gone.

  “Zack?” A whisper, nothing more. “Please. Please don’t leave. Zack? Oh, Zack, I’m so damn sorry.”

  Chapter Three

  May, 2016

  DARKNESS.

  Thomas Weaver bolted upright. He turned his head violently from side to side, He was bathed in sour sweat. The old dream, dreamt so often it had worn a groove in his psyche.

  Okay. Okay, okay, okay. Come on, Thomas. Everything’s okay.

  His heart still trip-hammered in his chest, but that would fade with waking. He reached toward his nightstand, found a tumbler with half an inch of whiskey still in it, and drained it. “Hair of the dog,” he grumbled.

  Thomas squinted, trying to focus on the digital clock beside his bed. 6:15. The alarm would have gone off in ten more minutes. He clicked the button to turn the alarm off, untangled his legs and swung them over the edge of the bed. He leaned forward, put his head in his hands. He rubbed his face, took as deep a breath as he could manage and shuffled off toward the bathroom, the bus, work.

  ***

  “Thomas, we have to let you go.”

  Thomas’s shoulders slumped. He looked at the dirty tiled floor between his feet. When he raised his head, his eyes pleaded along with his voice. “C’mon, Harry. Really? I know I’ve been in a little slump, but I’m doing the best I can.” He wasn’t, but the lie slipped easily off his tongue. “I know I’ll pull out of it. I’ve got that guy coming back in this afternoon. I know he’s gonna go on that Escalade.”

  “We’re not letting you go because of performance, Thomas. We’re shaking up the whole department. Unfortunately, your position has been eliminated.”

  Thomas leaned back in the uncomfortable, straight-backed chair. “Ah. Dammit, that sucks. I know business has been off. Who else?”

  “Who else?” Harry puffed out his cheeks. He blew the air out in a steady stream of futility. “Well, actually, the way it worked out…no one else. Just you.”

  Thomas turned his head away and stared out onto the used car lot. The weather threatened to piss rain at any moment. A cheerful rainbow of cars bearing window stickers that said things like WON'T LAST AT THIS PRICE!!! fanned out toward the edge of the lot. Barkley Ford wasn't hard to find, thanks to the twenty-foot-high blow-up gorilla holding a sign that said: “I go APE for the deals at Barkley Ford!” Strings of red, green, and yellow pennants hung limply between light posts.

  Thomas lifted his chin. “Just me, huh?” He glanced at Harry, whose pinched face always had the look of a man caught in a lie. Harry flushed, then looked away.

  Thomas’s hands shook with sudden anger. His voice rose in both octave and volume. “If you had the balls your old man had, you would be straight with me. Give me my dignity, at least.”

  The barb hit home, but Harry lowered his voice. “Come on, Thomas.” His smile was obsequious, but held a hint of triumph. “Tommy boy. It’s been a good run. Let’s not ruin it at the end.”

  Thomas brought his anger under control. His eyes softened. “It was good. When your dad was here, everything was great. We got demos to drive, we had benefits, the dealership wasn’t chopping us off at the ankles every time we turned around.” Thomas’s eye strayed to the framed picture that hung above Junior’s desk: Harold Barkley Sr., ten-gallon hat perched at a jaunty angle, a sincere smile on his homely face. “But that was before. You don’t have the cajones he did.” He stood up, wanting to be anywhere else, and caught a look of relief on Harold Barkley, Jr.'s face. That did it. He whirled around, grabbed Harry’s tie, and yanked. He had meant to bang Harry's face into the desk, but the tie came off with an ineffectual whisper of plastic against cloth.

  “Seriously?” Thomas looked at the tie, lying limp in his fist. “A clip-on? What are you, twelve? Did your mom pick this out for you because you can’t tie your own tie?”

  Harry’s face turned red. That stung the son of a bitch. Thomas laughed scornfully, and his anger dissipated. Harry reached for the phone on his desk.

  “Gonna call security on me now? Who exactly would that be? Old Vern down in the oil change bay? Julie out front? Do you really think anyone’s going to run me out of here for you, you little chickenshit?”

  The familiar throbbing in his temples took over. A powerful thought took hold. I can walk out of here, get drunk, and stay drunk for as long as I want. No hangover if you just stay drunk.

  Thomas drew back his right arm, making a fist. Then he giggled, and stuck the hand out to shake. Harold Barkley, Jr. stood up in haste and backed away.

  "Pussy." Thomas shrugged, walked out of the office, and tipped a wink at Julie, the pretty young receptionist. “See you in another life, kid.”

  An hour later, Thomas walked into the apartment he shared with his mom. They effectively divided the apartment in half. The upstairs—a large bedroom and a full bath—was his, the downstairs hers. Her half included the kitchen, but that was of little concern to Thomas most nights. He found most of his nutrition in the hops and yeast of forty-ounce Rainier beers.

  Forties were fine for nights when he had to get up and go to work the next day, but now that he was no longer burdened by employment, he could get to serious drinking straight away. He had gotten off the bus two stops early so he could stop at the liquor store, where he picked up two fifths of Jim Beam. Next was a trip into Daylight Donuts, where he picked up two cream-filled Bismarcks for his mother. By the time he finished the short walk home, he’d already had a nip or three and was feeling toasty.

  No one greeted Thomas as he entered. His mother was probably in her bedroom, watching TV. Unlike Thomas, who had an entire buffet of bad habits to choose from, Anne had quit smoking ten years ago. Sweets were her only remaining addiction. He set the small donut box on the counter, reached into the cupboard, took down a saucer. Through the glow of a nicely-started drunk, he delicately plucked the two donuts out and placed them on the small plate, pulled a paper towel off the roll and placed it over them. He sucked the little bits of chocolate off his fingertips.

  There. My good deed for the day, complete.

  He had a sudden thought of himself in a Boy Scout uniform, giving the three-fingered Scout salute, and laughed. Then he got a glass, filled it with ice, and poured the Beam over it. That mellow chug was the sweetest sound in Thomas's world. He took a swig and headed upstairs to his bedroom, closing the door behind him.

  He looked around at his private fortress. He was fifty-four years old, but his room was indistinguishable from a teenage boy’s.

  In the far corner was his bed, a crumpled mess of sheets, pillows and blankets. Guess I’ll have plenty of time to make my bed, now. A clothes basket sat in the other corner, a stray sock and pair of underwear dangling over the side. Against the near wall was his desk. A computer with a 27” monitor gleamed darkly, dominating the flat surface, but on a lower shelf, he saw the green blinking light of his Xbox One. It beckoned him: Come on, big boy. One NASCAR race. Just one. Thomas had answered that siren call too many times, though. One game, one race, inevitably led to another, and another and another, until the sun came up. Tonight, the possibility of beating Jeff Gordon and Jimmy Johnson in a season-long sprint for The Cup held no charm for him.

  Instead, he nudged the mouse to awaken the monitor. The background showed a blue sky and green rolling hills. He double-clicked the icon for Google Chrome and it brought up his home page: Facebook. The little world icon was grayed out, indicating that he had no new messages. This was not unusual. He had joined six years earlier, methodically friending most of the people from his teen years on. For six years, their lives rolled by on his feed. Aside from his birthday, when he got a few perfunctory 'Happy Birthday!' posts from the people who did that for everyone on their friend lists, hardly anyone ever contacted him. Thomas mostly scrolled, read, and watched other people live their lives.

  He drained the tumbler of bourbon, refilled it from the now half-empty f
ifth, and set it down beside the turntable. He looked owlishly at the tone arm. It took three passes before he picked up the arm, then dropped the needle on the spinning record. The familiar static came from the speakers, then fell into silence as the needle found the groove. The quiet was replaced by the opening double bass notes of Charles Mingus’s Better Git it in Your Soul. He picked up the oversized headphones, slipped them over his ears, then turned the volume knob hard to the right. The music vibrated into his very being. For the first time that day, he smiled with authentic pleasure.

  He closed his eyes and swayed slightly from side to side as the music enveloped him. After a while, and a good deal more drinking, the sway grew more pronounced and threatened to topple him. He tumbled heavily into the old overstuffed chair.

  By the time the record segued into Goodbye Porkpie Hat, he had drained the last of his drink, refilled it, and emptied half of it again in two gulps. Before the song was over, he finally found what he was looking for: the merciful blankness of a near-blackout drunk.

  Chapter Four

  TEN HOURS LATER, Thomas pried his eyes half open to see where that infernal knocking was coming from. He closed them again. Morning sunshine filtered in through the curtains.

  It is awfully fucking bright in here. He closed his eyes, correcting his first mistake of the day. He wanted to slip back into the beckoning oblivion, but the pain in his bladder, the worse pain in his neck, and that goddamned knocking wouldn’t allow it.

  “What?” he shouted at the woodpecker-at-the-door. Ten seconds awake, and yelling already marked mistake number two. His head throbbed and waves of nausea started low inside him. His mouth tasted like a litter box. He coughed to clear the phlegm and said, in a somewhat more normal voice, “What?”

  “Tommy? Honey? It’s after nine. It’s Thursday. Aren’t you supposed to be at work? Did you oversleep? Can I make you breakfast?”