The Unusual Second Life of Thomas Weaver

by Shawn Inmon

  Thomas nodded, got up, and went back into his bedroom to add the day's pay to his bankroll. This whole thing feels different. When I was a kid, I was excited. Couldn’t wait to go. Now, I wish I could be anywhere else.

  A little before seven, Zack wandered out into the living room smelling like Brut cologne and Irish Spring. “Ready, Squirt?”

  Thomas had been busy finding nothing in the paper about Michael Hollister’s upcoming trial. “Ready!” He tried to sound more enthusiastic than he felt.

  “Did you leave Mom a note?”

  “Yeah.”

  But I didn’t say, 'By the way, this is the same day I killed Zack last time.' No sense in worrying her more than she already is.

  “Okay, let’s roll.” Zack jumped down the stairs, jogged to the Camaro and did a perfect Starsky and Hutch slide across the hood.

  I don’t like this at all.

  The Camaro rumbled to life. After a short pause, the 8-track started to play. Thomas held his breath, but it wasn’t Trampled Under Foot. It was My Time of Dying; not much better. Zack cranked it up so the bass caused the windows to rattle.

  “Hey, Zack,” Thomas shouted. “Wanna listen to something else?”

  Zack fished under his seat for a minute, then brought out another 8-track. He blew the dust bunnies off of it, then held it up for Thomas to read: The Bay City Rollers Greatest Hits. “Sure, dorkus, let’s get jacked up to party with a little Bay City Rollers! Yeah!”

  Thomas laughed. “Why do you have a Bay City Rollers tape?”

  “Grandma gave it to me for Christmas last year, remember? She said that the clerk at the store had told her it was what all the kids were listening to. I think he just had a few too many copies of this in the store room and he knew a sucker when he saw one.”

  “How about the radio?”

  “How about if we listen to The Hammer of the Freakin’ Gods and get in the mood to party?” Zack cranked the volume knob until Thomas felt it in his chest.

  “Okay,” Thomas said, but it didn’t matter. His words were lost in a tornado of bass, guitar, and the wail of Robert Plant.

  They drove through town and took enough turns that Thomas felt thoroughly lost. Still not sure how everyone manages to get around without GPS. Zack seemed confident, making turn after turn, then slowed and turned down a long driveway that twisted through a quarter mile of woods before opening into a clearing with an oversized lodge-style house. There were already half a dozen cars parked around the circular driveway when Zack pulled up behind a white Jeep and killed the engine.

  Thomas opened his mouth wide, trying to pop his ears after the onslaught of the music in the car, then heard Molly Hatchet blaring from inside the house.

  “Looks like they started without me. What kind of a party can it be, though, if I’m not there yet?”

  Good old modest Zack. Gotta love him.

  Zack and Thomas walked through the open double front doors, but the inside was mostly deserted. A set of double French doors opened onto an expansive multi-level cedar deck. Beyond that, Thomas could see a swimming pool.

  “Jesus, who lives here?”

  “Victoria Marsh. Her parents own the cement plant. I guess they’re doing okay for themselves,” Zack said. “Okay, you’re here. Grab a beer if you want one, you’re on your own now. Don’t cramp my style.”

  Zack wandered past a table containing clear plastic glasses of beer, grabbed one and downed it. He looked at the immense figure behind the keg. “Tiny.”

  “Zack.”

  Zack plucked another cup of beer up and headed for the pool, where three girls in bikini tops and cutoffs were moving to catch the last rays of sunlight.

  Thomas looked around the house, which was decorated as tastefully as any house was in 1976, forgiving the multiple animal heads that hung around the immense room. He thought of Dudley Moore in Arthur, talking to the mounted moose head: “This is a tough room. But I don’t have to tell you that.”

  “Daddy’s quite the hunter, isn’t he?”

  Thomas jumped. "Uh, hi."

  “Sorry. Didn’t mean to sneak up on you. I’m Victoria.”

  Victoria Marsh was a pretty blonde with a radiant smile.

  Oh, she’s going to have it rough in life. Beautiful, blonde, and rich.

  “Nice to meet you. I’m Tommy Weaver.”

  “Oh, I know. I’m glad you came. I think everyone knows who you are since, well, since…you know.”

  Thomas just nodded. No doubt the first of many awkward moments.

  “Make yourself at home. Where did your brother wander off to?”

  “I think he’s out by the pool.”

  “Figures. That’s where the girls are. Ta-ta.”

  He walked onto the back deck and nodded at Tiny, who lifted a cup of beer toward him, but Thomas held up a hand.

  “No thanks. I don’t drink.”

  “You’re at a kegger, man. Everyone drinks.”

  Thomas smiled, “Everyone but me, but thanks.”

  "You sure?"

  "Dead sure. Appreciate it." Great choice of words, Weaver.

  “No problemo," shrugged Tiny. "More for me.”

  “There you go.”

  The night crawled by. Whatever interest young Tommy might have found in the various mating and drinking rituals of the mid-seventies teenager meant nothing to Thomas. He did his best to keep an eye on Zack, but that proved all but impossible. Every time Thomas saw him, he had a new cup of beer in his hand, and his arm around a different girl. For Zack, every party was a smorgasbord of bacchanalian options.

  It’ll be all right. If he passes out, I’ll get him home. I’m not a scared fifteen-year-old kid any more.

  After it started to get dark, glow lights and tiki torches lit the back yard. The music shifted from the Doobie Brothers and Lynyrd Skynyrd to the Commodores and Marvin Gaye. A lot of people had paired off and headed to a bedroom, or even behind the bushes lining the pool area.

  Thomas looked to the sky, praying for a sudden thunderstorm that might once again end the party, as well as his suffering. There were clouds, but they didn’t look that threatening.

  He felt a brush of warm skin against his and looked into the bottle-green eyes and lavish smile of Amanda Jarvis. Thomas nodded at her.

  “You’re Tommy, Zack’s little brother, right?”

  “Right. You and I’ve had classes together since sixth grade, when you moved here.”

  Her glassy eyes didn’t seem to compute that. She laughed in what she imagined was a sultry way.

  This is like an off-kilter echo of the kegger at the lake. Nothing else has matched up this closely. Or maybe I just don’t remember most days as clearly as I do this one.

  “So. My cousin is here at the party tonight, but she’s not having a very good time.” Amanda stuck her lower lip out in a face she no doubt considered irresistibly persuasive. And it's repellent. She laid a hand on his arm. “She wants to leave, but I’m still having a good time. Would you hang out with her for a while? Kind of keep her occupied?”

  “I don’t mind, Amanda. Where is she?”

  “Over there by the fire pit, by herself. Her name is Georgia.”

  “Ah,” he said, feigning unfamiliarity. “Sure. I’ll go talk to her.” At least that will help pass the time.

  Thomas maneuvered through the slow dancers, stepped over one prone body on the deck, checked and saw it wasn’t Zack, then sat down next to Georgia and said, “Hey. I'm Tommy.”

  “I'm Georgia. I saw you talking to my Amanda. Did she send you over to babysit me so she can get more stoned or drunk before we leave?”

  He laughed a little. “You know how girls like Amanda are. This is it, for her. High school is the pinnacle.” Thomas paused, thought back to his Facebook feed, forgot himself for a moment. “Once she graduates, she’ll go to work for some company as a receptionist, hook up with the boss, get pregnant, then get dumped." Weaver, you idiot! This is not the time or place! "I kind of feel sorry for her.”
r />   Georgia turned her full attention on Thomas. “You're unusual. Have you been to a lot of these parties?"

  "Nope, this is my first one. You?”

  “Unfortunately. Amanda uses me as cover with Aunt Molly. She thinks we’re at the movies right now.”

  “Oh, great. What aren’t you seeing?”

  Georgia laughed a little. “Tonight, I think we aren’t seeing The Omen. Too bad, it looked kind of good.”

  “Right, the one about the creepy kid with 666 tattooed on his skull.”

  “Oh, have you seen it?”

  Thomas started to say, “A long time ago,” but wised up. "Nah, just heard a lot about it."

  “So, why is this your first party? Aren’t you one of the cool kids?”

  “Nope,” Thomas said. “I’m one of the Dungeons & Dragons kids.”

  “Never heard of that.”

  “You are not alone.”

  Their conversation went on much longer than it had the first time around. Thomas explained about Dungeons & Dragons. Georgia wasn’t all that interested, but listened anyway. She talked about astronomy, and Thomas was interested in that, so he didn’t have to fake listening.

  While they talked, the night grew dark. When the fire lit Georgia’s face, she looked quite fetching. Smart, too. Probably too smart for me. But the big problem is that I am a middle-aged man, she is a teenage girl, and it doesn't matter how mature and intelligent she is. We don't do that.

  I guess in Carrie's case, the fact that we were both recycled from past suicides overcame that for me.

  Thomas’s reverie was interrupted by a boy laughing and shouting, “Weaver just puked in the pool!”

  Georgia raised up from her chair and asked, “Does he belong to you?”

  “Kind of. He’s my big brother. This is his last high school party, and I think he’s overdone it.”

  “Apparently.”

  “’Scuse me.” Thomas stood up for a better view and saw Zack laying vertically to the pool, his head hanging over the edge. A slick of beer and bile spread out on the water in front of him.

  “That’s gross, Zack!” screamed a girl, backing away and scanning her front for vomit splatter. Thomas ran to Zack, kneeled, and rolled him away from the pool.

  “Zack, you okay?”

  “Never better," slurred Zack. "Why do you ashk?”

  “Because you just spewed all over the pool.”

  Zack didn’t answer. He was passed out.

  Thomas looked around. Tiny Patterson was still manning the keg. Leaving Zack where he lay, Thomas approached Tiny. “Hey. Zack’s wasted. I think I need to get him home.”

  “What a lightweight,” Tiny said.

  Thomas nodded. “Here’s my problem. I can't carry him to the car. Can you give me a hand?”

  Tiny replied with a massive, echoing belch. He then walked to Zack, picked him up, and tossed him over his shoulder. Never imagined anyone could do that, but there we go. He waved a goodbye to Georgia, then jogged ahead of Tiny to the Camaro. He opened the passenger door and stood back.

  Tiny deposited Zack in the seat, although not without bonking his head into the door frame. "Oops. Sorry.”

  “As hungover as he’ll be tomorrow, he’ll have a heck of a time distinguishing one headache from another. Thanks, Tiny.”

  “No problem. Tell Zack I had to carry his scrawny ass to the car when he wakes up.”

  “Sure will.”

  Thomas looked in the ignition; no keys. He searched Zack’s pocket until he found them. Shit. Almost forgot. He reached across Zack, found the seatbelt, and struggled with it until Zack was buckled in. “You are like dead weight, dude.”

  Thomas clambered into the driver’s seat, moved it up, adjusted the rearview mirror, and turned the key. The 8-track clicked, then began to play Trampled Underfoot.

  Oh, hell no.

  Thomas ripped the tape out and threw it in the backseat. Silence. Perfect. Okay. It’s been a little while, but I’ve been driving all my life. I’m fine.

  Thomas flicked the headlights on, checked for the high beam indicator, slipped into reverse, gave it a little gas, and slowly let out the clutch. The Camaro backed slowly into the pickup behind him with a mild bonk/crunch sound. “Sorry,” he said to himself, then slipped the gearshift into first and pulled out. We will worry about auto insurance, fault percentage, and all that when I get Zack home alive.

  Rain drops, thick and warm, spattered against the windshield.

  Of course. Why not? Driving home in the dark is always more fun when it rains. Thomas fidgeted until he found the wiper controls. He waited while the windshield turned muddy, then cleared.

  He drove down the long driveway at five miles per hour, found the county road, and turned right.

  Really should have paid better attention on the way in here. Liable to wind up in Eastern Oregon if I’m not careful.

  The road was deserted. Thomas kept the Camaro just under the speed limit. After a few miles, he saw something in the road and slowed below ten miles per hour. It was a doe, eyes reflected in his headlights, standing in the middle of the road staring at him. Thomas pulled the Camaro over to a complete stop ten yards away.

  No way that is the same doe. Just a coinkeedink, right? Step aside, Bambi.

  Thomas beeped the horn. The deer didn’t move immediately, but eventually sauntered away to his left.

  Was that it? Was that the moment? Are we in the clear now?

  I'm not taking any chances. I won't get a second, unless I manufacture it with tranquilizers and vodka, or a noose or something.

  Thomas downshifted and headed back toward Middle Falls. The rest of the drive into town was uneventful. The rain continued to fall, the wipers slapped, and Thomas sat ramrod straight, hands at 10 and 2, watching everything.

  In town, Thomas relaxed a little bit as he coasted up Umpqua Street to the red light at Main Street, the town's busiest arterial intersection. Relief and many other emotions were flooding through him. Zack sat buckled safely in the seat beside him; he hadn't even barfed again. Not that Zack was any prize, naturally, with drool running into the vomit on his Pink Floyd T-shirt. Don't care. Glad you’re still here, brother.

  A long horn blast came from behind him. Damn. Too wound up and then unwound to notice the green light. He gave the Camaro a little gas and started across the intersection.

  As he did, a four-door sedan's driver reaped the outcome of a misjudged yellow light, screaming into the intersection. Thomas picked it up from the corner of his left eye. “Shit!” he yelled as he slammed on the brakes.

  The car behind him hit the Camaro’s rear bumper, adding a new bit of minor damage. The oncoming sedan was able to swerve just enough to miss the Camaro before it finished running the red light. The driver had his arm out the window, middle finger extended above.

  Thomas’s heart felt like the stereo's bass cranked to the maximum. He let out a deep breath, looked right. Zack slumbered on. Thomas turned the ignition off, undid his seat belt, and jumped out of the car. Behind him, a heavy middle-aged man was also getting out.

  “Sorry I hit you, son. I thought you were going through. Damned good thing you didn’t, though. Did you see that guy? Like a bat out of hell! If you had gone when the light turned, they’d be scraping you up off the road.”

  Thomas nodded. Before anyone could see his hands shaking, he stuck them in his pockets.

  Fear.

  Adrenaline.

  Gratitude for being alive.

  He cleared his throat, but couldn't clear the tremor from his voice. “Yeah. I guess I was daydreaming when the light changed. Saved our asses, though.”

  “Our?”

  “My brother’s asleep up front.”

  The man looked at Thomas more intently. “Are you old enough to have a license?”

  “I’ve got my permit. My brother’s got a license, though, so we’re good.”

  Thomas looked at the back of the Camaro, using the man’s headlights for illumination. A small smud
ge scarred the back of the Camaro’s bumper.

  “Since you’ve just got your permit, and since your brother is “sleeping” in the front, I see no need to report this. I don't want to get you kids in trouble.”

  “Sure. Whatever.” Asshole. Pushing a kid around so you don't have to report an accident for which you surely would be found at fault, and they would crank up your insurance premiums.

  Whatever. Just glad we are alive.

  Thomas climbed into the Camaro and drove Zack safely home. When he pulled into Zack’s spot, he turned the key off, looked at Zack, still passed out, and cried.

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  THE HOUSE FELT strangely empty when Zack left for Oregon State a few weeks later. Everything seemed to echo and reverberate in a way it hadn’t while filled with Zack’s plus-size personality.

  Thomas didn’t mourn too long. He spent a few of his hard-earned dollars on some posters of his own, bought paint to cover the Bicentennial-themed walls, and otherwise made the room his own. It felt a lot better than the last time the room had become his.

  Billy Steadman’s parents had moved to Maine a year earlier than they had in his first life, but Thomas had made sure to write down all his contact information before he left. And I will write him actual letters and pay enormous long distance charges. I will not lose a friend like that, then get him back after thirty years when someone invents social media.

  When he rolled into school the first day of his sophomore year, Ben and Simon were waiting inside the doors, just like always. “Hey, man,” Thomas greeted them.

  “Hey, Tommy!” they answered.“You need a haircut,” added Simon, rubbing his fresh crewcut. “All the cool kids are acting like it’s 1965 all over again.”

  “That’s all right, I’ll pass, Sgt. Rock.”

  “Anything new?” Ben asked.

  “Oh, right! I haven’t seen you guys in a couple weeks. Come on, let’s go outside. We’ve got time before assembly.”

  Thomas led them out to the back of the parking lot where a sky blue 1964 Plymouth Fury was parked. At least, it was sky blue where there wasn’t rust or primer.

  “Whaddya think?”